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natsaffection · 2 months ago

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Redline. Pt 3 | N.R

Older!Motorsportboss!Natasha x Younger!RacingDriver!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (N= 32, r=23), reflecting trauma, kinda sexual tension

Word count: 7,5k

A/N: part three!!! In the next one, we’ll focus more on the chemistry between Natasha and you. 🫢

Part 2

The rhythmic thud of a punching bag filled the space, the only sound aside from your controlled breathing as you threw another strike, then another. Your muscles ached, fire burning beneath your skin, but you didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. This was the only thing that made sense anymore, pushing yourself past the limits, past the doubt, past the thoughts you didn’t want to deal with.

Until the doors slammed open. The sound cut through the room like a gunshot. There was no controlled amusement this time. No smirk, no teasing remarks. Just pure, simmering rage. The kind that made the air feel too heavy, like the walls were closing in.

Natasha.

Yelena had followed behind her, though she kept a safer distance, arms crossed as she watched the impending execution unfold. Natasha’s gaze locked onto you, sharp as a blade against your throat.

“You missed the meeting.” she said, her voice quiet, far too calm for how angry she was. You rolled your shoulders, wiping sweat from your brow. “I was training.” Wrong answer. Natasha’s expression darkened, her jaw tightening as she took two slow, measured steps forward.

“And?” The single word was sharp, cutting, as if she was daring you to keep going.

You clenched your fists, keeping your ground. “And I thought it was more important than sitting in a room while PR tells me how to smile for a camera.”Natasha inhaled through her nose, slow, controlled, like she was restraining herself from snapping you in half.

“You thought?” Her voice was too smooth, too dangerous. “Let me make something very clear, because it seems you’ve already forgotten. You don’t get to think. You don’t get to decide what matters. I do. And when I say you show up, you show up. Do you understand me?”

You held her stare, the defiance still there, but your body tensed. Natasha saw it. Felt it. The resistance. The fight to not give in and she wouldn’t allow it.

“You think training gives you a free pass? That you can just ignore my orders and do whatever the fuck you want?” Natasha stepped closer, crowding into your space, forcing you to either hold your ground or back down. “Let me tell you something, dorogoy (sweetheart). You work for me. Not the other way around. I don’t care what you used to be, who you were before, or how good you think you are. In my world, you either fall in line or you get the fuck out.”

Your breath hitched. The air between you was suffocating. It wasn’t just the words, it was the way Natasha said them. The control in her voice, the absolute certainty that she meant every single thing. There was no bluff, no space to argue, no ground left to stand on.

You swallowed, your muscles still coiled with the need to fight back. But Natasha saw it..the way your jaw tightened, the way your fingers curled slightly, the way you were still resisting. And Natasha smirked. Slow. Cruel.

“You don’t like being told what to do, do you?” she murmured, tilting her head slightly, voice dipping into something almost amused. “I can see it..right there. You’re dying to argue. To push back. To prove something.”

She leaned in, lowering her voice just enough that it sent a shiver down your spine. “But you won’t. Not this time.”

Natasha studied you for a second longer, watching the way your body still fought not to react, still fought not to break.

“Now..” Natasha exhaled, her voice slow, taunting, the smirk still lingering. “Be a good girl and go shower.”

Your stomach twisted. You wanted to argue, wanted to throw back a response, wanted to not let her win. But you had already lost. You knew it. Natasha knew it. And she wasn’t going to let you forget it.

You swallowed hard, your jaw still clenched, body still trembling with frustration, exhaustion, and something else you didn’t want to name. You didn’t say a word, and you ou just grabbed your towel and walked away. Natasha smirked, watching you go. She had won. And you both knew it.

Yelena let out a slow breath, shaking her head slightly. “You know, she’s still adjusting, right?”

Natasha didn’t look at her. “I know.”

Yelena tilted her head. “And you could’ve gone easier on her.”

Natasha finally turned, meeting her gaze with a look that was pure Romanoff steel. “And what would that teach her?”

Yelena sighed, pushing off the doorframe. “You’re impossible.”

Natasha smirked. “And yet, she’ll be in the meeting on time now, won’t she?”

Yelena shook her head, muttering under her breath as she walked away. Natasha glanced back at the empty space where you had stood, where you had fought back, where you had finally..finally realized what it meant to work for Romanoff Racing. This wasn’t a team. This was Natasha’s empire. And you? You were learning exactly where you stood in it.

You arrived at the meeting on time. Not a second early. Not a second late. Exactly when you were supposed to. You weren’t about to give Natasha another excuse to put you through.

The tension in the room was thick, even before you stepped inside. Conversations were already in motion, staff members talking in low voices as data flashed across the massive LED screens. The polished glass table was covered with neatly arranged folders, stacks of reports, and the ever-present presence of Romanoff Racing’s insignia stamped on everything.

You took your seat near the middle of the table, arms crossed, jaw tight, resisting the urge to sink into your chair. The moment you settled, the meeting continued.

A PR executive stood, clicking through slides on the massive screen. Media coverage. Headlines. Reactions from the unveiling event. You already knew this would be bad. But fuck. Hearing it all at once was worse than you expected.

“Public reception has been…mixed.” the PR rep started carefully.The first slide displayed headlines from the biggest news outlets:

“Your Comeback: Redemption or Desperation?”

“Natasha Romanoff Bets Big on Fallen Driver, Will It Pay Off?”

“Dreykov Laughs Off Romanoff’s Signing: ‘She’s Damaged Goods.’”

You cringed. There it was. Right there. Every reason you had avoided coming back. The PR rep continued, voice calm, practiced, as if they weren’t presenting a full breakdown of your entire existence. “Online engagement has been high. Social media discussions are up 230%, and you’re currently the fourth most searched name in the industry.”

You exhaled slowly through your nose, not sure if that was a good thing or not. The slide changed again, screenshots of tweets, live TV commentary clips. Some were supportive. Some were brutal.

“She should’ve stayed gone. She’s never gonna be the same.”

“Romanoff must be insane. There were better drivers available.”

“This is a PR stunt, right? No way she’s actually racing again.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral. You had heard worse. You had survived worse. But it still felt like a goddamn gut punch.

A press clip played on screen, Dreykov himself, sitting in front of flashing cameras, reporters hanging onto his every word.

“Romanoff’s choice? Interesting. Bold, I suppose. It’s always nice to see an old name come back, even if it’s… well. I just hope she finishes a full season this time.”

The words hit harder than they should have. A slow, mocking grin stretched across Dreykov’s face in the video, and you had to force yourself not to react. Because that? That was a very public, very intentional slap in the face. The clip ended, and the PR rep hesitated before clicking to the next slide—Walker. Because of course, they shoved a mic in his face the second the event ended.

You didn’t even need to see it. You already knew what kind of bullshit was about to come out of his mouth. “Am I surprised? A little. But hey, I wish her the best. I mean, she was great..once. Let’s see if she still has it, huh?”

The clip cut out. Silence settled over the room. You exhaled slowly, pressing your palms against your thighs to keep yourself from curling your fingers into fists. You weren’t surprised. You should’ve expected all of this. But it was one thing to think about it. And another thing to hear it out loud.

The PR rep cleared their throat. “Obviously, their strategy is to undermine the credibility of your return. They’re not outright attacking, but they’re implying doubt, planting the idea that you’re a risk.”

You almost laughed. Implying? They weren’t implying shit. They were saying it straight to your fucking face.

Natasha had been silent this entire time. But when she finally moved, it was just a shift in posture. One smooth, measured movement. Enough to make the entire room go still.

“Let them talk.”

Your eyes snapped toward her, but Natasha didn’t look at you. Didn’t look at anyone. She just watched the screen, unimpressed, unaffected.

“Let them doubt her.” Natasha continued, her voice almost lazy. “Let them laugh, let them underestimate her. It makes our job easier.”

The way she said it, like she had already won. Like none of this mattered. You wanted to believe that. You really did. But then—the conversation shifted. One of the PR executives sat forward, folding their hands. “That brings us to the next point. The press conference is in three days. We’ll need to start preparing her for it immediately.”

Your entire body tensed. You had been expecting it. You knew it had to happen eventually. But still, fuck. The PR rep continued, completely unaware of the way your stomach had just twisted itself into knots. “We’ll go through standard media training, responses to common questions, body language adjustments, phrasing techniques to redirect the narrative in your favor-”

You barely heard the rest. Because you already knew what the hottest topic was going to be. Your crash. It didn’t matter what they rehearsed, what Natasha’s team prepared for. The moment you stepped in front of the cameras, someone was going to ask. Someone was going to force you to talk about it.

And you didn’t know if you could. Natasha must have noticed the way you stiffened, because her eyes flickered toward you, studying you. You kept your gaze straight ahead. Didn’t react. Didn’t let yourself flinch. You weren’t going to give Natasha the satisfaction.

The meeting ended with a sharp nod from Natasha. No unnecessary closing remarks, no wasted words. Just business as usual.

Chairs scraped against the polished floor as people stood, gathering their notes and murmuring amongst themselves. You moved on instinct, standing as well, ready to get the hell out of there before anyone could expect you to give some kind of reaction to the media storm they had just dissected.

You were already halfway to the door when, “Sit down.”

Natasha’s voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the room like a blade. You froze. Slowly, you turned, your fingers twitching at your sides as you met Natasha’s gaze.

Everyone else was still filing out, but the room suddenly felt too big. Too quiet. You hesitated for only a second before forcing yourself to sit back down, your posture stiff, tense as hell. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask why. Because you already knew.

Natasha was still seated at the head of the table, watching you. Then, in one slow, calculated movement, she stood. She walked toward you, not with purpose, not in a rush, just pure control in every step.

You barely kept yourself from shifting under her gaze. Natasha reached the table, but instead of sitting in her chair, she pushed herself up onto it, one hand resting against the polished surface as she settled onto the edge, directly in front of you. Close. Too fucking close.

Green eyes studied you, not rushed, not impatient..just watching. You clenched your jaw. You hated that stare. The way Natasha could see things you didn’t say. The way she could strip you down to nothing without even opening her mouth.

The room was so silent now that you swore you could hear your own heartbeat. “You’re afraid of the press conference.”

You exhaled through your nose. “I’m not afraid.”

Natasha’s smirk was slow, cruel. “Liar.”

Your fingers twitched against the table. You didn’t respond. Didn’t argue. Because what was the point? Natasha already knew. And she was going to make damn sure you knew it too. She tilted her head slightly, eyes flicking over you like she was studying something fragile, something on the edge of breaking. “What are you afraid of?” Natasha asked, voice quieter now. Softer.

You swallowed. Where the fuck did you start? The press? The questions you knew they were going to ask? The fact that you didn’t have an answer for them? The fact that no matter how much you pretended otherwise, you still weren’t sure you belonged here? Or worse, what if they were right? What if you had come back for nothing? You inhaled slowly, voice tight when you finally spoke. “I already know what the questions will be.”

Natasha raised a brow. “Do you?”

You scoffed bitterly. “You do too. Everyone does. The crash. What happened that day. What went wrong. How I felt when I woke up in the hospital. How it felt to lose everything.” Your jaw tightened. “How it felt to…fight to get back here. If I even deserve to be back here.”

You stopped yourself before your voice shook. But Natasha caught it. She didn’t move. Didn’t react. Just watched. Your fingers dug into the fabric of your pants, gripping hard enough that you felt your nails pressing into your skin. “And then there’s them.” you muttered, voice lower now. “What my parents will think when they see me sitting in front of cameras again. What they’ll say when they hear the same questions, when they have to relive the same goddamn day all over again.”

The words came out faster than you intended. You hated yourself for admitting it. But Natasha didn’t look smug. Didn’t look satisfied. She was just listening. And somehow, that made it worse. Because if Natasha wanted to, she could take every single thing you just admitted and use it against you.

A long, slow silence stretched between you. Then, Natasha leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, eyes locked onto you like a challenge. “You survived all of it.” she murmured, voice smooth, even. “And you’re telling me a few cameras are what’s going to break you?”

Your stomach twisted. Because it wasn’t that simple. Natasha made it sound so easy. Like she hadn’t spent years avoiding this moment. Like the weight of the past wasn’t crawling up your spine every second you thought about stepping in front of the press.

“You..don’t get it..” you said, voice quieter than before.

Natasha hummed, the sound almost amused. “You think I don’t?” She tilted her head slightly, her voice dipping into something darker. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to be picked apart by the world? To have people who don’t know a damn thing about you decide who you are, what you’re worth?”

You clenched your jaw but said nothing. Because fuck. Natasha wasn’t wrong.

“You survived the fire.” Natasha continued, her voice almost too soft now, too careful. “You survived the months of rehab, of rebuilding yourself. And now, you’re sitting here, trying to tell me that a couple of journalists with microphones are the real problem?”

You hated how your throat felt tight. How your nails pressed harder into your palm. How Natasha was right. Again. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet Natasha’s steady, unyielding gaze. “And what if I don’t have an answer for them?”

Natasha smirked. And for the first time, it wasn’t cruel. It was patient. Amused. Like you had just asked a stupid fucking question. “Then you do what I do.” Natasha murmured, tilting her head slightly.

You frowned. “And what’s that?”

Natasha’s lips parted slightly, her smirk widening just enough to make something in your stomach twist. “You give them the answer you want them to hear.”

You exhaled slowly. Because fuck. That was probably the most Romanoff answer possible. Natasha straightened, finally standing, stretching her arms slightly before glancing down at you. “You’ll be fine.” she said, voice effortless, confident. Like it was already decided. And in a way..maybe it was.

You weren’t sure you believed her. But something about the way Natasha said it, so sure, so steady, made it feel a little less impossible.

You didn’t say anything after Natasha’s last remark. You just nodded, slow, measured, your jaw still tight like you were holding something back. Natasha took it for what it was, the closest thing to acceptance she was going to get. She let the silence stretch for another second before leaning back, tilting her head slightly. “You can go.”

You didn’t hesitate. You stood, pushing the chair back, muscles still tense from the entire conversation, and walked toward the door without looking back.

Natasha watched you leave, the faint trace of a smirk still playing at the edge of her lips. Because you could fight it all you wanted, but you were getting closer. Whether you realized it or not.

The garage was usually a place of noise. Machines humming, tools clinking against steel, mechanics shouting orders across the floor. The sound of progress, power, precision. But tonight? Tonight, it was silent.

Except for one person. Natasha had been walking through the complex when she noticed it, a figure near the car. She stopped just outside the garage entrance, leaning against the wall, keeping to the shadows as her eyes locked onto the scene in front of her.

You. Standing next to the GT car you would be driving soon. The car was sleek, lethal, polished under the dim lights of the garage. It was a machine that belonged to champions. A machine that demanded control.

And you were just standing there. Not touching it. Not inspecting it. Just watching it. You had headphones in, music spilling softly from them, blocking out the world. Your face was unreadable.

But your posture? Tense. Stiff. Natasha could read it like a book. This wasn’t excitement. This wasn’t confidence. This was doubt. Natasha didn’t move. Didn’t call out to you. She just watched.

Because this was the truth, wasn’t it? Not the version of you that stood in meetings, that threw sharp words back at her, that pretended like you weren’t thinking about every single thing that could go wrong. This was real. This was you, standing in the garage at midnight, alone, staring at the one thing that could either save you or destroy you.

Natasha tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing. This was a crucial moment. And you didn’t even know you were being watched.

The next days came too fast. You barely slept. You had tried, laid in bed, stared at the ceiling, told yourself you were ready. But the truth? Nothing could’ve prepared you for this.

The press room was a sea of flashing lights, cameras, journalists packed together, waiting, ready. The air was thick with the low murmur of voices, the tension palpable even before the conference had begun. At the center of it all was a long, immaculate table with microphones set up, the Romanoff Racing logo flashing behind them on a massive LED screen.

And sitting at the head of it: Natasha. She was dressed perfectly, as always. Not a single detail out of place, her tailored suit sleek, her expression cold and unreadable. And beside her? You.

You had barely spoken since arriving. Barely breathed. Because the second you sat down in that chair, facing the crowd, you felt it. The weight. The expectation. The waiting.

The journalists wanted blood. And you were the easiest target in the room. Natasha shifted slightly beside you, adjusting her mic, and you could feel the glance she gave you. You didn’t look. Didn’t let yourself move. Because if you did, you might crack.

A moderator spoke into the microphone, giving the usual formalities. “Welcome, everyone, to the official Romanoff Racing press conference. We’ll start with pre-approved questions before opening the floor.”

You barely processed the first few questions. They were for Natasha-business-related, team-focused. She answered smoothly, effortlessly, as if she had already predicted every single thing they would ask.

Then..the shift. A journalist leaned forward, their voice cutting through the room. “A lot of fans were shocked to see your return to racing. What made you decide to come back?”

Your throat tightened. You expected this. You knew it was coming. But fuck, hearing it out loud…The microphone was too close, the lights too bright. You could feel the hundreds of eyes staring at you, waiting. You forced yourself to inhale.

“I never stopped thinking about racing.” you said, keeping your voice calm, steady. “It’s a part of me. It always has been.”

The journalist nodded, but their expression sharpened. “And yet, after your accident, you disappeared. No press, no interviews, nothing. Why now?”

Your fingers curled slightly under the table. Before you could answer, Natasha spoke. “She’s here because she’s a racer.” Natasha said smoothly, cutting through the noise like a blade. “And racers belong on the track. Next question.”

The journalist hesitated, like they wanted to push back, but they didn’t dare. Another question came, and another. Some were easy. Some were loaded.

And then..the moment you had been dreading. A woman in the second row leaned forward, microphone raised. “Y/n, after your accident, there was a lot of doubt about your ability to return to racing. Some experts believe you’re not the same driver you once were. Do you think you’re still capable of competing at the highest level?”

Silence. Your breath hitched. There it was. The one question you didn’t want to answer. The one moment that had haunted you for years, now laid bare in front of the world. You swore you could feel the room lean in. Waiting.

You opened your mouth, and nothing came out. Your pulse thundered in your ears. The flashes of cameras, the expectant looks, the fucking memory of it- The way the car had flipped. The fire. The medics pulling you out. The moment you stopped breathing.

Everything crashed down all at once.

Your hands pressed against your lap, digging into the fabric of your pants, trying to ground yourself, trying to breathe. But Natasha saw it. Of course, she saw it. She shifted slightly beside you, not visibly, not obviously, just enough that you could feel it. A reminder. A warning.

“She doesn’t-”

“No, wait.” you said, your voice firm. The room went dead silent. Natasha turned her head slightly, her sharp green eyes snapping to you. It wasn’t a warning. Not quite. It was more like..curiosity. Like she was waiting to see what the hell you thought you were doing.

You exhaled slowly, turning your gaze back to the journalist. You forced your voice to stay steady. “You want to know what happened after the crash?” you asked, leveling your stare at him.

“You think I lost something in that crash?”

Somewhere, a camera shutter clicked rapidly, someone shifting in their seat, but no one spoke. You could feel Natasha watching you, but you didn’t look at her. You kept your focus straight ahead.

“I lost the ability to move my legs for two months.”

A murmur rippled through the room. But you didn’t stop.

“I lost thirty pounds of muscle in eight weeks. I lost my ability to walk without help. I lost my grip strength. I lost my reaction time. I lost everything that made me a driver.”

Your fingers curled slightly, nails pressing into your palm, but your voice never wavered.

“I spent half a year relearning how to do basic human functions. And then another half a year relearning how sit properly in a car. And every single day, someone told me I couldn’t.”

You scanned the room, taking in the faces of the journalists who had written the headlines, the ones who had picked apart your downfall like vultures.

“Do you have any idea what it feels like to wake up and have your own body feel like a prison?”

The air was thick, suffocating. Natasha, the woman who always had something to say? Was silent.You let them sit in it. Let them feel the weight of the hell you had to survive.

“I built myself from the fucking ground up. And now? Now I’m here.”

You sat back, jaw set, gaze unwavering.

“So if you’re asking me if I think I’m still capable?Watch me.”

A few journalists shifted in their seats, uncomfortable. But you weren’t done. You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on the table, keeping your expression unreadable. “They were wrong. And now? I’m here.”

You let that hang in the air. You let them absorb it. Then, you leaned back, perfectly composed. “That answer your question?”

The journalist swallowed hard. “I- yes.” She looked like she wanted to say more, but she didn’t. Because what else was there to say?

Another beat of silence. Then, Natasha smirked. Not mockingly. Not cruel. Just slightly impressed. She turned back to the room, one eyebrow raised. “Well, now that we’ve cleared that up, next question.”

And just like that, the press conference moved on. The press conference wrapped up soon after, but the weight of what had just happened lingered in the air. You had taken control of the narrative. You had spoken for yourself. And for the first time since stepping into Romanoff Racing, you hadn’t let Natasha speak for you.

The journalists left in a flurry of movement, camera crews packing up, murmurs spreading across the room as headlines were already being written. You didn’t move right away. Your hands were still pressed against your lap, knuckles faintly white. You weren’t shaking. But you weren’t steady, either.

Natasha stood slowly, adjusting the cuffs of her tailored suit, her every movement calm, practiced. She didn’t turn to you right away. Instead, she let the tension settle, let the weight of the moment hang between you. Yelena was the first to break the silence.

“Well. That was unexpected.” she muttered, throwing a grape from the snack tray into her mouth. She glanced between you and Natasha, one eyebrow raised. “And you’re still alive. That’s a miracle.”

You finally looked at Natasha. She was already watching you. There was something in her eyes, sharp, calculating. And yet, she wasn’t mad. She tilted her head slightly, stepping closer, lowering her voice just enough that only you could hear.

“You surprised me.”

You weren’t sure if that was a compliment. You swallowed, shifting slightly in your seat. “I wasn’t trying to.”

Natasha hummed, amused. “You’re learning how to play the game.”

You clenched your jaw. “I’m not playing a game.”

Natasha’s smirk deepened, and fuck, that was a dangerous look.

“Sure you’re not.” she murmured, her voice too smooth, too knowing. You hated how your stomach twisted at the way Natasha looked at you, like you were more interesting than before. Like you had just stepped into a new level of control, and Natasha was enjoying it.

Yelena cleared her throat, clearly done with the tension. “Alright, before one of you murders the other or something worse happens, what’s next?”

Natasha finally looked away from you, as if she had decided this conversation was over.

“We keep control of the media. We don’t react to Dreykov’s team. We move forward.”

She turned back to you, her green eyes flashing with something unreadable. “And you? You prepare for your first race.”

Your breath hitched. Because fuck. That was next. No more press. No more talk. It was time to get back into the car. For real.

——

The racetrack buzzed with energy- a chaotic storm of activity. Mechanics shouted instructions over roaring engines, and the stands were already packed, a mass of color and noise. It felt familiar, yet foreign at the same time.

You took a deep breath as you approached the Romanoff Racing GT car waiting for you in the garage. It gleamed under the bright lights, looking sleek and dangerous, built for speed, built to win. Your heartbeat picked up, nerves mixing with adrenaline as you stepped toward it.

Natasha was already there, headset on, posture straight, her presence radiating authority. She didn’t speak immediately, just observed as you settled yourself into the racing seat, pulling the harness tight over your shoulders.

Then, her voice came through clearly over the team radio. “Radio check, Y/n. Do you copy?”

You adjusted your helmet slightly, pressing the comm button on your steering wheel. “Loud and clear.”

There was a slight pause. “Good. Systems check?”

Your eyes flicked over the dash, scanning the familiar indicators. The lights blinked back at you, everything perfect, everything waiting. “Systems all green.” you responded evenly.

“Copy that.” Natasha replied smoothly. You could hear the background noise behind her, the engineers confirming fuel, tire pressure, engine temperature, and everything else that mattered. But Natasha’s voice remained steady, almost reassuring in its calm authority. “Standby for track clearance.”

You exhaled slowly, feeling the vibration of the engine beneath you, your grip tightening around the wheel as your pulse quickened. Your heart was hammering now, anticipation building.

“Alright.” Natasha finally said, voice lowering just enough to feel like she was speaking directly into your ear alone. “It’s just you and the car now. Focus. Trust yourself. Let’s show them what you can do.”

Those words settled something inside your chest. You felt steadier, more certain, as you flipped the ignition switch. The engine roared to life, raw power vibrating through the cockpit, through your bones, filling your veins with fire.

Mechanics cleared away, giving you space as you slowly guided the car from the garage toward the track entrance. Your breathing steadied with each passing second, your world narrowing until it was nothing but the track stretching ahead.

The final instructions came through your headset. “Track is clear. Take it out.”

You didn’t hesitate. You pressed the throttle, and the car surged forward, cutting through the air with a precision and power you hadn’t felt in years. And just like that, everything else fell away.

It was just you, the car, and the track. The car hummed beneath you like a living thing, every shift of the throttle sending a pulse of raw energy through your bones. It had been a while since you’d driven something this powerful. And fuck..you felt it.

You eased into the first few turns, warming up the tires, testing the brakes, feeling out the balance of the machine you had just been handed. The steering was sensitive, the throttle was brutal, and the sheer speed of it all?

You let out a slow breath as you took another corner, muttering under your breath. “Goddamn, you’re fast.”

You adjusted your grip on the wheel, rolling your shoulders as you pushed just a little harder into the next straight. The car responded immediately, roaring under your hands, begging to be let loose.

You smirked slightly. “I hear you.”

The radio crackled in your ear. Natasha’s voice, smooth and controlled. “How’s it feeling?”

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head as you took another turn, still feeling out the car’s behavior. “Like a wild animal.” you muttered. “One wrong move, and I think it’ll kill me.”

You heard a chuckle from the radio. “Good.”

Of course, Natasha fucking Romanoff would say that. You rolled your eyes, shifting your weight as you lined up for the last sector, pushing just a little more. The car gripped beautifully, the back end barely twitching as you found the perfect exit.

The lap wasn’t fast, but it wasn’t supposed to be. You were getting used to it. Letting the car tell you what it wanted. Listening. You reached the final straight and slowed, bringing yourself to a stop at the grid, right before the traffic lights.

The engine rumbled beneath you, waiting. You flexed your fingers against the wheel, inhaling deeply.

The first light flickered on. Then the second. Then the third. You tightened your grip. Everything in your body coiled, ready to launch.

The fourth. The fifth.

And then- green.

You slammed the throttle down. The first few laps had been clean. You had found your rhythm, felt the car beneath you, learned its language. You had danced with the machine, not fought it. Every turn, every straight, every shift..perfect.

The moment you pulled out of the pit lane, Natasha’s voice was in your ear.

“We’ll start simple. Build heat in the tires. Weave down the straight.”

Your hands moved before she finished speaking, the car already shifting left and right, smooth, controlled. You could hear the faint sound of engineers in the background, data being recorded, but your focus was on the car, on the way it responded, on how the weight transferred with each movement. Natasha didn’t react. She simply continued.

“Turn 3, keep the throttle steady before braking. No coasting.”

You followed the instruction exactly, the front tires gripping as you carried speed into the corner, braking later than your instincts wanted, but exactly how she would have demanded.

“Better.” she murmured, voice clipped, all business. You kept going, each sector executed with precision, every command from Natasha met with immediate response. She was directing, you were following.

And then, you did it before she could say it. The upcoming chicane was tight, demanding a quick flick of the wheel, a perfectly timed shift in weight. Before Natasha could give the instruction, before her voice could even breathe into your ear.

It lasted less than a second, but it was there. A pause. A hesitation. Then the radio crackled. “Good.”

No approval, no compliment. Just that single sound, laced with something unreadable. She picked up again, her voice neutral. “Don’t get cocky. Turn 9, brake harder or you’ll compromise the exit.” And just like that, the rhythm returned.

You didn’t push. You didn’t acknowledge what had happened. You just followed orders again, steady and controlled, as if nothing had changed.

But then, the car twitched. Just a little. A fraction of instability. The back tires twitched in a high-speed section, and for a second, your body reacted before your mind could. You barely even had to correct it, the car settled almost immediately, but it was already too late.

The sound in your head, metal screaming, tires screeching, the gut-wrenching silence that had come before the crash..It slammed into you, full force.

Your chest locked up. Your breathing hitched, and before you knew it… You were slowing down. Your hands gripped the wheel too tight. Your heart was hammering. The track around you warped, the air too thick, the inside of the cockpit too fucking small.

Natasha’s voice cut in, sharp, controlled, but tinged with something harder. “What are you doing? Keep pushing.”

Your fingers twitched over the radio switch. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Natasha’s voice came again, this time lower, firmer. “Y/n, talk to me.”

No. Your stomach twisted. The sounds in your head were too loud, too consuming, too goddamn real. So you did the only thing you could think of… You cut the radio. A sharp click, and silence filled the cockpit. Natasha was gone.

In the control room, the moment the radio went dead, Natasha stood up so fast her chair nearly toppled over. Her team froze. The tension in the room turned suffocating. She whipped her head toward one of the engineers. “Tell me she did not just cut me off.”

The man stammered, eyes flicking to the radio log. “…She cut you off.”

Natasha’s jaw locked. Her fingers curled into fists. The cameras showed your car stopped dead on the track. Not stalled. Not damaged. Just stopped. Natasha’s chest burned with rage. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. She had calculated everything… pushed you just enough.

Had she miscalculated? Had she pushed too fucking far? She turned sharply, already storming for the exit. “Unbelievable.”

Yelena grabbed her arm. “Wait.”

Natasha spun on her, fury in her eyes. “She just stopped on the fucking track, Yelena! I’m going down there!”

Yelena, for once, didn’t smirk. She looked at the monitors, at you. “She’s panicking, Nat…”

Then, she got an idea. She pulled out her phone, scrolling fast. “She always has headphones in before a race, right?”

Natasha narrowed her eyes. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Yelena didn’t answer. Instead, she connected her phone to the main speaker system. The engineers looked confused, but Yelena smirked as she hit play.

And suddenly, music flooded the track. The second the music blasted through your headset, your mind snapped back into reality. The engine was still roaring beneath you, the car vibrating with power, but the sound, the fucking sound..didn’t belong here. It didn’t belong in the cockpit, in the race, in your head. It was your playlist, your music, your ritual before a race, and now it was bleeding through your carefully controlled silence like a blade.

Your breath caught. Then it hit. Yelena. Your grip on the wheel tightened. Your pulse pounded, heat climbing up your spine, something sharp and furious breaking through the fog that had been suffocating you just moments before. You flicked the radio back on, voice ice-cold, clipped.

“Turn that off.”

The pit crew was silent for a moment before Yelena’s voice came through, casual as ever, utterly unfazed. “Oh hey, there you are. Took you long enough.”

Your jaw locked. Your body was still in overdrive, still burning, still balancing on the razor-thin edge between control and complete fucking chaos. “I said turn it off!”

Before Yelena could respond, before you could breathe, another voice crashed into your headset like a gunshot. “You think this is a fucking joke?”

Her voice hit like whiplash, slicing through the cockpit, leaving no space for you to breathe. “You shut me out? On my track? In my car?”

Your grip on the wheel tightened. “Do you have any idea how many people would kill for this opportunity? How many drivers I could’ve picked instead of wasting my time on you?”

Your stomach twisted, your chest tight with frustration, with rage, with the need to fight back, but you couldn’t.

“You’re wasting my time.” Every word was sharp, biting, dragging through you like a blade. “You’re driving like you’re afraid, like you don’t belong here. And maybe you don’t.”

Your jaw locked. “You don’t get to turn me off when things get uncomfortable. That’s not how this works. That’s not how I work. You either keep up, or you get the fuck out of my car.”

The rage in your chest boiled over. Your breath came hot and sharp, your heart hammering against your ribs as the words ripped out of you before you could stop them. “Fuck you.”

And the radio went silent again.

"S-She turned you off again."

Natasha's head snapped toward the screen, her eyes wild and boiling. She shoved back from the desk, her chair nearly toppling over as she pushed to her feet. A girl? A fucking girl was giving her this much trouble? On her track? In her car? A slow, low growl rumbled from deep in her chest, her nails digging into her palms. "Fix. It."

One of the engineers hesitated. "We, uh- we can override the headset, but she can shut it down again.."

Natasha's nostrils flared, her breathing coming short, clipped. "Then override it again. And again. And again! I don't give a shit how many times it takes! Get me back in her head!!"

The static crackled back into your headset, “Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Her voice was razor-sharp, dripping with controlled rage. “You’re in my car, on my track, acting like a fucking brat?”

You knew the trick, it wasn’t without reason that you had been one of the best mechanics for years. So, you turned the radio off again.

The engineers in the control room flinched as Natasha ripped the headset off, her movements violent, lethal, uncontrollable. “Done. I’m fucking done.”

Her chest heaved, eyes burning with something between rage and disappointment. Yelena, watching from the side, chewing on a protein bar like she wasn’t witnessing an absolute meltdown, tilted her head. “You sure?”

Natasha shot her a look that could’ve set the entire control room on fire. “I don’t repeat myself.” She grabbed her phone, already dialing management. “Get the contract ready. I want it on my desk. Now.”

No hesitation. She turned, already storming toward the exit. She was done. Done with the attitude. Done with the defiance. Done with you. Then, A beep. A new sector time update. An engineer swallowed hard, staring at the screen. “Uh..boss-”

Natasha didn’t stop. Didn’t care. Then—Another beep. The numbers changed. “She just broke Walker’s lap record.” Natasha stopped. Yelena smirked. “Oh. That’s interesting.”

Natasha turned, slowly, like she couldn’t quite believe what she just heard. Another update. “She just broke the second record.” Her heartbeat roared. The control room was silent. Everyone watching. Waiting. The third sector. Another record.

Natasha’s jaw locked. Her hand clenched around the phone, the unfinished call abandoned. Because now? Now she wasn’t leaving. Now? She was watching.

You were going faster. Faster. Faster than anyone had gone before on this track. Your hands flexed over the wheel, your body moving on pure instinct. Every turn, every shift, flawless. You weren’t driving to prove something anymore. You were driving because fuck her. Fuck Natasha’s doubt. Fuck Walker’s legacy. Fuck every single person who thought you were done.

Lap after lap, the speed increased. Natasha barely had time to react. You were coming in too fast. Way too fast. Her breath hitched. Her instincts kicked in. Her hand shot toward the console, her finger hovering over the radio switch, ready to step in, to stop you from making a mistake that would end this entire session in a wreck. She had seen this before. This was the moment where drivers panicked. Where their talent collapsed under pressure.

“Y/n-”

You didn’t panic. You didn’t flinch. You owned it. The weight transferred seamlessly, the balance perfect, the tires gripping the apex at the last possible second—And Natasha watched as you took the smoothest, most precise fucking corner she had ever seen.

Her breath hitched. Yelena, beside her, let out a low whistle. “That was kinda sexy.”

Natasha didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t speak. Because for the first time, she wasn’t sure if she had just created a monster. Or if she had finally found the driver she had been looking for.

The tires screeched as you pulled into the pit lane, the scent of burning rubber and overheated brakes clinging to the air. Your pulse was still racing, every inch of your body vibrating with adrenaline, sweat sticking to your skin beneath the fireproof suit.

The cockpit ripped open. Natasha. Storming. Fuming. Burning. Before you could even move—before you could even reach for the harness, she grabbed you. Yanked you out of the car like you weighed nothing. Your boots hit the pavement hard, but you barely had time to react before..

Her hands fisting into your fire suit, dragging you closer, shoving you up against the side of the car. Her grip was tight, possessive, unforgiving. And when she spoke? She was livid.

“You do not turn me off!”

Your breath hitched. “You do not shut me out!”

Her voice was low, dangerous, vibrating with barely restrained rage. Your chest tightened. You tried to speak. “Natasha, I-”

“Shut up!!”

Her fingers tightened, her nails digging into the fabric of your suit. “I don’t give a fuck what’s going through that reckless little brain of yours. I don’t care what you think you’re proving. You work for me.”

Her breath was hot, her lips barely inches from yours, her eyes a dark, consuming fire. “And you do what the fuck I tell you to do!”

You clenched your jaw, your stomach twisting in something between anger and the unshakable feeling that she was enjoying this. And then, her smirk. It was barely there, just the faintest tilt of her lips, but you felt it.

“You wanna prove something?” Her voice dipped lower, smoother..too smooth. “Then do it on my terms. Not by acting like a brat who can’t handle being told what to do.”

Your body tensed. Your fingers twitched, fighting every goddamn instinct to shove her away, to push back, to match her fire with your own. You opened your mouth. “I-”

But her grip yanked you forward before the words could come out. “No!”

Your breath caught in your throat. “You don’t get to speak right now!”

Her voice was a whisper now. Sharp. Slow. Dangerous. The heat between you was suffocating. The world outside didn’t exist anymore. Just her hands on your suit. Her body, pressing you back against the car. The anger crackling between you like a live wire.

Then, a voice cut through the chaos. “Y/n?”

Your body froze. Your head snapped to the side. And there he was. Your father. Standing at the edge of the pit. Watching everything. Your stomach plummeted. Natasha didn’t let go immediately. No. She let her fingers linger for just a second longer, her eyes flicking over to your father with a slow, lazy amusement.

But instead of stepping away, she straightened your fire suit. Her touch slower than necessary, smoothing down the fabric, fingers ghosting over your shoulders, your collarbone. Her hands brushed down the front of your torso, flattening the creases with a touch so deliberate, so calculated, it made your entire body go rigid.

And when she finally spoke? It was for your ears only. “If I knew Daddy was coming to watch, I would’ve made you struggle a little more.”

Your pulse spiked. Natasha hummed, smirking like she had just won something. She took a step back. Calm. Controlled. Untouchable. She pulled out her phone as she passed Yelena, not even breaking stride as she spoke into it, her voice bored, detached. “Take the contract off my table.”

Then she hung up. And just like that, she was gone.

Part 4

#natasha x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha smut #natasha romanov x reader #dom!natasha x reader #nat x reader #natasha romonova #the avengers #natasha #natasha romanov smut #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanov

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rileyslibrary · 2 years ago

Text

You’ve just moved in with Simon. Great.

There’s one slight problem, though: Due to the nature of his work, the guy interprets everything as an order. And executes accordingly.

———————————————————————

You sit on the kitchen’s table, enjoying breakfast together, when you notice the full trash bin.

“The trash needs to be taken out,” you casually mention, not giving it too much thought.

But, to your surprise, Simon shoots up from his chair like a coiled spring, leaving his half-eaten food behind. “Roger that,” he responds and jogs towards the trash bin, leaving you baffled.

“Simon?”

He stops and turns to look at you.

“Hm?”

“You don’t have to do it right now.”

“When do you want it done?” he asks, waiting for your next command.

“Wh-whenever you can,” you reply, uncertain how else to phrase it.

“I can do it now,” Simon declares and proceeds to the trash bin.

“Babe, we’re eating.” You say and point at the semi-eaten food on the kitchen table.

He looks at the food, then back at you. He shrugs.

“No,” you state, “Come sit down and finish your breakfast first.”

He nods as if Price just gave him the objectives for his next mission and jogs to the table to resume his breakfast.

He’s always like this. Last week, you found a cockroach running in the bathroom, and you screamed so loud that he almost kicked the door. When he asked you what you wanted him to do, your first instinct was a very loud and clear “KILL IT!” without thinking about your statement’s repercussions. He chased it around, murmuring stuff like “Target’s on the move” and other nonsense until he trapped the cockroach in a corner. He stepped on it once and twisted his foot. The cockroach was dead. Gone. Kaput. But he wanted to do it again, to “confirm the kill.” When you told him there was no need since the cockroach was already a pulp and left you all to a better place, he refused and ordered an “evac” of the bathroom to “do it properly.” And when you asked if “properly” meant an AK-47 and camo apparel, he thought about it long and hard before agreeing that further escalation would be unnecessary.

Be it his ingrained behaviour as a soldier to execute orders, deeply rooted within his system, or his fear not to let you down, he was finding it difficult to leave his work duties at the door. He always carried them inside—in the living room, the kitchen, and the bathroom. He acted like Ghost, not Simon. Everything was a matter of order to him, and there was no time for relaxation.

But it doesn’t have to be like this; you want him to know that. He doesn’t have to be so rigid at home. He can relax and take a step back from his institutionalised habits.

To prove your point, you decide to give him another instruction, this time more indirectly.

You glance at the sink; some pans are picking out from making breakfast this morning.

“Oh boy,” you moan, trying to pull off an act, “we have to clean the dishes at some point.”

He raises his head to look at the kitchen sink, then sides-eyes you.

“Any particular time you want that done?” He asks, ironically.

“I said ‘at some point’, Simon,” you snap, “there’s no urgency.”

“You also said we ‘have’ to do it,” he snaps back. “‘Have to’ has some sort of urgency in it, doesn’t it?”

You chuckle, impressed by his attention to detail. “You’re right, but it’s more of a general statement,” you reply. “We can do it whenever it’s convenient.”

Simon processes your words and nods.

You stare at him while he eats, and you feel a tug at your heart, urging you to address the underlying issue on your mind. You take a deep breath, searching for the right words to express your feelings without offending him. You reach out and touch his arm to grab his attention. He turns to face you.

“You’re so dedicated to what you do; it’s one of the things I love about you,” you begin, “but our home should be a place where we can both unwind and be ourselves without feeling like we’re constantly on a mission.”

He furrows his eyebrows. “What do you mean?” he asks.

You take a moment to collect your thoughts, wanting to explain them in a way that resonates with him.

“Well, when you jump to fulfil every request or task like it’s an order, it sometimes feels like we’re always on duty,” you explain gently. “I want us to create a more relaxed atmosphere here, where we can enjoy each other’s company and take things at a slower pace.”

He thinks about it for a while.

“Am I doing that?” He asks.

You slowly nod with a gentle smile.

“Affirmative,” he replies, “I’ll try to take it down a notch.”

“No ‘roger’, no ‘affirmative’, nothing like that is needed here,” you explain.

“Is ‘alright’ alright?” He asks.

“Yes,” you smile, “alright is alright.”

He finishes his breakfast and puts his dish in the sink.

“So,” he says, pointing one hand at the dirty dishes and the other at the bin. “Is there any particular order in which you want these two to be done?”

You smile. “No, babe; you take out the trash, and I’ll do the dishes.”

“Underst-alright, alright.” He corrects himself and walks to the garbage. He ties up the bag’s strings and picks up the bin. He spots you looking at him.

“Am I doing something wrong?” He hesitates.

“Why are you taking the entire bin with you?”

He keeps looking at you and places the bin on the floor.

“Just in case the bag’s ripped,” he explains, “I don’t want to spill garbage juice on the floor.”

“Oh.”

“Should I take the bag only?” He asks and begins to remove it from the bin.

“No… that’s pretty smart, actually.”

He raises his eyebrows and points a thumb at himself.

“Yes, Simon,” you nod and smile, “you’re pretty smart and considerate. I’ll carry out the same procedure while on trash bin duty.”

He puffs up his chest and picks up the bin with the bag in it.

“I’m dedicated, smart and considerate.” You hear him boast to himself as he walks towards the exit, ready to execute his mission.

———————————————————————

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x gn!reader #simon ghost riley x y/n #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon riley x y/n #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley #call of duty #modern warfare 2 #cod mwii #cod ghost #ghost cod #simon ghost riley fanfiction #ghost mw2 #ghost cod mw2 #simon ghost riley fic

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beloveds-embrace · 5 months ago

Text

Until the Last Loop: the Execution

(How many times must you repeat the same song and dance before the curtain falls?

poly mercenaries 141 x princess reader, time loop

The crowd screamed for your blood.

Their voices rolled over the courtyard like thunder- sharp, frenzied, and hungry, sharks smelling blood in the waters. You didn’t flinch. You had stopped flinching a long time ago. Instead, you stood on the scaffold with your wrists bound in rusted iron and your knees aching from where you’d been forced to kneel, a once-proud back bent into prostration.

The cold bites through the thin silk of your dress. You feel the rough wood splintering beneath your knees, the way the wind stings your skin, the weight of the executioner’s shadow looming above you.

You were not allowed the dignity of a white dress, or a veil or a blindfold. You never were.

The wood creaked beneath you as the executioner shifted, sharpening his blade against a whetstone. Sparks flew, bright and vengeful. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t look at the crowd either, for they were all familiar scenes- so much so you were sure that if you were to be given a canvas and paint, you would be able to redraw it all simply from memory.

Instead, your gaze wandered.

You let your eyes drift across the sea of faces twisted in hatred, searching for the one thing that hadn’t changed in all these lifetimes-

And there he was.

You spotted him near the back, the man in the crowd. As always, standing just close enough to see the platform clearly but far enough to remain unnoticed by the mob. Hooded, broad-shouldered, and still. He didn’t yell. He didn’t jeer.

He just watched. He always did. The same stance, the same gaze.

Your stomach twisted, but you forced yourself to look away. He had been there in every loop, always standing in that exact spot, and you had stopped trying to understand why. Whatever answer you might have once craved had been buried under exhaustion and bitter acceptance, and the defeating knowledge of not knowing where to even start searching for him.

The executioner finished sharpening his blade and stepped closer, his boots heavy against the wood. The crowd’s roar swelled as the official stepped forward and began to read the charges- words you had heard so many times they no longer felt real. Were they here, you wondered, listening to your crimes?

“Treason against the Crown.”

Your nails dug into your palms.

“Conspiracy to overthrow His Majesty.”

You exhaled slowly.

“Attempted regicide.”

The crowd erupted at that, like oil meeting water, and you wondered- not for the first time- if they even cared whether the charges were true. It didn’t matter. They just wanted someone to blame.

And you had always been an easy target.

The executioner raised the blade. The sun caught its edge, and for a brief moment, you saw your reflection- tired eyes, hollow cheeks, and lips pressed into something that could no longer be called a smile.

The crowd roared louder. The executioner took his stance.

You closed your eyes.

And the blade fell.

You wake with a gasp.

The silk sheets cling to your skin, damp with sweat. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a wild animal escaping the clutches of its predator, and for one wild moment, you’re sure you can still feel the blade at your neck, the bite of steel against soft, tender flesh-

But there’s no blood. No pain.

Just sunlight streaming through the tall windows, warm and golden, painting the room in the soft golds and reds of the afternoon.

You stare at the ceiling, swallowing against the bile rising in your throat. The air smells like jasmine and lavender. It always does.

You force yourself to sit up even when your muscles ache, and your wrists burn with phantom pain from where the shackles had been. There are no marks, but the memory lingers, haunting every little move you make.

How many times now?

You stopped counting after twenty. It didn’t matter. It never changed.

The knock at the door comes exactly when you expect it, after you had forced yourself to clean away the sweat rolling down your skin and sat at your settee, begging your heart to calm down.

“Your Highness?”

Your maid’s voice.

You already know what she’ll say, what expression she’ll wear when she steps inside. But you don’t move.

The door opens, and she enters with a bow, her hands folded neatly in front of her, expression detached and polite. And behind her, four men follow.

You don’t need to look to know who they are. They’ve been with you every life, always the same tune and dance.

He stands at the front, broad-shouldered and commanding, streaks of gray in his beard and sharp eyes that feel like knives. You meet his gaze, by now fully used to him and his presence. Price- John, he’d said you can call him either in your last few lives, when your spoilt attitude had been stripped off you with each death.

“You ain’t so bad, princess. Not a hoity-toity piece of work.”

Slowly, the others trickle in after him.

The mask hides most of his face, but you don’t need to see it to know what’s underneath is Ghost. He watches you the way a predator watches its prey- calm, patient, and ready to strike, but you know that later, he will ever so slightly warm up to you.

“I don’t know what to do… I haven’t done anything! You have to believe me!”

“I know. But you’ll catch a cold if you stay out any longer, princess.”

Soap smiles when he steps inside, easy and disarming, but you see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand rests near the dagger at his hip. That same dagger has saved you before, but not always. In some lives, he is not there with you when you get ambushed- you were such a hard thing to get along with before- and yet in other lives…

“Wee lass, tell me where ye’re goin’, and I’ll protect ye always, aye?”

Quiet, steady, and sharp, like a hawk out for hunting. Gaz’s eyes sweep the room, cataloging every detail before they land on you and he nods towards you. Polite, always polite, even when you’d been like a hissy, feral cat towards him in times. Gentle when you’d been a quiet, reserved version of yourself.

“…will you stay with me? Just tonight? Please, Gaz… I feel lonely.”

“Course, princess. You don’t have to ask.”

You exhale slowly.

They’re different from the crowd, from the nobles and commoners of the kingdom. Always have been, always will be. They don’t look at you with hatred, even if they have their own misconceptions of you. But they’re still here, still close, in this life and before and next and that makes them special to you.

And this time, you… don’t have the energy to keep yourself away from them.

Price steps forward first, always the leader.

“Princess,” he says, and there’s something heavy in the way he says it. Like it means more than just a title. Or maybe less; mercenaries care little for royalty beyond what they can offer them. “We’re here to protect you.”

You almost laugh. Hired by king for no knight wanted to work for you, the shameful stain no one wanted to acknowledge or favor too much.

Instead, you turn your head and stare out the window, heart still pounding against your ribs.

“You’re wasting your time.”

You expect them to leave, even if you shouldn’t. Most people do when you push them away. Though you told yourself you won’t keep yourself away from them, you also truly want to just exist quietly, unperceived, until the inevitable hour arrives and you return back to this point.

But Price doesn’t listen to you, unsurprisingly. You can see your maid scoff about his nonchalant manner out of the corner of your eye.

“We’ll see about that, Your Highness.” He says, unbothered by your attitude.

And when you finally look at him again, his eyes are lingering on you- steady and sharp.

And thus, the loop starts anew.

Part Two

Masterlist

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bamfkeeper · 8 months ago

Text

Dashing Swashbuckler

RQ: 'Imagine Reader trying to be subtle about how watching Kurt being a debonair swashbuckler makes her swoon (whether Kurt's showing off deliberately or not... who's to say?)' - @crocwork-clockodile

Warnings: F!reader, slightly suggestive themes, not edited.

A/N: This is so cute, it was fun to write. I hope you enjoy!

WC: 1.0k

Kurt was a charming man.

He was naturally charismatic, his kind gestures and demeanor had made everyone feel welcome, regardless of how they felt about their appearances or mutations. He made you feel like any insecurity you had didn't matter.

You wondered how someone who had such hardships could be so welcoming and kind, his heart was gold and full of never-ending love. You enjoyed spending time with him, you looked forward to any chance you got to be with him. He was thoughtful, chivalrous, and most importantly, he made you feel like you mattered.

It was no secret he was quite the swordsman too, you hadn't seen him do much with his swashbuckling skills, but when you saw him practicing one afternoon, you couldn't take your eyes from him. He was so graceful and efficient, the acrobat flipped and moved with such fluidity, he appeared to be like water.

He was simply practicing, but you could tell how frustrating he'd be in a fight. Not just his natural agility, but adding his teleportation, he's a hard opponent. You had never sparred with him before, you weren't trained as acutely as the rest of the team was. Most of your practice felt like you were on a baby level or safety proofed simulation. It didn't really matter to you, going out on big missions wasn't why you were there. You just wanted to feel safe for once in your life.

Your attention was caught again as Kurt continued his elegant movements, spinning and twisting and flipping with ease. The way he swung his swords around and hit all the obstacles was mesmerizing to you. He was so beautiful, and his kind soul just made you feel more attached to him. It didn't help that he often liked to show off in front of you, you felt yourself blush a little as you recalled a specific event of him being extra extravagant.

He was quite the showman.

You moved closer to get a better show of his skills, and he noticed you peeking around the well trimmed trees around the mansion grounds. The sudden pair of eyes on him gave him added energy, and his skills improved. He was clearly peacocking now, showing off and doing things he wouldn't normally in real combat, but for training he could execute.

He finally stops for a moment just long enough to walk to the small bench by the rose bed and pick up his water bottle. He drank from it and glanced at you hiding poorly. "You can come out, fräulein..." he chuckled lightly, watching your form peek out from where you had been hiding. Your cheeks were slightly dusted as you were caught spying, but you couldn't help it.

"Sorry for watching...I couldn't help myself. You were flipping and moving so fast. I only watched for a second, then...a few minutes and...time sort of kept going. Before I knew it I was...kind of being a stalker." You blushed admitting that you were watching him, even though he had already spotted you.

Kurt chuckled in response, twirling one of the swords he had. "Don't fret, I don't mind being watched. In fact, it helps me show off." He winked and stepped back a little. "You don't train much, why don't I help you? For fun, of course..." He offered the hilt of one of the swords to you, encouraging you take it.

Reluctantly, you grasped the golden handle, surprised at how heavy the swords really were. You grunted slightly, having to hold on with two hands. You felt a bit flustered, but he didn't tease you about it. "It's alright, just do your best to hold it up...like this, ja, that's it!" He guided your arms and helped you position, then pointed at the dummy. "Now strike it down, like you're trying to fight an enemy."

With shaky arms, you took a cautious step towards the unmoving dummy, raising the sword and striking the dummy with a long slash. You stumbled a little, the weight of the sword drug you down a little bit. Kurt grabbed your arms and made sure you didn't accidentally strike your own leg. By how he grasped your forearms, his chest pressed against your back and his pelvis brushed against yours. The closeness made you blush more and you had stiffened at the proximity.

"You are so tense...that is why you are having difficulty wielding these," he noted, guiding you to stand upright again. "Deep breath...and relax. It's just me, fräulein...no one else is watching. I promise Scott won't come out and demand a perfect form." Kurt added with a tease to help you relax.

You slowly tried again, doing better this time. Kurt clapped and laughed, "Wunderbar! Good job, fräulein...that was much better! Soon you might be as good as me." Kurt winked at you, making you slightly tense again. You swallowed and blushed a bit, lowering the heavy sword and relieving the muscles in your arms.

"Oh, I don't know about that. I think I'm better off just watching you." You replied shyly, "If that's...okay."

"My spy wants to watch hm?" he chuckled back and waved his hand, "Of course. I don't mind, it actually encourages me to go a little harder than I normally would. When I have a lovely thing like you watching, I must do my best to impress..." He teased, that charming smile plastered on his fanged face. You had to take a breath after he spoke, he wanted to impress you and wanted you to watch him.

You exhaled and tried not to show just how much he affected you. Despite your efforts, he obviously knew. It was so painfully obvious to him and pretty much everyone else how much of a crush you had on him. Kurt didn't want to overwhelm you so he stepped back to keep training, but would wink at you every now and then just to see you squirm and blush more.

One day he'd ask you out.

But first, he'd keep teasing you.

Thanks for reading.

*BAMF*

Dividers by @/adornedwithlight

Cover image: Amazing X-Men #1 (2014)

#kurt wagner #nightcrawler #kurt wagner x reader #nightcrawler x reader #xmen #x men #x men 97 #🎠my works

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heliosunny · 3 months ago

Text

Yandere!Mydei x Knight!Reader

[part 1]

You were sent to assassinate Prince Mydei, the heir of a kingdom feared for its brutality. Slipping into the royal palace undetected, you finally make your move only for him to stop you effortlessly.

Rather than ordering your execution, Mydei claims you. As a cruel punishment, he forces you to disguise yourself as his personal knight, making you stand by his side at all times, protecting the very man you once tried to kill.

The golden candlelight flickers as you press a dagger to Prince Mydei’s throat, its cold steel biting against his skin. His golden eyes gleam, not with fear, but with something far more unsettling—amusement.

“You’re bold” he murmurs, lips curling into a smirk.

He should be calling for his guards. He should be fighting back. Instead, he leans into the knife.

For the first time in your career, hesitation seeps into your grip. He isn’t afraid. He isn’t struggling. He wanted this.

“Go on” he breathes, voice as soft as silk. “Kill me if you can.”

Your fingers tense— And then, everything shifts.

A blur of movement. A crushing grip. Pain flares as Mydei twists your wrist, the dagger clattering to the marble floor. Before you can react, he slams you against the wall, his fingers curling around your throat.

“Did you really think it would be that easy?” Mydei chuckles, his golden eyes glowing like molten gold in the dim light. His grip tightens, just enough to remind you who is in control.

His gaze lingers, sweeping over you like a predator savoring its prey. There’s no anger, no fear—only fascination.

“How disappointing” he sighs, though his smirk never wavers. “But don’t worry. I won’t kill you. No… you interest me far too much for that.”

His lips brush against your ear as he delivers the words that seal your fate:

“You belong to me now.”

The royal armor feels heavy on your shoulders. The crest of Okhema's knight gleams proudly on your chestplate, a mockery of your enslavement.

Prince Mydei watches you from his throne, his golden eyes glowing with amusement.

“How does it feel?” he asks smoothly, resting his chin against his palm. “To wear the colors of the kingdom you sought to destroy?”

Your hands clench into fists, nails digging into your palms. You hate this. Hate him.

He knows. And he delights in it.

“Come now, little knight” Mydei hums, rising gracefully from his throne. He steps toward you, his presence suffocating. His gloved fingers ghost along the sword at your hip, the one he gave you. A cruel joke, as if you would ever use it to protect him.

“You will stand by my side” he murmurs, his golden eyes locking onto yours. “You will guard me, fight for me, kill for me. And should you ever think of betrayal again—” he tilts your chin up with two fingers, his touch light but unshakable, “I will remind you who owns you.”

Your blood runs cold. You were once a killer, a shadow in the night. Now, you are Mydei’s most treasured knight, his captive, his obsession. “I understand.”

And no matter how much you wish to drive a blade through his heart, you know one thing for certain:

Prince Mydei will never let you go.

The throne room is silent except for the rhythmic clink of your armor as you kneel before Prince Mydei, golden banners draped behind him. His piercing eyes rest on you, filled with quiet amusement.

“Rise, my knight.”

You grit your teeth but obey, standing before him in full royal armor. You feel suffocated, weighed down—not by the metal, but by the mockery of it all.

“You’ve done well adjusting” Mydei muses, resting his chin in his palm. “But I wonder… how far does that loyalty go?”

Your body tenses.

The heavy doors creak open. Two royal guards drag a bound figure into the chamber, their face bruised, their breath ragged. You recognize them instantly.

Your contact. The one who had arranged your failed assassination attempt on Mydei.

“You know them, don’t you?” Mydei asks, his tone light. He rises from his throne, stepping toward the bound figure, tilting their chin up with a gloved hand. “They’re the one who sent you to kill me. How interesting…”

Your pulse pounds in your ears.

“So, my loyal knight” Mydei purrs, turning to you, his golden eyes glowing with delight. “Shall I consider this unfinished business? Why don’t you finish what you started?”

A blade gleams in the dim candlelight. Mydei extends it to you—an executioner’s weapon, cold and polished.

“Kill them.”

Your fingers twitch. You’ve taken countless lives before, without hesitation, without guilt. But this… this is different.

Your contact meets your gaze, eyes pleading. If you refuse, Mydei will kill them himself. Or worse.

You hesitate.

“Ah…” Mydei hums, stepping closer, his breath ghosting near your ear. “You hesitate. How cruel.” His fingers graze your wrist, slow and deliberate. “Did you really think I wouldn’t test you?”

Your throat tightens.

“This is simple, Y/n” he whispers, his grip tightening slightly. “You belong to me now. Your blade belongs to me. Show me.”

Your grip tightens around the hilt.

Kill them—or betray him. Night falls over the royal palace, but your torment does not end.

The execution-your choice still lingers on your hands. The weight of it, heavier than any blade you’ve ever held.

In the grand chamber, Mydei watches you from his seat by the fire. He has been silent, waiting. Watching. Enjoying your torment.

“Are you sulking?” he finally speaks, voice teasing. “How ungrateful. I spared your life, gave you a purpose. And yet, you frown as if I took something from you.”

Your freedom. Your identity. Your will.

Your jaw clenches. “You-”

But he only smiles, seeing through you as he always does.

“You’re beginning to understand, aren’t you?” Mydei murmurs, rising from his chair. He walks toward you slowly, as if savoring the moment. “You can resist me, fight me, hate me… but in the end, you will always be mine.”

You take a step back. He follows.

Finally, the wall greets your back.

He forced you to look up to meet his glowing eyes.

“And the sooner you accept that, my dear knight…” his voice dips into something dangerously soft, intoxicating, “the sooner I will make this so much easier for you.”

His lips brush dangerously close to your ear.

“You will not escape me.”

You hate him.

You fear him.

And yet, as his warmth surrounds you, you know he’s right.

The grand ballroom of the palace is alive with music and laughter, golden chandeliers reflecting off polished marble floors. Nobles from across the empire gather, their silken robes shimmering under the light.

You stand at Mydei’s side, forced into the role of his personal knight, wearing the crest like a brand of ownership. You loathe every moment of it: the whispered glances, the knowing smiles, the way Mydei’s golden eyes flicker with amusement whenever he catches you tensing.

But the true danger of the night comes in the form of Lord Aldric, a noble from a neighboring kingdom.

“Your Majesty, you have quite the remarkable knight” Aldric muses, swirling his wine as he appraises you with interest.

“Efficient. Strong. And quite… stunning” he continues, his tone dipping into something suggestive. His blue eyes meet yours, and there is a challenge in them, one that makes your stomach twist. “It is rare to see such talent outside the royal guard. Tell me, dear knight, have you ever considered serving another lord?”

The air shifts.

Prince Mydei is still smiling, his golden eyes bright with amusement—but you know better. That is not a look of joy. That is a look of warning.

“My knight?” Mydei hums, tilting his head slightly as if contemplating something. His voice is still smooth, still elegant, but there is an edge beneath it, a sharpness like a blade hidden beneath silk. “How interesting that you would assume they have a choice.”

Lord Aldric chuckles, taking a step closer to you, seemingly unaware or perhaps unconcerned—by the storm brewing behind Mydei’s golden gaze.

“Surely, even knights deserve the freedom to choose whom they serve, Your Highness.” Aldric presses, his smirk deepening. “Or is this one particularly… special?”

For a moment, no one speaks.

“Kneel.”

Mydei’s voice cuts through the ballroom like a blade.

You freeze. The room stills. The musicians falter for a brief second before quickly recovering, but all eyes have turned to you now.

The weight of his command settles over you like chains.

This is not a request. This is a display.

Your jaw clenches, your hands curling into fists at your sides. Mydei is forcing you to submit in front of everyone, making it clear to Aldric and to the entire court—exactly who you belong to.

But defying him here, in front of so many witnesses… would be a mistake.

Slowly, with every ounce of hatred burning in your veins, you lower yourself onto one knee, bowing your head.

Satisfied, Mydei steps forward, tilting your chin up with his gloved fingers. His eyes gleam with satisfaction, his touch both cruel and intoxicating.

“You speak of freedom, Lord Aldric.” he muses, not even sparing the noble a glance. “But my knight already knows their place.” His fingers trace along your jaw- a mockery of affection, a silent reminder of his control.

“Don’t you, my dear?”

The room waits. Your heart pounds, but you know the answer he wants. The answer he expects.

“Yes… Your majesty” you grit out.

Mydei smiles.

“Good.” he murmurs, his touch lingering just long enough to make your skin crawl before he finally releases you.

You rise to your feet, your pride crushed beneath the weight of his amusement, the court’s whispers echoing around you like a thousand daggers.

But the night is not over.

Later that night, the golden glow of the ballroom is replaced by the cold darkness of Mydei’s private chambers. The door clicks shut behind you, and you realize you are alone with him.

“You were quiet tonight” Mydei muses, pacing toward you with slow, deliberate steps. “Did Lord Aldric’s words tempt you, my knight?” he asks, his voice soft, almost mocking. “Did you enjoy his attention?”

You glare at him, refusing to answer.

He laughs. Such dangerous sound—low, smooth, curling around you like silk tightening into a noose.

“You see, I was going to let it go...” he sighs, reaching for a wine glass, swirling its contents lazily. “But then, I noticed something.”

He takes a step closer.

You stand your ground.

“You didn’t pull away when he touched you.”

He noticed. Of course he did.

“Are you growing bold, my dear?” Mydei whispers, setting the glass aside as he reaches out, his gloved fingers grazing your wrist. “Do you think another could ever take you from me?”

“They cannot” he assures you, voice dipped in deadly certainty. His grip tightens enough to remind you that he could. “You are mine.”

He leans in, his breath warm against your skin.

“And I do not share.”

Despite the shiver runs down your spine, you refuse to move, refuse to let him see any weakness. Mydei chuckles softly, sensing your defiance.

“That’s alright” he murmurs, his fingers trailing along your jaw, tilting your chin up, “I enjoy reminding you.”

Mydei may have spared Aldric tonight, but the next time someone looks at you like that…

They won’t live to see the sunrise.

#yandere x reader #yandere #hsr x reader #hsr mydei #mydei x reader #mydei #mydeimos #honkai star rail mydei #honkai star rail #hsr x you #yandere hsr

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r3starttt · 7 months ago

Text

DRAIN ME

PAIRING: stalker! caitlyn x vampire! reader

CW: blood play. oral. fingering. finger sucking.

TAGLIST | KINKTOBER: @lewd-alien @greysontheidiot @jolyne @sapphic-ovaries @prwttiestbunny @visobsession @kiki5gigi @thesevi0lentdelights @femininologies | CAITLYN TAGLIST: @imdrowningindispair @rkivedpages @mirconreadzztuff22 @crispers @moonlyblue @bruhhtsukjf

Caitlyn had always prided herself on control, every mission executed with precision, every target locked with unwavering focus. But you—something about you unraveled her carefully crafted sense of order. It started innocently, a curiosity, a passing glance too long. But it bloomed into obsession. She found herself tracking your every move, studying the way you slipped through the shadows, always just out of reach.

It wasn't the bloodlust that drew her in, though, it was you—the way you carried yourself, the way your eyes lingered on her longer than they should have. It wasn’t fear she felt when she caught those fleeting glances from you, it was hunger. A hunger she could no longer distinguish from her own.

Caitlyn had always been the hunter, but with you, it was different. Her obsession had her following you, unseen, slipping through the city's dark corners as you prowled the night. Watching how you moved, who you spoke to, and how easily you evaded capture. Her nights were no longer filled with patrols but with watching you—every moment, every breath consumed by the thought of you.

She knew it wasn’t just her duty that made her chase you. It was the thrill, the electric pull she felt in your presence, as if every step closer to you was a step away from her own control. Her obsession deepened with every encounter, with every near-miss where your eyes met and lingered just a second too long. The more she watched, the more she wanted, and the more she wanted, the more she realized that it wasn’t enough. Watching you wasn’t enough. She needed more. She needed you.

Caitlyn wasn’t afraid of you and what you could physically do to her, but she feared what you’d already done to her mind—how you had twisted her sense of purpose, how you had made her feel alive. And though she knew she should stop, her grip on sanity fraying with each passing night, she was relentless, her thoughts consumed by the need to know everything about you. To own you.

The cold air of the night flowing through her open window, clinging to her as she sat perched on the edge of her desk. One leg straight as the other bent over. Her rifle rifle resting in her lap. It felt odd. a predator, yet being haunted—by a desire, an obsession.

Ther had been many thoughts. Cornering you, forcing you to face her. Not as prey, but as something more. What would it feel like, to have those sharp fangs graze her skin? To have you pinned beneath her, or to be at your mercy?

But no matter how close she got, you were always one step ahead, always slipping away before she could get too close. It only fueled her obsession. Caitlyn would find a way to catch you, to have you.

A soft creak from the far side of the room snapped her attention back to the open window. Her eyes narrowed, body tensing as she scanned the darkened office. The shadows danced across the walls, and for a brief moment, she thought she was imagining it. But then she saw it—a glimmer, the faintest hint of movement in the darkness. You were here.

The rifle and the wooden floor creaked ominously as Caitlyn stood tall, striding toward you with a firm grip on her weapon. “Did you really think you were the only one hunting?” She took a step back, tightening her grip. “Move.” Her voice was a command, authoritative. It made you smile. “I can smell it on you, you know. You’re not just trying to catch me—you need me.”

Caitlyn’s knuckles whitened around the rifle, her chest heaving ever so slightly. Her eyes narrowed, flicking between the shadows that danced across your face, trying to read your next move.

But you stayed perfectly still, waiting, your smile never wavering.

She took a deliberate step forward, the weight of her boots heavy against the creaking floor. “I don’t need you,” Caitlyn growled, her voice laced with frustration, but the tension in her posture betrayed her.

She was hesitating, her mind betraying her hardened resolve.

"Then why haven’t you pulled the trigger?

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Caitlyn's face, and she took a half-step back, “I can’t just… hurt you. Not like that.” her grip on the rifle relaxed just a fraction, the weapon lowering slightly. Only there you took a step closer, still covered by the shadow.

“Why not?” you asked softly, your voice almost a whisper. “You’ve stalked me, hunted me. Now you have me cornered..."

“You think I’m weak because I can’t pull the trigger?” the vulnerability beneath her bravado was unmistakable.

“I think you’re stronger than you know,” you shocked your head, a soft smile playing on your lips as you finally showed yourself to her. “And that strength is what draws me to you.”

Caitlyn’s gaze flickered to the rifle, still hanging loosely in her hand, then back to you. "I’ve spent too long chasing you. I’m not letting you go."

You tilted your head slightly, exposing your neck in a mocking, languid gesture, daring her. "Then take what you want," you whispered, voice dripping with seductive malice. The corset hugging your body concealed the blood that dripped from your lips, sliding down your neck, a crimson trail that glistened in the dim light. Caitlyn��s eyes flickered to your hands, but before she could act, you moved like a shadow, effortless and swift, and the rifle she clutched was sent crashing to the floor along with the frames that once hung proudly on her walls. The sound was deafening, a cacophony that seemed to echo her own faltering resolve.

Her quiet whimpers filled the space between you, exactly how you had imagined they would. Her hands, once so sure, now trembled as they gripped your arms, a futile attempt to push you away as your fangs sank deep into the soft skin of her neck. You savored the moment, the rush of power, the warmth of her blood on your tongue. She tasted sweet—sweeter than anyone else you had ever feasted upon. You drank her in, relishing every second.

"You come into my world, my home..." you murmured against her throat, your breath sending shivers down her spine. "You threaten anyone who gets close to me." Her whimper cut through your words, and with it, you bit down harder, drawing another gasp from her, this one filled with desperation and surrender.

"You really thought I wouldn’t notice the way you followed me, everywhere?" you purred, mocking her now, the sound of your voice weaving through the tension like silk. Her eyes, wide with shock, lost their vibrant glow, her skin paling as the life slowly drained from her. "You want me, don’t you, Kiramman?" you whispered against her ear, feeling her nails dig into your skin in response, a weak attempt at resistance that only fueled your desire further.

Her brow furrowed at your mocking tone, but her strength was leaving her, betraying her. "I know you like this... not having control for once," you teased, your voice low and taunting. "Just breathe." You felt her chest heave against yours, a quiet gasp that reverberated against your skin, the sound intoxicating. Her blood, so sweet and pure, made your head swim with pleasure, unlike anything you had tasted before.

Your nails now pierced her delicate cheeks, sharp enough to leave marks, pulling her closer, forcing her gaze to meet yours. Her eyes, once a vibrant blue, were now fading, losing their color, their life. It suited her, this strange, drained look—a pale echo of her former self. Horrifying, yet oddly beautiful.

You licked the blood from your lips, savoring the last taste of her, while your eyes—dark, red, and predatory—fixed on her with a hunger that would not be satisfied. Her body trembled, her lips parting as though to speak, but only incoherent sounds escaped, her strength fading fast. You looked down at her, a predator gazing at its prey, the white of your skin stark in contrast to the deep red of her blood.

Caitlyn’s hands clung to you now, her body weakening, her will crumbling under your touch. For once, she was no longer the hunter, no longer the perfect, controlled sharpshooter. She was at your mercy, and she *loved* it. Her mouth moved, barely able to form the words as her body slumped against yours, heavy with surrender. "Take me," she breathed, her voice fragile and broken, the last spark of life in her reaching for you, begging for release.

Her hands moved to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, as if the only thing keeping her alive was the feel of you, your presence. If it weren’t for your hold on her, she would have collapsed entirely, limp in your arms, almost lifeless. You could end it now—just one more taste, one more bite, and she would be yours forever. Her body, her soul, everything would belong to you. Exactly what she wanted, wasn’t it?

You smiled, your fangs glinting in the dim light, the expression wicked and predatory. Your eyebrows arched in amusement as you studied her fragile, broken form. "Yeah?" you whispered, the temptation curling in your voice. You wanted her—oh, you wanted her more than anything. But there was something so sweet about this moment, about watching her, feeling her completely under your control. She had given you so many chances to escape her grasp, to run, but now she was here, weakened, broken, and utterly yours.

Caitlyn Kiramman, the perfect shot, the disciplined enforcer, the best at what she did—now reduced to this. A trembling figure, desperate for you, craving the loss of control she had so carefully maintained her entire life. You held her there, savoring the power, the sweetness of her submission. She would be yours entirely.

Your breath ghosted over the sensitive skin of her neck once more, your hold tightening as if you could devour her whole. Caitlyn whimpered, the sound trembling from her lips, her blood still seeping from the bite marks you left, trailing down her neck and pooling at her clavicle. Her once immaculate uniform, now torn and disheveled, mirrored the chaos you’d created in her—a reflection of how far she'd fallen under your spell.

Your long, red tongue dragged slowly over her skin, tasting the mix of salt and copper, savoring the richness of her blood. You could feel the pulse beneath her flesh, each beat of her heart fueling your hunger. As you tore her uniform apart with a casual flick of your nails, her body shuddered, her breath catching as she mumbled soft, incoherent pleas—pleas that only spurred you on.

Her hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, pressing your head harder against her body, though whether in an attempt to push you away or pull you deeper into her, even she couldn’t say. You could feel the desperation in her touch, the way she clung to you like you were the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. Your eyes drifted upward, meeting her gaze with a predatory gleam, taking in the way her brows curved beautifully in agony, the slight part of her lips exposing the little gap between her teeth.

“Breathe… like that. Good girl,” you mocked softly, your voice dripping with cruel amusement as you coaxed her to endure the pain just a little longer. You could feel her body obeying, her breath shuddering as she fought to remain composed, even as she crumbled in your hands.

Slowly, you sank to your knees before her, your nails dragging down her thighs, the fabric of her uniform bunching and tearing under your touch. Caitlyn’s body jerked when your fangs pierced the soft, tender flesh of her thigh, her quiet, guttural moan reverberating through the air. She pressed herself harder against the wall, head thrown back as the pain mingled with something far deeper, more primal.

You held her there, gripping her hips with possessive force, tasting her, taking her. Her blood was intoxicating, and her helpless surrender only made it sweeter. You could feel the tension in her muscles, the tremble in her legs, as she struggled to stay upright under your assault. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, each one a testament to the control she was losing.

“Just like that,” you whispered against her skin, voice thick with hunger as your fangs grazed her again. You weren’t just feeding on her blood, you were consuming every part of her, body and soul.

You made your way under her blue skirt, kissing at the fabric covering her obscene wet hole. Your tongue licking at it with little shame. The tip of your nails dragged the black piece of clothing down her thighs, enough for your hungry mouth to have access on her body.

She was as sweet as her blood, as her voice. Her skin tender.

You felt a gentle grasp on the back of your head, a sloppy tangling along quiet hisses and hufs. She seemed quite desperate, but how could she not when your tongue felt so good up and down her slit, with your pretty lips kissing and sucking on her clit.

Caitlyn mumbled through her teeth, jaw clenched and eyebrows scrunching down her nose. Your tongue made its way from her slit to the tip of her clit, licking and kissing between her folds, feasting on her wet.

Your fingers slid in with ease, eliciting a weak yet grumpy gasp out of her mouth. Her thighs trapped you with the little strength she had on her. It felt heavy and alive on her way.

She hugged your fingers so tightly, clenching deliciously good. And the wet coming out of it was so pretty, so delicate yet messy. Withing each suck of her clit and thusting of your fingers there was a quiet gasp, a groan of pain and pleasure. You could sense her heart as if yours- it almost was. She was close.

Your lips pressed a gentle kiss around her clit, licking on it just after. Your fingers pounding onto her cunt until a warmth enveloped them down your wrist- gentle. Your eyes softened at the sensation, at the look of her tender body so weak yet so euphoric just for you- because of you.

The floor creaked as you stood, slipping free from her feeble grip. Her breathing was erratic, she would soon be an empty shell on the floor if you didn’t hurry. But this was your favorite part—watching them unravel before the final moment. Not her, though. She was different. She'd live. She'd belong to you.

"Open... just like that, love." A smile curved on your lips, now salty with blood, the taste more intoxicating than anything you'd ever known. She sucked on your fingers, humming, savoring the same flavor you were enjoying. Tilting her chin to the side, you attacked the other side of her neck. The pleasure coursing through her, mixed with the euphoria, made her blood even more exquisite. You drank deeply until her skin began to pale, becoming something like yours—white and no longer human.

Her fingers gripped yours tenderly, fangs sharpening naturally. Your breath brushed her skin one last time before she seized your wrist with newfound strength, the authority she once held returning to her body.

“No manners, Kiramman?"

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thatfeelinwhenyou · 16 days ago

Text

SAFE & SOUND — extras: jungwon's POV

Navigating one year post-apocalypse, when the dead began to walk and the living proved to be no better, you decide that trust is a luxury you can no longer afford. But after a run-in with a group of seven peculiar survivors, you learn that there are bigger problems than just the undead roaming the streets. You also start to wonder if there’s more to survival than simply staying alive.

word count: 18.1k (LMFAOOOO)

a/n: erm... i know i said i wouldn't be writing anything extra for safe & sound but I saw some of your comments saying how it would be interesting to read from Jungwon's perspective. i realised then, how much detail I was missing out on because I was writing in first perspective. the thought irked me. so I opened my laptop and wrote this... LOL it's not full chapters, just some scenes and extra cuts that I thought would be fun to read in won's POV! enjoy reliving some of the most traumatic moments I guess? as usual, heavy trigger warning for blood, killing, death, ANGST, and morally grey ideologies.

MASTERLIST

Pre-Safe & Sound

The courtroom reeks of cigarette smoke and musty paper, the air so thick it feels like it’s clogging his lungs. Jungwon’s shoulders ache from sitting too stiff for too long, his back pressed against the cold metal of the chair. His fingers tap against his thigh in an impatient rhythm, a habit he’s never quite managed to shake.

Jungwon is just one of many faces scattered throughout the makeshift courtroom—one of many playing pretend in a crumbling civilisation that wants to believe it’s still standing. Pretending the world hasn’t rotted outside these concrete walls, pretending the rules still matter. The others around him—higher-ups, officers, men and women who hold titles that lost their meaning the day the world went to shit—are watching the spectacle with all the enthusiasm of a pack of vultures waiting for something to die.

It’s always been like this—marble floors and steel walls, designed to intimidate, to remind everyone sitting here of the authority they’ve willingly, or unwillingly, surrendered themselves to. The Future prides itself on order and control. On weeding out the weak. On pruning the unruly.

The General sits at the head of the room, his posture rigid, shoulders squared, the insignia on his chest gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Beside him, Sergeant Major Kim of Weapons Control has his mouth twisted into a sneer, his eyes like polished stone.

Jungwon knows this isn’t just a formality. It’s an execution, dressed up in procedure.

“I’m tired of tolerating his shit. So what if he’s a good shot? All the more he’ll turn the muzzle on one of us if he feels like it.” Sergeant Major Kim’s voice grates on Jungwon’s nerves, his words nothing more than polished venom, a slow, creeping poison meant to dismantle anyone who steps out of line.

It’s been a solid forty-five minutes since Sergeant Major Kim started making his case against Jay. Not just any case, either. A full-blown, meticulously constructed argument, layered with every possible sin Jay might have committed. Insurbodination. Recklessness. Endangering his comrades during an infiltration of a new community not far from HQ.

Jungwon’s jaw tightens as he listens, only half paying attention to the string of accusations that drip from the Sergeant Major’s mouth. It’s all politics. It’s all bullshit. They’re clinging to some sense of order, some desperate attempt to pretend they have control when the world has already slipped from their grasp.

“Private First Class Park is a liability. Reckless, undisciplined, and worst of all, disobedient. We give orders and he questions them. We set boundaries and he oversteps them. That’s not someone we can rely on.”

The words are familiar. They echo the same rhetoric Jungwon has heard in every damn meeting about Jay. The same tired complaints, the same frustrations disguised as grievances.

But something is different this time. There’s a finality to Sergeant Major Kim’s tone. A hunger for punishment.

Jungwon’s fingers drum against his thigh, the motion so slight it’s almost imperceptible. Outwardly, he remains calm, collected, his expression one of neutrality. But his mind is anything but.

The General leans forward, his hands clasped together on the table before him. “Expulsion has been discussed in the past.” His voice is measured, dispassionate. “But now, the situation has escalated.”

Jungwon’s jaw clenches. Escalated. That’s one way to put it.

Jay’s a good shot. Too good. His skill with a rifle has saved lives more times than anyone can count, his quick thinking turning the tide of more battles than the council has the nerve to acknowledge. And his mouth—well, his mouth is the part they can’t seem to stomach. The bluntness. The refusal to bow to authority when that authority is nothing more than a fragile facade.

Jay had defied orders, yes. Had disregarded direct commands during the last infiltration mission. But Jay’s reasons were sound. Ethical, even. The community they were raiding had families—innocent people trying to survive, same as them. Jay had pushed back, refused to partake in what he deemed an unnecessary massacre. And in doing so, he’d broken the one unspoken rule The Future held above all else—obedience.

“His actions jeopardise the integrity of our system. His insubordination is not only dangerous, but infectious.” Sergeant Major Kim’s eyes narrow, his gaze sweeping over the room like he’s daring anyone to disagree.

Jungwon doesn’t. Not outwardly. Not yet.

“Expulsion is the only logical course of action.” Sergeant Major Kim’s voice is calm, collected. “Unless someone can offer a viable alternative.”

The silence is thick, stifling. No one speaks. No one dares to.

But Jungwon can feel it—something coiling in his gut, hot and sharp and undeniable. A warning. A decision.

Expulsion.

He can’t get the word out of his head. They’re going to throw Jay out. Cut him off from their little makeshift organisation like he’s nothing more than a diseased limb that needs to be amputated. And Jungwon knows what happens to those who are expelled. It’s a death sentence. Maybe not right away, but eventually.

Because the world out there doesn’t care if you were once part of a structured society. It doesn’t care if you were skilled or strong or brave. It only cares about whether you can survive. And survival is a lot harder when you’re alone.

Jungwon’s eyes narrow, his mind racing. The General is speaking now, his voice calm and detached, as if he’s discussing nothing more than a routine supply run. But Jungwon catches the hesitation. The way his fingers drum against the table. The way his gaze shifts from the Sergeant Major to the others gathered around, gauging their reactions.

Politics. It’s always politics.

He needs to get out of here. He needs to think. His fingers tap harder against his thigh, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. If they really expel Jay, if they really push him out into the world without resources, without allies—

Jungwon doesn’t know why the thought bothers him so much. Doesn’t know why his fists are clenched so tight his knuckles have turned white.

He’s been trained to follow orders. Conditioned to obey, to survive, to keep his head down and his mouth shut.

But for the first time, he’s not sure he can.

He takes a measured breath, his eyes fixed on the General’s. “Expulsion is a permanent solution to a temporary problem,” he says, his voice steady, deliberate. “Jay is reckless, yes. But he’s also resourceful. Skilled. Loyal.”

“Loyal to who, exactly?” Sergeant Major Kim cuts in, his smirk barbed. “Because from where I’m standing, his loyalties lie wherever his own moral compass points. And we can’t afford to keep someone around who values his own judgement above the chain of command.”

“Loyal to us,” Jungwon counters, his voice sharp enough to cut. “To me. And to the rest of our team.”

The words hang in the air, their weight undeniable. Jungwon can see the way the General’s gaze narrows, his fingers twitching ever so slightly as he considers.

“And what would you propose, Staff Sergeant Yang?” The General’s tone is cold, indifferent. “A slap on the wrist? A stern talking-to?”

Jungwon’s mind is already racing, the pieces clicking into place. He has to be careful. One wrong move and he’s signing Jay’s death warrant himself.

“No,” Jungwon says, his voice tight, controlled. “I suggest we redirect his skills. Use his rebellious nature to our advantage. Put him on tasks that require ingenuity and creativity. Give him the freedom to operate without compromising our security.”

“You aren’t just defending him because you know him personally, are you? Bias isn’t a good look in the military, Sergeant Yang.”

The words hit like a slap, sharp and cutting. Jungwon’s eyes narrow, his posture stiffening as he meets Sergeant Major Kim’s gaze head-on. The sneer twisting the man’s mouth makes Jungwon’s stomach churn. The accusation is there, laid bare for everyone in the room to see.

A murmur ripples through the room, low and treacherous. Judgemental eyes flicker his way—other officers, other officials. Faces he’s seen time and time again, most of them just waiting for him to slip. Because no matter how many times he proves his competence, his loyalty, his efficiency, there are always those who resent his place here. A twenty one-year-old commanding respect, making decisions that affect the lives of hundreds. It’s not natural, they say. It’s not fair.

“I’m defending him because he’s worth defending,” Jungwon says, his voice flat and calm, though his pulse thrums with irritation. “Jay’s unconventional, yes. But so are the challenges we’re facing. If we want to survive—if The Future wants to survive—we can’t afford to be rigid. We need people who think differently. People who aren’t afraid to act when the situation demands it.”

Sergeant Major Kim’s mouth twitches, his gaze turning flinty. “Acting on instinct isn’t the same as insubordination. The man is a liability. And if you can’t see that, perhaps your judgement isn’t as sound as we all thought.”

“Then give him a task that suits his skills,” Jungwon counters, refusing to let the Sergeant’s condescension sink beneath his skin. “Put him somewhere his resourcefulness can be an asset rather than a threat.”

“You’re missing the point, Sergeant,” Sergeant Major Kim drawls, like he’s explaining something obvious to a child. “This isn’t about skill. It’s about loyalty. It’s about control. And if Park can’t follow orders, then he doesn’t belong here.”

Jungwon’s teeth grind together. The committee’s eyes are on him, assessing, judging. He needs to tread carefully. One wrong word, and he’s not just condemning Jay—he’s signing away their entire group’s place in The Future.

“Sergeant Major Kim,” Jungwon says, voice tight, steady. “If you think that questioning orders is grounds for expulsion, then maybe you need to re-evaluate what you value more—obedience or survival. Because if you can’t adapt, if you can’t make use of the skills people bring to the table, then we’re not building a future at all. We’re just holding on to the past.”

The room goes silent. Eyes shift from Jungwon to Sergeant Major Kim, awaiting his response.

“You’re speaking out of line, Sergeant,” Sergeant Major Kim says, voice cold and clipped. “This is the military and you’re soldiers. Your sole purpose and duty is to follow orders. Your arrogance will be your downfall.”

“My pragmatism is what’s kept us alive,” Jungwon snaps back before he can stop himself. The words hang heavy in the air, his defiance stark against the sterile, calculated atmosphere of the room.

A beat of silence stretches, and Jungwon can feel his own heartbeat pounding against his ribs, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

The General clears his throat, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Enough. This discussion has gone on long enough.” His eyes flicker towards Jungwon, unreadable. “Sergeant Yang has made his case. We will deliberate and make our decision by the end of the week.”

A dismissal.

The others begin to file out of the room, some casting Jungwon wary glances, others looking almost impressed. But he pays them no mind. His focus is on Sergeant Major Kim, who lingers by the doorway, gaze still locked on Jungwon with the intensity of a predator sizing up its prey.

“Bias or not, Yang,” Kim says, voice low and venomous. “You’ve just tied yourself to a sinking ship. And when it drags you down, I won’t be there to pull you out.”

The words are a threat. And for the first time since Jungwon walked into this room, he feels the ice creeping into his veins.

But his expression remains impassive, his shoulders squared, his eyes unwavering. He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t let the Sergeant Major see even a flicker of fear. Because he knows now what he has to do.

Jay’s expulsion isn’t a question of if. It’s a question of when.

And Jungwon will be damned if he lets them take his friend without a fight.

As he leaves the room, his mind is already churning, thoughts clicking into place with ruthless precision. If The Future wants to cast Jay out, then fine. They’ll be leaving together.

And there’s nothing—no threat, no authority, no crumbling society—that will stop him.

The hum of fluorescent lights buzzes faintly overhead, muffled by the thick concrete walls of the auxiliary storage bay. The place is empty—technically off-limits after curfew, which makes it perfect for the conversation Jungwon doesn’t want anyone else to hear.

Jay’s leaning against a stack of ration crates, arms crossed, posture defiant in that quietly confrontational way of his. His expression, though unreadable, holds a kind of lazy edge—like he already knows why Jungwon’s here and doesn’t care.

“I take it this isn’t a supply check,” Jay says, tilting his head.

Jungwon steps in, letting the heavy door shut behind him with a dull thud. His voice is low, steady. Controlled, but fraying at the edges. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Jay doesn’t move. “You’ll have to be more specific. I think a lot of things.”

“You disobeyed a direct order, Jay. You blew the infiltration on the west community. Sergeant Major Kim is calling for expulsion.”

At that, Jay’s eyes narrow. “They were unarmed civilians, Jungwon. Not raiders. Families. Kids. We weren’t just ‘infiltrating,’ we were planning to strip them dry and leave them vulnerable.”

“That’s not your call to make.”

Jay scoffs. “Says the guy who helped design half the tactics we use to screw those people over.”

Jungwon’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, the silence is razor-sharp between them. Then he steps forward, closing the distance until there’s nowhere left to hide behind words or sarcasm.

“I told them you weren’t a threat. I vouched for you, Jay. Sat in that goddamn courtroom and played the perfect little soldier so they wouldn’t put you on the list.”

Jay flinches—barely—but Jungwon catches it.

“You think you're some kind of saviour because you questioned one order? You’re not. You’re reckless. You’re lucky they’re only talking expulsion and not something worse.”

“They’re wrong,” Jay bites out. “And you know it.”

“I do,” Jungwon says quietly. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you fucked up. You made yourself a target. And now… now I can’t protect you anymore.”

There’s a beat of silence where neither of them says anything.

And then Jungwon’s voice lowers further, like the weight of what he’s about to say is too heavy to carry out loud.

“I’m thinking of leaving.”

Jay’s head jerks up, brows drawing together. “What?”

“If they expel you, they’ll monitor the rest of us. And if they find even a trace of sympathy or dissent, we’re next. Me, Jake, Sunghoon, Ni-ki, Sunoo, Heeseung... all of us.”

Jay stares at him, eyes unreadable. “So that’s it? You’re just going to run?”

“No,” Jungwon breathes. “I’m going to take us out before they bury us.”

Another silence. This one charged. Heavier.

Jay’s voice softens, almost uncertain. “Does the rest of the group know?”

“Not yet. I’ll tell them when I figure out how to get us out without getting us all killed.”

That night, the air inside The Future’s inner walls felt unusually still—eerily subdued in a place that never truly slept. The soft hum of generators buzzed overhead, casting stark white light down the sterile hallways of the supply depot. It should have been louder—more movement, more noise, more bodies. But something was off.

Jungwon noticed it the moment he stepped inside.

There were fewer people on duty than protocol demanded. Only two stationed at the check-in desk, one watching the entrance, and none making rounds through the aisles. It wasn’t just a shift change lull—it was a skeleton crew, and they all looked like they hadn’t slept in days.

He didn’t ask why. Not at first. Asking questions in The Future was how you got assigned to more shifts, more silence, more suspicion.

But then he heard it.

Whispers. In the hallways. Low voices crackling over radios. Reports that the outbound retrieval unit—Team D4—never made it back on time. They’d been dispatched earlier that week to collect a shipment from a nearby survivor community.

But something had gone wrong.

According to murmurs passed between command and medbay, the team was ambushed. Overrun. The dead poured out of the treeline, faster and hungrier than anticipated. Out of twelve, only three returned. All injured. One of them shot in the leg. Another missing an arm. The third didn’t speak—just stared at the floor with blood still drying in his beard.

That explained the silence in the depot. The tension. The missing bodies. Everyone was stretched thin trying to fill the void the dead left behind.

It also explained why tonight—if they were ever going to do it—was the night.

Jungwon turned on his heel and made his way back to the lower barracks, where Jay was already waiting, sharpening the edge of a blade that technically wasn’t authorised for lower division use.

"Team D4?" Jay asked, not looking up.

“Most of them didn’t make it back,” Jungwon replied, voice low. “They’re short-staffed across all zones. Nobody’s looking at us tonight.”

Jay simply nodded.

Because they both knew. This was the window. The only one they might ever get.

And by morning, they wouldn’t be soldiers of The Future anymore. They’d be deserters.

Alive—for now.

But fugitives all the same.

The first night outside The Future feels like stepping onto another planet.

They move fast under the cover of darkness, adrenaline coursing through their veins, every footstep deliberate but uneven with nerves. The plan had been hastily drawn, but executed with terrifying precision—at least on Jungwon’s part. He hadn’t factored in the emotional weight that would follow the moment they drove past the barricade.

They’re not alone. A handful of others—faces half-familiar, half-forgotten—had taken the chance when Jungwon gave the signal. Deserters, they’re called now. Traitors, even. People clinging to the fragments of their humanity in a world that no longer rewards it.

They make camp in the remnants of an abandoned roadside diner. Dusty booths. Shattered windows. A place that probably once smelled of burnt grease and coffee. Tonight, it smells like mildew and ash.

Ni-ki tries to help set up makeshift beds from ripped upholstery while still casting anxious glances at the shadows outside. He’s the youngest, but he doesn’t complain. Just listens when Jungwon gives instructions. Follows every word like it’s law.

Jay sits by the boarded-up window, rifle across his lap. Silent. Watching.

And Jungwon—he doesn't sleep. Instead, he stands alone outside the back exit, staring into the trees, trying not to hear the voices in his head. The ones asking if he did the right thing. The ones whispering the names of the people he didn’t save. The ones asking if it’s worth it.

He doesn't have an answer.

But when he finally looks back at the diner, at the silhouettes of his friends—of his family—huddled together in the quiet, in the cold, something settles in his chest.

Back at The Future, they weren’t just surviving—they were thriving in the roles handed to them, performing with the kind of polished discipline The Future demanded.

Jake had earned his place in the treatment facility. Respected. Quietly feared, even. He had a mind for detail, a steady hand, and an ability to detach just enough to survive the sight of infected test subjects without flinching. He had a bed. A routine. The luxury of clean scrubs and indoor lighting. And yet, he walked away from it all.

Sunoo manned communications and supplies, his sharp tongue and sharper wit oddly perfect for keeping morale in check. He had access to inventory, conversations, coded maps—he knew where people were and what they needed. And he traded all of that in the second Jungwon came to him with the plan.

Ni-ki, though young, had embedded himself in logistics. Quiet. Observant. Efficient. He knew the flow of shipments and troop placements better than most commanding officers. He was becoming indispensable. But Ni-ki didn’t hesitate either.

Even Heeseung, who’d just been promoted to Head of Security two weeks before their escape—an elevation that came with more food, a locked quarters, and actual authority—chose to follow. He’d worked so hard for that title. And in the end, it meant nothing compared to the people he refused to leave behind.

Sunghoon was rising fast, too. A newly appointed drill instructor, his job was to sharpen recruits, to crush fear out of them and replace it with precision. His methods were harsh, but the soldiers he trained survived. He was well on his way to a permanent place in the system. Yet, he too joined the escape.

Because even with their ranks and privileges, they could all feel it: The Future was rotting from the inside out. The higher you climbed, the more of your soul you had to trade in for the view. They could see what was happening to them. To others. And in the end, they decided they'd rather run into the teeth of the dead than sit comfortably while everything human in them slipped away.

So when Jungwon offered them a way out, even those who had the most to lose didn’t hesitate. It wasn’t about leaving safety behind. It was about reclaiming something they’d forgotten they were allowed to have.

Freedom.

Now, that freedom tastes like blood and ash and sleepless nights, but it’s real.

For the first time in a long time, they get to choose who they are.

And that, they’ve decided, is worth everything.

Part 1

You shift against him in your sleep, and before he even realises it, your head has tilted until it’s resting lightly on his lap.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, barely breathes. Not because it’s uncomfortable. But because he doesn’t know what to do with this—this trust.

He glances down at your face—peaceful and still, completely unguarded. Your breathing is slow and even, lashes fluttering with whatever dream you’ve slipped into—it gnaws at something inside him, something dormant he thought he’d buried alongside the worst of who he used to be.

His fingers hover awkwardly over his knee before curling into a fist. It takes a second for his body to catch up—then another before his heart finally settles. The weight of you isn’t heavy. It’s… grounding, in a way. Familiar. Even though he doesn’t really know you.

Not yet, anyway.

It’s been a long time since he had a conversation like that with anyone. A real one. Not about supplies or patrols or plans. Not about death or survival. But about feelings. About fear. About loss.

It’s weird—talking to you. It shouldn’t be this easy. He barely knows you. You’re a stranger. But maybe that’s exactly why it’s easy. There’s no expectations, no history weighing things down. Just two people who’ve seen too much, said too little, and survived more than they should’ve.

Still, something about you makes him feel like he could be honest for once without having to pay for it later.

He thinks back to what he said earlier. About The Future. How he called them monsters. And you’d nodded, like you understood.

But you didn’t. Not really.

Because what you don’t know—what he didn’t say—is that when he talked about the coldness, the control, the cruelty, he wasn’t just talking about the system. He was talking about himself.

You’d looked at him like he was someone good. Like he was someone worth listening to. And he let you. He let you believe it. That’s the part that makes his stomach turn.

He watches your face now, how peaceful it looks, how easily you slipped into rest next to him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he hasn’t done things that would make your blood run cold.

The problem isn’t that he’s afraid you’ll figure him out. It’s that part of him doesn’t want you to. And that part—small and stubborn and stupid—is what terrifies him the most.

The moment he laid eyes on you in that auto shop, he could tell you weren’t from The Future. The sole fact that you were out here, exposed to the dangers of the world beyond those walls meant you weren’t from any of their civilian divisions. And if you were part of the military, He, Jay, Sunghoon, or Heeseung would have recognised you.

But it’s not just your unfamiliarity that confirms it. It’s the way you act. The way you talk. The way you still believe survival doesn’t have to come at the cost of decency.

You risked yourself to save him back at the motel, didn’t even hesitate. You’d offered him safety before yourself, with that determined look in your eye, like death was just another inconvenience you’d deal with later. You asked nothing in return. You didn’t walk away. And Jungwon doesn’t know what to do with that kind of goodness. That kind of blind, foolish courage.

You were the kind of person who still gave a shit. Who still held on to morality even when the world tried to beat it out of you. Who reached back for others when there was every reason to run. That kind of soul didn’t survive long in this world. People like you aren’t supposed to exist anymore. And yet… here you were—making everything he’s done harder to justify.

He knew then, for sure, that you weren’t one of them.

The Future didn’t make people like that.

No one who spent time under that regime would’ve wasted energy on strangers like that.

The camp is quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your thoughts louder, more unbearable. Somewhere below, Jungwon can hear Heeseung snoring faintly. The occasional shift of movement in the camp. But up here, it's just you, him, and a silence so thick it presses against his ribs.

Your head shifts slightly on his lap, your brows twitching faintly as if sensing his thoughts. He smooths a hand gently over your hair, careful not to wake you.

He swallows hard, eyes scanning the treeline beyond camp, trying to focus on anything other than the way his body feels too still, too aware. Like he’s being watched. Like he’s watching himself.

He should wake you. He should shift you off and remind you that trust is dangerous, that closeness is a liability. But he doesn’t. He stays still. He lets you sleep.

Not because he wants to. But because he can’t bring himself to interrupt the first quiet moment he’s had in months.

Still, something gnaws at him.

Not pity. He’s long since buried that. No, it’s something more restless. A low, crawling discomfort that settles beneath the surface of his skin.

He looks down at your sleeping form again, the faint rise and fall of your chest syncing with the rhythm of the wind brushing through the trees. His jaw tightens. He can’t describe it, but there’s a softness about you that reminds him of who he used to be. Who he still wants to be—

Someone who he had forgotten shortly after the world fell apart.

He finds comfort in that thought.

Part 2

The rations are lower than he’d hoped.

Jungwon crouches near the supply crates, fingers counting through the bags of dried grains and tins with fading labels. Heeseung’s estimate from earlier was right—they had enough to last a week if they were careful. Less, now, with one more mouth to feed. He doesn’t blame you, not really. It was his choice to let you stay. His burden to carry, his responsibility to manage. He just didn’t expect how fast everything would dwindle.

His eyes flicked toward you, sitting just a few feet away, chewing quietly on the last of the dried jerky. You didn’t know he’d seen the exchange between you and Heeseung. You didn’t need to. The guilt already lingered in your eyes like smoke.

He wasn’t angry. He understood. You weren’t deadweight. You pulled more than your share. But it didn’t change the math. Nothing ever changed the math.

He holds one of the dented cans in his palm, thumb brushing over the label, nearly worn down to nothing. He calculates quickly, quietly. Eight mouths, one meal a day, factoring in exhaustion and hunger—

They’d have to start scavenging. Soon.

Still, Jungwon keeps his face calm when he approaches Heeseung. His words are clipped, deliberate: “We’ll have to send a team out to hunt. Latest before noon.”

The others gather instinctively. No one questions it—it’s the way they’ve always operated. Without him barking orders, without a raised voice. He isn’t their leader by title, but by necessity. By trust earned through blood and bone and all the things he’s never said aloud. He stands where others hesitate, and they follow because he always brings them back. He always calculates the outcome.

Except now, the variable is you.

He watches the way Jay glares at you, a quiet resentment simmering under the surface. It’s not even subtle anymore. The jab lands—“We do have one more mouth to feed”—and Jungwon feels a flicker of something hot rise in his chest. Not quite anger. Not yet. But something protective. Something unfamiliar.

He didn’t even need to look at you to know that you took that hit without flinching. You’d gotten good at that—pretending you’re fine. It annoys him. Because he could see through it.

“Jay,” he said simply.

It was enough. Jay looked away, but not before Jungwon saw the frustration still simmering behind his eyes.

“I’ll go,” you say, your voice slicing through the tension. Jungwon’s gaze snaps to you immediately, eyes narrowing. The suggestion is unexpected, and he doesn’t like surprises—not when it comes to survival. But you’re already explaining yourself, calm and rational, just like the first time he heard you speak in that busted-up auto shop. That same fire, the same grit. You weren’t lying then, and he doesn’t think you are now.

Still, he challenges you. “You?”

You don’t back down. “You need every fighter you can spare here, and I can handle myself.”

There’s no hesitation in your eyes. No flinch. It’s not a bluff—it’s a debt. You’re trying to repay them, even if you don’t realise that’s what it is. Jungwon recognises the expression. He’s worn it himself before, back when guilt used to be sharp and fresh instead of dull and persistent.

When the volunteers step forward—Heeseung, then Jay—Jungwon watches closely. Jay’s distrust is expected. Heeseung’s trust is reassuring. But it still doesn’t sit right with him.

So he steps forward too. “I’ll go.”

But the moment the words leave his mouth, you’re already challenging him again.

“No, you can’t go.”

And that stuns him more than it should.

He watches you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. You step in closer, your voice low and measured, as if you know that contradicting him in front of the others is dangerous—but you do it anyway. Because you’re not afraid of him. Because you believe what you’re saying.

“They need you here,” you whisper. “They’re rattled. They need their leader.”

And maybe it’s the exhaustion, or maybe it’s the way your eyes meet his like you’ve known him longer than you have, but Jungwon hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough to admit to himself that you’re right.

He couldn’t let them fall apart again. Not like before.

His silence is his answer.

“All right,” he concedes at last, softer than the others expect. “But don’t take unnecessary risks. If it looks bad, you come back. Understood?”

He doesn’t know why he says it that way. Not “be careful.” Not “watch each other’s backs.” No, his concern is aimed at you specifically, and that confuses him.

Jungwon watches the group disperse to prepare. The fire’s gone out, and the morning chill begins to creep through the trees. You’re already tying your boots, already too far from him to see the way his jaw clenches as he watches the way you glance around at the others like you were memorising them. It unsettles him. Like you were saying goodbye.

That’s when Jungwon pulls Jay aside, his steps quiet but deliberate as he angles them just out of earshot from the others. The moment feels heavy, calculated. Not a command—but close.

“Make sure she comes back,” Jungwon says, voice low but firm.

Jay’s head snaps toward him, blinking like he’s not sure he heard right. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Jay’s head tilts slightly, disbelief flickering across his features. “You can’t be serious. I’m not her babysitter.”

“I’m not asking you to babysit,” Jungwon replies, his voice steady, eyes scanning the trees ahead. “I’m asking you to make sure she doesn't run off.”

Jay scoffs, folding his arms across his chest. “Why? What’s so special about her?”

Jungwon’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t flinch. “You’ve seen the way she moves. She’s adaptable. Resourceful. Smart. Doesn’t hurt to have someone like that around.”

Jay lets out a dry, humourless laugh. “So what? That doesn’t mean she’s not a threat. You really think you can trust someone who showed up out of nowhere? Remember what happened the last time we trusted somebody? I lost Ji–” Jay cuts himself off, suddenly conscious of his voice raising.

There’s a beat of silence. Jay knows there’s no point arguing with Jungwon, not when he’s already convinced you are some kind of saviour sent down from the heavens. So, he exercises the only form of discontent he can manage by shaking his head and muttering something under his breath before stalking off to grab his pack.

Jungwon doesn’t call after him. Instead, his eyes drift back to you—your silhouette against the trees, knife sheathed, shoulders squared. You don’t look back. You never do. And that unsettles him more than it should.

Because for all his planning, for all the careful equations he ran in his head—the tactical choices, the contingencies—he never planned for you. Never anticipated the weight of your presence. Never accounted for the way you made the lines between logic and instinct blur. And no matter how he frames it in his mind—no matter how much he tries to reduce you to a number, a risk factor, a variable in a larger equation—he can’t.

You don’t fit. You’re not the plan.

And yet, you’re already part of it.

Part 3

Jungwon can feel the tension rising before anyone speaks—like a storm pressing down on the air, suffocating and inevitable.

He watches you carefully, your fingers curling slightly against your palm, your shoulders square despite the weariness clinging to your frame. You’re pushing. Offering. Volunteering to go in someone’s place. Again. It’s not the first time you’ve done something like this, but it still hits differently now.

He knows what you’re doing. You’re trying to prove something—not just to them, but to yourself.

And then there’s Jay.

“This is insane,” Jay scoffs from where he leans against a tree, arms crossed, eyes hard. “We barely know her, and you want to let her go off into the village?”

The words hit exactly how Jungwon expects them to. He doesn’t move, just watches the way your jaw tightens—just a fraction, but he sees it.

He waits for Jake’s voice. Right on cue.

“Jay,” Jake says without even looking up, his tone sharp and steady. “Again. Not your place to speak.”

It’s almost funny, the way Jake can silence a room. Almost. If the air weren’t already thick with leftover tension. And in his defense, Jake’s anger is not completely misplaced. Jungwon lets the silence linger, lets it press down on the group, watches the way Jay shifts his stance and glances off to the side, jaw clenching.

You take a breath, and Jungwon instinctively shifts his focus to you again.

“Trust me,” you say, and it’s the way you say it—steady but hollow—that pulls something taut in his chest. “Or better yet, don’t trust me. If anything goes wrong, it’s easier to leave me behind anyway.”

The words land like a stone in his gut. For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Guilt. It coils in Jungwon’s chest like smoke, slow and suffocating. It’s not an emotion he’s allowed himself to feel in a long time—not when he needed to stay sharp, decisive, calculated. And yet, there it is, curling through his ribs the moment your words slip out.

Because he’s thought about it.

He’s thought it, and he hates that he has. It’s how he’s survived this long. Know the numbers. Know the odds. Know when to cut your losses. He’s always been that kind of person. Tactical. Strategic. Even now, even when he tells himself he’s changed, his mind still drifts to the math of survival. He’s still capable of thinking in loss ratios and calculated sacrifices. Still carrying remnants of the machine he once served.

But when you say it—not coldly, but as if you’ve accepted it already—it doesn’t feel like survival. It feels like cruelty.

It’s not just about your willingness to risk yourself. It’s the fact that, deep down, he’d allowed himself to believe it too. And that makes him feel like a monster all over again.

His gaze flicks around the group. Heeseung looks away. Sunoo’s lips are pressed into a thin line. Even Jay shifts uncomfortably.

They’ve all thought it too, haven’t they?

Still, your words echo in his mind, louder than anything else.

It’s easier to leave me behind anyway.

So when he speaks, when he says “Don’t joke about that,” it’s not just to you. It’s to himself. A warning. A plea. Because he doesn’t want to be that person anymore. Doesn’t want to weigh your life like a number on a chart.

And for the first time, he realises: you’re not just another survivor to be measured and managed. You’re something he doesn’t know how to carry—but he wants to try.

So he makes the decision now, quietly, without anyone knowing.

He wants you to come back.

No matter the cost.

The siphon’s slow. Too slow. Jungwon watches the steady trickle of fuel through the tube like it might suddenly stop working, like if he looks away, everything could go to shit again. The sky’s still wrapped in the pale grey of morning, but the air smells like heat’s coming. Another scorcher, probably.

He doesn't look at you or Jay—he keeps his gaze trained on the canister. Keeps his hands steady. Keeps everything steady.

Then your voice cuts through the quiet. "It might not mean anything, but I would’ve done it too.”

Jungwon’s head turns before he can help it. You’re not looking at him—you’re looking at Jay. And Jay, who’s standing on the other side of the tractor, squints at you, clearly caught off guard.

He didn’t understand it at first, but then you say it: “Going after him—I mean.”

And everything freezes for a second.

Jay’s expression shifts. Hardens. “You don’t have to lie to comfort me. I know what I did was wrong.”

Jungwon watches you quietly, his fingers curled into fists beside him. His pulse is steady, but something in his chest tightens. There’s a fire in your voice—not rage, not grief, but something deeper. Something rooted. You speak like someone who’s already lived with loss. Too much of it.

Jungwon doesn't move, but his mind has already left the field. It's spiralling, fast. You’ve done something to him again—upended the quiet order he relies on to stay sane. The structure. The roles. The carefully drawn lines he’s used to separating emotion from survival. You, with your raw words and unwavering eyes, walk right through them.

“But even if you think it’s wrong, you don’t regret it.”

The way you say it... Jungwon flinches inwardly. Because it’s not just a statement. It’s a mirror. And for a moment, he sees his own reflection staring back through the cracks—every line of guilt etched beneath your voice. He’s not even sure who you’re talking to anymore. Jay? Yourself? Him?

Jay tenses, trying to keep that wall up, but it’s already thinning. “What are you trying to say?”

You don’t even blink. “What I’m trying to say is, what you’re feeling is valid. If it were up to me, I would’ve shot him in both ankles. Make sure he couldn’t run to begin with.”

Jungwon’s chest tightens. The field goes quiet.

Jay shoots him a look. “You’re not scared to say that? In front of him?”

You turn slightly. Just enough to meet Jungwon’s gaze. He doesn’t react, not outwardly. But inwardly, there’s a small ripple beneath the surface. Because that’s the second time this morning you’ve challenged something—first his orders, now his image.

“Why would I be?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His silence is answer enough. Because no matter how steady he looks, he feels everything ripple underneath—this fracture between who he was and who he wants to be. Between the person who signed off on raids and the person standing here now, listening to you speak like someone who’s survived both sides of the war.

Jay exhales through his nose, like he’s trying not to let something else slip. “You probably already figured it out, but the whole point of this group—the way Jungwon leads us—is to make sure we don’t become the monsters we ran away from. Whatever Jake or the others feel about what I did… that’s valid.”

Jungwon wants to correct him. Wants to tell him that he’s not leading anyone. That he’s just trying to keep the wheels turning long enough for someone else—anyone else—to take over. But he doesn’t. He keeps his eyes on the canister, his fists tight enough that his knuckles start to blanch.

Because Jay’s not entirely wrong. Jungwon is supposed to be the anchor. The one who holds them together, who balances risk and morality like it’s simple math. But even now, hearing it out loud—that he’s the one meant to stop them from falling too far—feels like a lie. A fragile one at best. He’s barely holding himself together as it is. And it’s only about to get harder now that you’re here, making him question things he thought he’d buried.

You speak again, quieter this time. “If I saw someone I love die in front of me, I’d do much more than just shoot someone in the ankle.”

And that sentence? That one stays with him.

Because it reminds him that he doesn’t know who you’ve lost. Doesn’t know how close your grief is to the surface. But whatever it is, it’s carved into your spine. There’s a weight behind your words that’s too heavy to fake.

Jay goes still. “Yeah… it doesn’t bring her back, though.”

“No,” you reply gently. “It doesn’t.”

Silence again. Not heavy this time—just worn. Weathered.

The wind picks up, brushing the overgrown stalks around them. Jungwon’s eyes flick to you. You’re still calm, composed. But there’s a sadness in you too. One he hadn’t noticed before.

“But,” you add, “you seem to forget that it’s also human to want justice. Or revenge. Whatever you want to call it.”

Jungwon watches the way Jay’s expression softens. Just barely. The way your voice threads through the space like balm and blade all at once. And all he can think is that this is what scares him the most. Not that you’re reckless. Not that you challenge him. But that you feel so deeply, and still haven’t hardened yourself into something else. That you’re still fighting like it means something.

Jay mutters, “Justice or revenge… depends on who’s telling the story.”

You nod once. “Or who’s left to tell it.”

It’s a brutal thing to say, but it isn’t cruelty he hears in your voice—it’s clarity. Cold, sharp clarity born of a world where justice and revenge are no longer separate concepts. And what scares him isn’t your willingness to say it. It’s how much he agrees.

Jungwon doesn’t look away. Not now. Because there’s something in you, in the way you speak—raw, candid, without hesitation—that gnaws at his chest. The others follow orders, look to him for structure. But you?

You keep challenging the narrative.

Jay’s shoulders loosen. His eyes drop. “I don’t know what that makes me, though. A monster or just… someone who’s trying to survive.”

And that’s when Jungwon finally speaks.

“It makes you someone who’s still here. Someone who’s still fighting. That’s all that matters.”

His voice is level. Measured. But it rings hollow in his own ears. Because the truth is, it’s a reminder meant for himself just as much as for Jay. Because when you joked earlier about being easy to leave behind, it wasn’t funny—not to him. It was a reminder. That he’s calculating again. Risk versus reward. Just like before. Just like The Future trained him to be. You could’ve died, and he weighed it like an equation.

And even now, he’s still calculating.

But for the first time, he doesn’t want the answer. Because the numbers don’t reflect what’s clawing at him now—the feeling that if something happened to you, the loss wouldn’t be strategic.

It would be personal.

You pick up the tube, pull it free from the tank, and screw the cap back on. Jay lifts the canister, nods once, and starts heading back toward the road without another word.

You and Jungwon walk side by side now. He keeps a few paces from you, but every now and then, his eyes flicker to your profile. You don’t speak. Neither does he. But the silence between you is louder than it used to be.

It unsettles him.

Because just days ago, you were a stranger in the shadows. Another mouth. Another risk. A variable Jungwon wasn’t prepared for. Someone he would’ve discarded in the past, or worse—filed under liability and moved on. Back then, in The Future, everything was numbers. Resources. Probability. Sacrifices. Names didn’t matter. Faces didn’t matter. And you?

You were never supposed to matter.

But now you’re this—this raw, unpredictable thing that keeps catching him off guard. Every time you speak, every time you meet his gaze without flinching, something in him shifts. Rearranges. Like you’re tugging at wires he didn’t know were still connected.

You challenge him—his leadership, his orders, his silence. You don’t do it with arrogance or anger. You do it with honesty. With conviction. With a quiet kind of strength that doesn’t come from training or hierarchy, but from survival. And somewhere along the way, without permission or warning, you've slipped between the cracks of his guarded exterior.

He hates that.

Not because you’re dangerous.

But because you’re not.

Because you remind him of the part of himself he’s spent years burying—the part that wants to believe there’s still something worth protecting that doesn’t serve a strategic advantage. That maybe, just maybe, not everything needs to be calculated. That there are people who still make choices because it feels right, not because the odds are in their favour.

And worse, it mirrors your own thoughts—how just hours earlier, you convinced yourself that walking away would be the safest thing. That leaving them, leaving him, was the right call. Not because you didn’t care, but because you cared too much. Because you’ve seen what happens when you let people in. What it costs.

You told yourself you’d repay them, that you’d disappear before they grew to trust you. Before you grew to trust them. Before the roots took hold.

But they already have. He sees it in the way you offer to hunt, to siphon gas, to carry your weight and more. He sees it in the way you speak to Jay—not with contempt, but with understanding. He sees it, and it frightens him.

Because you’re not just surviving—you’re still human.

And in a world where humanity is often a liability, you are living proof that some parts of it are worth saving. You are proof that maybe he’s not too far gone. That maybe he doesn’t have to bury every soft part of himself to lead.

It’s maddening.

Because this isn’t how it was supposed to go. You weren’t supposed to get under his skin. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything other than the instinct to keep the group alive. He wasn’t supposed to look at you and think—

Not her. Not if I can help it.

But the thought is there. It has been for a while. And now, no matter how he tries to push it down, it keeps resurfacing.

Because for all his structure and restraint, you’ve introduced something volatile.

Hope.

Part 4

The van bumps down the cracked road, the scent of Jay’s blood thick in the air, the silence louder than the groans fading behind them. Jungwon sits rigid in the passenger seat, fists clenched on his thighs, jaw tight. He hasn’t spoken since they pulled away. Not even when the two men started running after them. Not even when one of them screamed, “Please! We didn’t want it to go this far!”

He hears you, though. The urgency in your voice when you say, “They’re unarmed. They’re not a threat.” You say it like you believe it. Like you need it to be true.

But Jungwon doesn’t answer. Can’t. Because if he opens his mouth, he’s afraid of what might come out.

Because the truth is, he doesn't know anymore.

He used to. Back in The Future, everything was black and white. You either secured the mission or you didn’t. You either survived or you didn’t. There were no in-betweens. No compromises. No emotional attachments to blur the lines.

But that world didn’t have you in it.

You, who looked the man who shot Jay in the eyes and still hesitated to pull the trigger. You, who dared to say out loud what he’s been burying since day one—that if any of them died, he wouldn’t be rational about it. That if you had collapsed into that field with a bullet in your chest, if Jay had died protecting you, Jungwon doesn’t know what he would’ve done. What line he might’ve crossed.

And that terrifies him.

Because now he knows. You were right.

If any of you had died, he would’ve hunted them all down without a second thought. No calculation. No strategy. Just blood. Just rage.

He knows in the marrow of his bones that he wouldn’t have left survivors. Wouldn’t have spared the two men running after the van, wouldn’t have let anyone surrender. A bullet through the head wouldn’t have been justice. It would’ve been the highest form of mercy he was capable of offering in that moment. Because there wouldn’t be room for compassion. Or mercy. Or even thought.

Only vengeance.

The van rumbles on, Ni-ki’s knuckles white around the wheel. Sunghoon is silent, his eyes fixed on the floor. Sunoo looks sick. Heeseung hasn’t moved from Jay’s side. Jake is still pressing down on the wound, hands trembling. They’re all unravelling.

And it’s his fault.

Because the thing he never accounted for—the variable he couldn’t predict—was what would happen if he started to care.

Now he knows.

Caring makes one reckless.

Caring makes one hesitate.

Caring makes one pull the trigger for someone else and never quite recover from it.

He watches the woods blur past the window. Thinks about the woman who died. The men who tried to kill you. The man who shot Jay. The two who begged for their lives. The part of himself that wanted to give them a chance. And the part that didn’t.

He hears you shift beside him, hears the way your breath shakes as you whisper, “We’ve crossed a line.”

He doesn’t respond.

Because he’s still trying to figure out when exactly he lost sight of it. All he knows is that this—this sickness in his chest, this silent weight pressing against his lungs—is the cost. The toll you pay when you start thinking with your heart instead of your head.

He should’ve never let that happen.

But he did.

Because of you.

Because somewhere between your barbed honesty and quiet defiance, between the way you look at this world like it hasn’t fully beaten you down yet—he let his guard slip.

He doesn’t want to feel this way. Doesn’t want to feel anything. Emotions get people killed. Emotions make you weak. He knew that once. Lived by it.

But now?

Now he’s watching the person beside him become someone they don’t recognise. Just like he did. Just like they all did.

When Jungwon said “I did it for me,” he wasn’t trying to sound cold. He wasn’t trying to push you away.

What he meant—what he couldn’t say in that moment—is that he pulled the trigger so you wouldn't have to.

Because if you had taken that shot—if you had crossed that line—you wouldn’t have come back from it. Not really. Not the way you are now. Not the version of you that still believes in something more than just survival. The version that still pauses before pulling the trigger, that still sees people instead of threats. That still tries.

And that version of you? That fragile, lone, dandelion still clinging to the cracks in this rotted world?

He couldn’t let that die.

Not when you were the first person in a long, long time to make him question who he was outside of tactics and duty. Not when you were the first person to look at him and not just see the soldier, the strategist, the boy bred by The Future to be a weapon—but someone worth saving too.

So yes. He did it for you.

But more selfishly?

He did it so he wouldn’t have to watch you become someone you’re not. He did it so you could stay as somebody who is kind and innocent. Somebody who inspires him to be a better person. You’re not a monster. And he’ll do everything he can to keep it that way.

Because watching that kind of light go out in someone like you?

That would’ve destroyed him.

And he’s already too far gone to survive another kind of loss like that.

Jungwon doesn't know how they got here so fast. One moment he hears them—low groans bleeding through the trees like a warning—and the next he’s pulling you through a sea of rusted cars, adrenaline screaming through his veins. His grip on your wrist is tight, desperate. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t have to. The dead are close. Too close.

He finds the lorry purely on instinct, tossing you up before you even have time to catch your breath. The edge of it scrapes his palms as he climbs up after you, then yanks the tattered tarp over both of you in one swift motion, plunging the space into shadow.

Your voice rises, a startled whisper, but he cuts it off with his hand pressed lightly over your mouth—not harsh, just firm. His other arm braces over you, holding himself there as the first chorus of groans rolls past the truck.

It’s suffocating, the way the air thickens with decay and tension. The sound of their dragging feet fills his ears, an endless wave of hunger just inches away. The metal beneath him vibrates with the weight of it—the horde moving past like a tide of death. If even one of them hears you breathe too loudly, it’s over.

So he holds his breath. And he holds you.

Your chest rises and falls beneath him, the quickened rhythm of fear making your whole body tremble. You’re shaking, but you’re trying to be brave—trying to stay still despite the instinct to run. He feels your shoulder tucked under his arm, the way your hand clutches at the fabric of his jacket, whether you mean to or not.

He doesn’t look. Not at first.

He’s too busy listening—calculating the distance, counting the footsteps. But when the sound starts to fade, when the worst of them pass and only the stragglers remain, something in him shifts. He glances down.

And he sees you.

Really sees you.

The dim light filtering through the moth-eaten holes in the tarp spills soft patterns across your face—highlighting the curve of your cheek, the flutter of your lashes as you fight to keep your eyes closed. There’s dirt on your skin, a smear of something across your jaw, but you still look... beautiful. Fragile, in a way he doesn’t know how to stomach. It makes his chest ache.

Because he remembers the drugstore. Remembers the exact second he almost lost you.

He remembers the scream—the sound of you calling his name, the thud of your body slamming into the hatch frame, the sickening moment when a rotted hand grabbed your ankle and yanked you back toward death. He’d never moved so fast in his life. Never fired a shot with such fury. He pulled you out of that hatch with every ounce of strength he had left, your blood smearing across his palms, your gasps digging into his ribs like knives.

You could’ve died back there. And the truth is—he wouldn’t have survived it.

And now, lying here in the silence after the storm, your breath brushing his collarbone, your body curled so unconsciously against his—it hits him all over again. The closeness. The danger. The way your hand just curled a little tighter into his jacket.

You shift slightly, and he instinctively pulls you closer, one hand sliding to cradle the back of your head. “Stop moving,” he murmurs against your hair, his voice barely more than breath.

He expects you to flinch. To pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, you press your cheek closer to his chest, your breath steadying, syncing with his. And it feels like something clicks into place—something that shouldn’t. Something dangerous.

Because in a world like this, closeness is a luxury. Tenderness is a risk. And you… you are a risk he never meant to take.

But lying here now, with the world rotting just inches away, he can’t find it in himself to regret it. Not when your heartbeat thuds against his ribs. Not when you’ve buried your fear in the safety of his arms.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just listens to the dying groans fade into the distance, holding you like you’re the last good thing in this godforsaken world.

Part 5

Jungwon sits on the rooftaop long after the sun has risen, legs bent, arms draped loosely over his knees, the rifle resting at his side, untouched. The morning air is crisp, and the sky above is a pale, uncertain blue—washed-out and faded like a painting left out in the rain. Even the clouds seem hesitant, lingering low and unmoving, as though the weather itself is unsure whether to weep or stay dry.

From his perch, he has a clear view of the road—the same one you walked away on just an hour ago. It winds past the edge of the camp, disappearing into the hoizon like a thread unraveled too far to follow. And even though he knows better, even though he tells himself not to expect anything, he watches that path like it owes him something. Like maybe if he stares hard enough, you’ll come walking back. That some part of you might still choose to return.

But you don’t.

And he doesn’t look away.

The breeze brushes against him, tugging gently at his hair, but he makes no move to push it aside. His body is still, but his mind is anything but.

He's been up here since you turned your back on him and walked away, since he realised you were gone for good. He didn’t go back down, didn’t speak to the others when they woke up, didn’t offer an explanation. He didn’t have the words. He still doesn’t. Because if he says it out loud—if he lets the sound of your absence cross his lips—he’s afraid something inside him will crack so deep it’ll never be put back together.

So he sits.

And he watches.

And he thinks.

About the things you said to each other. Words thrown like knives in the dark, sharp and bitter and honest in the ugliest ways. He thinks about how your voice broke when you told him you couldn’t stay, how your shoulders trembled with the weight of the choice you were making. He thinks about how you looked when you said you couldn’t lose them—couldn’t lose him.

There was a look in your eyes then—a look he’d never seen before. Not even when Jay nearly died. That time, you were reckless. This time, there’s a look of desperation, grief, something close to love and even closer to fear. Not the kind of fear that comes from facing the dead. The kind that comes from having something to lose.

It’s strange—the silence that follows. It’s not rage. Not yet. Not grief, either. It's a kind of stillness. The kind that presses against the inside of your ribs, caught in the base of your throat like a sob that never quite makes it out.

He feels it settle into him like a sickness. A slow, crawling thing that starts in his gut and moves outward, hollowing him out.

You lied.

That’s the first thought that really stings. You stood there, looked him in the eye and said you’d stay. That you’d help carry the burden. That he wasn’t alone.

And now you’re gone.

He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, the sun casting a faint glow across his face. It should feel warm. It doesn’t. Nothing feels warm anymore.

He remembers how your voice shook and how you avoided looking into his eyes when you said you never meant to care. Thinks about the way you flinched when he accused you of being no different from those who left you. The way you looked like you wanted to scream and collapse all at once.

You think he’s good. You told him he was the one holding everything together. That they follow him not because they have to, but because they trust him. Because he’s him.

But you don’t see it the way he does.

They follow him because there’s no one else. Because someone has to make the hard calls. Someone has to carry the weight. And he does. Not because he’s good. But because he’s still standing. That’s all it is.

The good ones are the ones who don’t make it. The ones who hesitate. The ones who don’t pull the trigger.

But Jungwon? He pulled the trigger the moment the world went to shit. And he’s been pulling it ever since.

You're not like him. You're better. Or maybe you were. Maybe he just didn’t want to watch that final part of you die.

But the truth is—you’re not good either. Not really. You’ve lied. You’ve stolen. You’ve done things you’re not proud of. You’ve chosen survival over strangers more times than you’ve admitted. You hold the blade just as well as he does.

He knows that now.

You think he’s good, and he thinks you are.

But the truth? You’re both just survivors, trying to hold onto what little scraps of humanity you still have left. You're not good. Not anymore. Maybe not ever. But that doesn’t mean you’re monsters either.

Not yet.

Because what neither of you realised—what he’s only beginning to understand as he sits on this rooftop, staring out at the road you vanished down with an ache in his chest—is that the parts of yourselves you’re trying so hard to protect aren’t found in your own strength.

They’re found in each other.

You were his balance. The reminder that the weight could be shared. That maybe he didn’t have to carry it all alone. That maybe not every decision had to be cold and calculated. And he was your anchor. The reason you stayed longer than you should have. The one thing that made you second-guess running. He was the tether pulling you back to something human.

He grounded you. You softened him.

Neither of you were good. But together, you were better.

And that was enough.

Or it could have been.

He exhales slowly, the sound quiet against the breeze. His eyes don’t leave the road, even though it remains empty. His fingers curl against the rooftop's edge, digging into the concrete until his knuckles pale. The pain’s dulled now, no longer sharp—just a constant, aching throb, like a bruise you forget is there until you move the wrong way.

He should be used to this by now. People always leave. Always look out for themselves. That’s what the world has become. And he’s always known that. It’s why he never lets himself get too close.

But you were different.

You were the exception.

You were the moment he started to hope.

And now, standing there in the pale morning light, your name like a ghost on the back of his tongue, he feels something crack. Not loudly. Not visibly. But deeply.

You’re the greatest loss, Jungwon.

When you said that, he swore his heart was about to jump out of his chest. It wasn’t a goodbye. It was a confession. One wrapped in cowardice and fear. But a confession nonetheless.

And god, he wanted to believe that was enough.

But belief doesn’t change the fact that you still walked away. And Jungwon is left with the thought that he alone wasn't enough to convince you to stay.

He closes his eyes for a moment, letting the wind run through his hair, letting the world fall quiet again.

You’re gone and he’s still here. Still watching. Still waiting.

But the road stays empty and the rooftop stays quiet.

He just sits there, alone. Holding onto the last part of himself you hadn’t taken with you.

And hoping, quietly, that maybe—just maybe—wherever you are, you’re holding onto a piece of him too.

Part 6

The moment you say the word—bit—Jungwon feels the world tilt. It doesn’t make sense. Not immediately. He hears the word. Understands it. But the meaning doesn’t sink in. Not really. Not until he sees your arm.

The torn sleeve. The torn flesh.Teeth marks.

He goes still.

No air enters his lungs. No words form in his mouth. He just stares.

This isn’t happening.

He steps forward, slow and mechanical, like he’s walking through a dream—no, a nightmare—where his body no longer obeys him. Every instinct screams denial, but the evidence is right there, painted in your blood, mocking him.

“You’re lying,” he says.

Because you have to be. Because the alternative—the truth—splits something down the middle of his chest. He can feel it cracking, deep and irreversible.

But you’re not. And he sees it.

In the tremble of your fingers.

In the pale stretch of skin around the wound.

In Jay’s silence.

No. No. No.

The images of your death floods his vision and Jungwon swears he’s slowing losing his mind. He steps closer without thinking, fury and panic colliding in his chest. “Why?” His voice is a snarl now, strangled and broken.

You start to speak, but he cuts you off. He’s spiraling, his voice raw, hoarse, unraveling. “I told you to stay put inside. I told you. You never listen. Fuck–” His voice catches, his fists clench, and the words fall apart before they reach the end.

His hands fly to his head, fingers digging into his hair, tugging, trembling. He can’t hold it in—this storm rising inside him. It’s too much. Too loud. Too fast.

She’s bit. She’s bit. She’s fucking bit.

He sees the blood again—so much blood.

And all he can think is: I should’ve been faster. I should’ve been there. You’re dying and it’s my fault.

You apologise.

He wants to scream.

Because you’re apologising like it’s over. Like you’ve already accepted it. Like he’s just meant to stand here and watch you die.

He doesn't think.

There’s no calculation. No weighing the risks. No strategy. No logic. Because logic doesn’t exist in this moment—not when you’re standing there, blood soaking through your sleeve, skin pale and eyes resigned.

The world goes silent, deafeningly so.

And then, without thinking—without permission, without hesitation, without fear—he lets go of the rifle in his hands. It crashes to the rooftop, forgotten. Worthless.

His feet close the distance in a single breath.

He grabs you, pulls you into him like he’s trying to anchor himself to reality. One arm locks tightly around the back of your neck, the other cradles your head, his fingers threading into your hair, holding you against him like a lifeline.

It’s not careful. It’s not soft.

It’s desperate.

Crushing.

He doesn’t realise how hard he’s holding you until his arms begin to ache, until his breath shudders with the effort of keeping you close enough—close enough to feel you breathing. Close enough to feel your heartbeat. Close enough to convince himself you’re still here. Still his. Still alive.

His whole body is trembling. He presses his face into your shoulder, barely breathing, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. Your scent, your warmth—it’s all still here. Still real. Still you.

And it’s killing him.

Because this moment isn’t supposed to be happening.

You’re not supposed to be leaving. You’re not supposed to be dying.

His grip tightens, the pads of his fingers digging into your scalp like he can force your soul to stay through sheer contact alone.

He knows—god, he knows—he should let go. Should be the strong one. The leader.

But he can’t. Because he knows that if he lets go, you’ll start slipping away. And if you slip away—he might not survive it.

And the terrifying part?

He doesn’t think he wants to. Not if it means going back to a world that doesn’t have you in it.

It’s selfish.

But he doesn't care.

He’s breathing you in like this is the last time he’ll ever be able to. Like this is the last trace of warmth he’ll ever know. And maybe it is. Because this moment—this second in time where you’re still you—is slipping through his fingers, no matter how tightly he holds on.

And when he feels your arms slowly wrap around his waist, it shatters him. Because you’re comforting him. You’re steadying him when you’re the one who’s dying.

It’s too much.

Your fingers twist into his shirt, creasing the fabric. He holds you tighter in response, burying his face in your hair, letting the scent of ash and blood and you consume him. He doesn’t know how to say goodbye. He doesn't know how to live with this.

He’s not ready. He’ll never be ready.

Then—he feels it.

A hand. Not yours. On his back.

Then another. A body presses in from behind. Then one at his side. Then another. Until the world around him disappears. He doesn’t need to look to know it’s the others closing in, forming a wall around them. A shield. A goodbye.

And something about that breaks him even further. Because he was supposed to protect them. He was supposed to keep you safe.

But he couldn’t even stop this.

So he holds you like a dying man holds a lifeline. Arms locked around you, one hand gripping the nape of your neck, the other wrapped so tightly around your shoulders it must hurt. But you don’t complain. You don’t flinch.

You sink into him.

And that’s what undoes him.

He feels it when you press your cheek to his collarbone, the wet heat of your tears seeping through the fabric of his shirt. He feels the way your body finally gives in to the grief. Not quietly. Not gently. But all at once. Like a dam breaking. Like everything you’ve been holding in—every fear, every sorrow, every buried hope—has chosen now to bleed out.

The first sob wrecks him.

It shatters through his chest like a shockwave, a sound so raw, so guttural, it forces the air from his lungs. And then another. And another. Until you’re sobbing in his arms, uncontrollably, violently, like grief is trying to tear its way out of you.

And still—he doesn’t let go.

Because if this is the last time he gets to hold you, to have you, then he’s going to memorise it. Every trembling breath. Every broken cry. Every heartbeat that still syncs with his. He’s going to carve it into his skin so he’ll never forget what it felt like to love someone so much it made him stupid. So much it made him human.

When you finally start to pull away, when your body begins to shift, the movement feels like a knife. Like losing you in slow motion.

His hand—without thinking—clutches yours, refusing to let it go, even as your breath steadies, even as your sobs die down into a choked stillness. His fingers are shaking. His eyes are burning. But he doesn’t loosen his grip.

And then—then you say the worst thing you possibly could.

“I need to go.”

The moment the words leave your lips, something in him fractures.

It’s not the first time you’ve challenged him, not the first time you’ve spoken with that stubborn fire in your voice—but this? This feels different. The way your tone doesn’t shake. The way your eyes hold his like they’ve already said goodbye.

Jungwon reacts before he can think. “No.”

It’s sharp. A command. A wall. One final barricade against the inevitable.

But you’re already scaling it. With every word, every breath, every look—you’re slipping from his grasp.

“I’m no help up here,” you say, and his gut twists. Your voice is too steady. Too rational. Like you’ve already buried the part of yourself that’s scared. Like this is already decided. “In fact, I’d be a threat. A is still out there. If I don’t find him, he’ll come back. He’ll keep coming back.”

“No.” His hand tightens around your wrist. It’s reflexive. Desperate. His fingers dig in like they can stop time, like pressure alone will keep you tethered. But it’s not enough. You’re still slipping. Slipping like water through cracked palms.

“We can still win, we can—”

“I’ve already lost, Y/N.”

The words escape before he realises he’s said them. And the second they’re out there, hanging in the silence between you, he wants to take them back. Because the look in your eyes—god—it hurts.

You freeze. Just for a second.

But your conviction doesn’t falter. He sees it in your gaze. You’ve already accepted what he can’t even begin to fathom.

“Please, Jungwon.” You step closer, and the distance that’s been widening all night folds in for one fragile moment. “I need to know that you’re safe. Only then can I die in peace.”

He sways.

He physically sways like the ground’s shifted beneath him. Because that word—die—cuts through him cleaner than any bullet. Any blade. It’s the word that makes it real.

His head shakes before he can stop it, violently, like he can shake the thought loose from reality. His grip tightens around your wrist, trembling now, trembling so hard it’s like his body already knows what his mind refuses to accept.

His gaze drops. He can’t look at you. Not when he knows this is the last time you’ll be standing here, this whole. This you.

So when your hands rise to cup his face, when your fingers brush his skin—warm, gentle, grounding—his hands instinctively come up to hold your wrists, to keep you there, to anchor you.

And that’s when the panic really sets in.

Because your expression… it’s not defiance. Not anger. Not even sorrow.

It’s peace.

That kind of terrifying, heartbreaking calm only people ready to die wear like a second skin.

Your thumb grazes his cheek, and it’s so tender it nearly kills him. He wants to scream. Wants to tell you to stop, to fight. Wants to kiss you

You beat him to it.

Your lips press against his, gentle and slow, and it feels like everything in him collapses all at once. It’s a kiss of desperation. It’s grief. It’s love. It’s a goodbye carved into the shape of your lips. Because you’re kissing him like this is the last thing you’ll give him before you walk away. He kisses you back like he’s trying to memorise it. Like he can pull you back from the brink with nothing but the way he feels about you.

You lean your forehead against his, and the moment is still. Timeless.

Then, you step away.

He’s still chasing your warmth when he realises what’s happening. The second your gaze shifts to Jay, Jungwon’s body moves on instinct. His hands reach out, wild with panic.

Too late.

Jay and Heeseung seize his arms just as he lunges, and the world erupts into chaos. He’s thrashing. Screaming. Cursing at both of them, calling out your name over and over like maybe you’ll turn around. Like maybe if he says it enough, you’ll change your mind.

But you don’t.

You walk away.

And he breaks.

He breaks.

Not like before. Not like the quiet grief he’s used to carrying.

This is raw. Ugly. Loud.

He screams until his throat burns, fights against the hands holding him down, eyes locked on the back of your figure as you move further and further away. And the terror—god, the terror—it’s not just about losing you.

It’s the helplessness.

It’s knowing that he’s still alive, still breathing, while you march straight toward death with his name still warm on your lips.

It’s knowing he can’t stop you.

When you're gone—masked and determined—Jungwon falls to his knees. Not because he’s weak. But because you took the best part of him with you.

And now he’s just a boy again.

Not a leader. Not a survivor. Just someone watching the person he loves choose to die so that he can live.

And god help him—

He would’ve switched places with you in a heartbeat.

A few minutes after you disappear into the horde, Jungwon collapses.

His legs give out beneath him like they were only held up by the ghost of your presence, and now that you're gone, there’s nothing left to keep him upright. He drops hard, first to his knees, then to the cold, unforgiving concrete of the rooftop. And he stays there. Hands pressed flat against the ground like he’s trying to anchor himself to something—anything—that won’t slip through his fingers the way you did.

But it is slipping.

You are.

And no matter how hard he digs his nails into the rooftop, how tightly he curls his fists into the grit and grime beneath him, it won’t stop the splintering sensation inside his chest—like his ribs are cracking open from the inside out.

His whole body is trembling now—violent, uncontrollable tremors racking through him. The adrenaline that had pushed him this far is gone, drained in an instant, leaving only the bone-deep exhaustion, the helplessness, the guilt. His breaths come in short, uneven gasps, like he’s forgotten how to inhale properly, and when he finally speaks, his voice is a rasp—barely audible, a ghost of sound that drifts between them like ash.

“Somebody should’ve stopped her.”

No one answers.

Because they all know they couldn’t have.

Sunoo is crouched against the wall, knees hugged tightly to his chest, face buried so deeply that his shoulders are the only thing giving him away—trembling, silent sobs rattling through him. Even Jay, who almost never breaks, has to turn his face to the side, his jaw clenched so tight it’s a wonder he hasn’t cracked a tooth. His hand covers his mouth like he’s trying to swallow down every raw emotion threatening to spill out. His eyes are red-rimmed, glassy. And he doesn’t even try to pretend he’s okay.

Jungwon doesn’t lift his head. He doesn’t need to.

He feels it in the silence—the grief sitting on all of them like an anvil, the unspeakable weight of watching you walk off with death marked into your skin and no one able to stop you.

“Fuck,” Sunghoon mutters from the edge, staring out at the horde below. His voice is hollow. “What do we do now?”

For a moment, no one speaks. But instinctively, they all turn to Jungwon.

Even though they know.

Even though they see the way he’s curled in on himself, eyes fixed on a crack in the concrete, like if he stares hard enough, it’ll crack all the way open and swallow him whole. He doesn’t speak. Not right away. Not until he finally forces out three words—empty and trembling.

“I don’t know.”

The silence that follows is brutal.

It eats at the edges of them like rot, and Jungwon wonders—quietly, bitterly—if this was all worth it. If he had just gone with you when you asked. If he’d just agreed to leave. If he hadn’t pulled you back into this place—into this war, this hope, this delusion—would you still be whole right now? Would you still be his?

And he sees it—etched into the others’ faces. That same regret. That same guilt. Especially Ni-ki.

Ni-ki, who had fought you the hardest. Who yelled at you, argued, doubted your intentions. And now you’re the one out there, bleeding, hunted, dying—for a place you never wanted to stay in to begin with.

And just when the silence feels like it’s going to smother them all—

A sound cuts through it.

A muffled giggle.

They all turn at once.

Lieutenant Kim.

She’s still tied to the base of the convenience store sign, her arms bound behind her, the gag damp in her mouth. But her eyes are bright with amusement, glinting in the moonlight like a blade. She’s smiling.

Ni-ki is the first to move, fury snapping through his limbs as he storms over to her and rips the gag from her mouth.

Lieutenant Kim exhales with exaggerated relief, then sighs dramatically, like this is all beneath her.

“Oh, you’re all so fucking pathetic,” she sneers. “Really. I almost feel bad watching this.”

Her words ripple through the rooftop like a slap. Sunoo doesn’t even look up from where he’s curled in on himself, but his voice trembles with exhausted frustration.

“Ni-ki, shut her up before I throw her off this roof.”

“Oh?” Her smile is twisted. “Even if I can tell you how to save your precious Y/N?”

Everything stops.

“What?” Jungwon’s head jerks up so fast his neck nearly snaps. The crack of his voice sounds like disbelief, but his heart’s already lurching.

Lieutenant Kim doesn’t look at him right away. She’s toying with them—slowly rotating her shoulders, rolling her neck, tasting the sudden shift in power. It’s a game to her.

“I said,” she drawls, as if repeating herself for children, “I know how you can save her.”

“You’re lying,” Jay snaps immediately, his arms folded tight across his chest, his expression cold and controlled—but his eyes flicker.

“I don’t know,” She says, that smug tone curling at the edge of her words. “Am I?” She turns her gaze sharply to Jake. “What do you think, Doctor Sim?”

Jake narrows his eyes, brows furrowed. “How can we save her?”

Lieutenant Kim shrugs like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I’ll tell you. But only if you let me go.”

Sunghoon scoffs, stepping forward. “We’re not risking that. You could be lying. Stalling. Feeding us bullshit to get free.”

“I’m telling you,” she says sharply, her smile gone now. “You still can save her. But the longer you hesitate, the less time you have. Tick-tock, soldiers.”

“You expect us to believe you?” Sunoo bites out. “She could be dying while you play us like this.”

“And what if I’m not lying?” she continues, locking eyes with Jungwon now. “What if I’m the only one who knows how to stop this?”

Before Sunoo can argue again, Jungwon’s voice slices through the chaos.

“Okay. Deal.”

The word lands like a grenade.

Everyone turns to him.

Sunoo’s mouth opens in protest, but the look on Jungwon’s face silences him before a single syllable can form. Jungwon’s voice is steady. Flat. Unrelenting.

“I give you my word,” he says, his eyes locked on Lieutenant Kim. “You tell us how to save Y/N… and I’ll let you go.”

The wind rustles across the rooftop. Somewhere in the distance, a low groan rises from the ground. The world holds its breath.

Lieutenant Kim tilts her head slowly. She stares at him like she’s trying to read something behind his eyes, something buried deep beneath the mask he wears so well.

“Shame,” she says at last, her smirk returning. “You would’ve made an excellent leader in The Future, Sergeant Yang.”

Jungwon doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. His fists are clenched tight at his sides.

Lieutenant Kim nods once. “Alright then. I’ll take your word for it.”

She turns to Jake. “You remember the day I came into the treatment facility?” Her tone is casual now, like they’re catching up after a long absence.

Jake nods slowly. “You’d lost your arm. Said you were ambushed.”

She smiles. “I was. By a biter. So I cut it off.” She lifts what remains of her limb as if presenting a trophy.

“You’re saying…,” Jake murmurs, the horror dawning across his features, “You amputated. And it stopped the infection?”

“Exactly.”

“That’s insane,” Heeseung mutters, but even he doesn’t sound convinced anymore. Just shaken.

“How do we know you’re not lying out of your ass right now?” Sunoo snaps. “If we cut it off and she dies—”

“She’s dying anyway,” Jay says quietly. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides. “She’s already been bitten. What else do we have to lose?”

No one breathes. The rooftop is still.

And Jungwon?

Jungwon’s heart is thundering in his chest. Because this is it. This is the thread. This is the one, impossibly thin thread he didn’t know he was praying for.

And he’s going to grab it with both hands.

Even if it means destroying what’s left of you to keep you alive.

Part 7

Day Zero

The first few hours after you pass out are chaos.

Jungwon doesn’t remember who screamed first. It might’ve been him. He doesn’t remember how they amputated your arm, how Jake’s hands moved with frantic precision, or how Heeseung kept barking orders that no one listened to. He doesn’t even remember when you fell asleep on his shoulders as he sang that lullaby to you.

What he does remember is the first sound you make. It didn’t even register as human. He remembers it tearing through the air, through Jungwon, like something primal and raw and wrong. The way your body arches, every muscle seizing, and your scream rips through him like glass dragged across his ribs.

He also remembers the pained look on your face as Heeseung holds you down, whispering, repeating something over and over—but Jungwon can’t hear it. Even when he wants to look away. Even when his instincts scream at him to close his eyes, to shut it out, to protect himself from the sight of you in so much pain—he doesn’t.

Because this is the cost. Your cost. And if you’re going to bear it, then so is he.

He remembers murmuring your name, again and again, not even sure if you can hear it. His voice is hoarse, breaking under the weight of every syllable. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re okay. Stay with me.”

But you’re not okay.

And he’s not sure you’re going to stay.

He also remembers the blood. How warm it was, even as it soaked through your shirt. The way it clung to his fingers long after Jake had said, “It’s done.” Long after Sunghoon pressed the iron down and your body stopped seizing. Long after your eyes rolled back and the world went quiet.

He sits beside you through the night, not moving. Not speaking. Not breathing, it feels like.

When the others finally drift into uneasy sleep—some out of exhaustion, some out of fear—he stays.

Your hand is limp in his. Cold.

You should’ve come back different. That’s what he keeps telling himself. You were bit. It was over. That’s what the world said. That’s what they all said. But you didn’t turn. You didn’t die either.

You just... slipped into silence.

He also remembers overhearing the moment you appointed Jay as your executioner. He hadn’t mean to eavesdrop but its hard not to tune you out when all he wants to hear is your voice. He had to take a moment to recollect himself but the thought only twists the knife deeper.

You’re the one dying, and you’re still trying to protect him from the fallout. From having to be the one to end it all.

He feels nauseous.

By the time he makes it back into the room, his throat is raw from holding in everything that wants to shatter him that it hurts to even swallow. And when you look at him, softened eyes unaware of what he’s heard, he says nothing.

He just walks to your side, careful not to let the shaking in his arms show as he drapes the blanket over you. He tucks the edges beneath your body, fingers lingering near your shoulder, pretending nothing has changed.

But it has.

Jay lingers around a few feet away, fingers curled around the handle of a pistol. Jungwon knows why. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. He's simply upholding the promise he made to you.

Day One

He still hasn’t slept.

Your fever is rising now, sweat slicking your skin, your body shaking beneath the blankets. Jake does what he can—sponging your forehead, checking your pulse, redressing the stump—but Jungwon doesn’t leave your side. He stares. Watches your chest rise and fall, rise and fall, like if he looks away even once, you’ll stop.

When Jake tries to get him to eat something, Jungwon doesn’t respond. Not really. Just a blank stare. A nod that never leads to a bite.

Heeseung tells him gently, “She’s going to need you when she wakes up. You need your strength.”

But in his head, Jungwon hears: And if she doesn’t wake up, what’s the point?

Day Two

Heeseung sighs as he speak, “We can’t hide out in here forever. I’m sure the horde has thinned out a little, I’ll go see if I can lure them away.”

“No, I’ll go. Watch after Y/N for me, please.” Jungwon adjusts your blanket as he says.

“What? But you haven’t had proper sleep in days.”

Jungwon doesn’t argue. He just nods, gets up, grabs his rifle, put on the mask and leaves.

The first scream he lets out doesn't sound like his own. It tears out of his throat like grief incarnate, drawing the horde’s attention instantly. All of them. Their heads snap in his direction like puppets on strings, drawn by the sound of something alive—something grieving.

Jungwon bangs his rifle against the edge of the barricade, the metallic clang echoing into the night. Then again. Then again. He can barely hear it over the pounding in his chest.

“Come on,” he shouts. “Come on. You want something to eat?”

Another scream, more hoarse this time.

The first ones break away from the rest stop like waves caught in a new current. Their groans rise, louder now, a chorus of hunger, and as they move toward him, the others follow. Mindless. Predictable.

He keeps shouting until his throat burns. Until the only thing left is breath and bitterness.

Then he runs.

And they follow.

The sun is just starting to rise by the time he reaches the bus terminal, and his legs are already threatening to give out. He keeps going. He doesn’t look back.

He can hear them behind him. Always. Just far enough to not be on top of him, close enough that he can’t afford to slow down.

There’s blood on his tongue from how hard he’s been biting the inside of his cheek, and he swallows it down like medicine. He doesn’t stop. He can’t. He sees you every time he blinks—your arm, your face, the sound of your voice when you said “do it before I change my mind.”

He doesn’t know what kind of strength it takes to say that. But whatever it is, he clings to it now.

He screams again. Bangs his fist on a rusted signpost. Shoots a round into the air just to make sure they’re still coming.

They are.

The rain begins somewhere near midnight.

It’s cold, sharp, soaking through his clothes, turning the mud beneath his boots into sludge. His muscles scream. His head is pounding. He hasn’t eaten. Hasn’t drank anything. He left without telling anyone where he was going, didn’t even give them time to argue.

He had to go. If he stayed, he would’ve lost his mind.

The horde is quieter now, more sluggish with the rain. They still follow. Not because they understand. Just because it’s what they do. And maybe that’s what scares him more than anything—the simplicity of it.

No purpose. No will. Just motion.

He wonders if that’s what he’s becoming.

Day Three

He passes the village again around noon.

It’s quiet, but not empty.

He spots them first by smell, the rotting air thick with the coppery stench of death. Then he sees them—the two men he left behind. Or what’s left of them.

One has no face. Just torn muscle and glistening bone. The other’s stomach is splayed open like a dissected frog, intestines dragging behind him as he staggers forward without aim, without destination. Their eyes are grey now. Vacant.

Jungwon stops walking. Just for a second. Just long enough for a thought to cut him open: They were people. And we left them behind.

Then he shoots them both. One shot each.

He doesn’t flinch when their bodies hit the ground. Just reloads, turns his back, and keeps walking.

He wonders if that makes him human—or something else entirely.

That night, he finally sees the city.

Just beyond the rise of the hill, it sprawls in fractured silhouettes—buildings collapsed on their sides, smoke rising from craters in the road, the wind rattling broken windows like teeth chattering in a dying skull.

He slumps against the shell of a vending machine, hands shaking.

His feet are blistered. His ribs ache. His jacket is soaked through. His fingers are numb and raw, his voice long since gone.

But he made it.

They’re following him still—thinned out, some lost to the terrain, others distracted by noises that only exists in the city—but enough of them came. Enough of them are far, far away from the rest stop now.

From you.

Jungwon drags himself into the first store he sees, the door already broken in. He barricades what he can. Collapses behind a counter. Pulls the hood of his jacket low.

And for the first time in two days—he cries.

Not loud. Not even with tears.

Just silent shaking, his fingers curled in his hair, his chest folding in like he’s trying to disappear into himself.

He doesn’t sleep.

He just lies there, listening to the moans outside, wondering if you’re still alive.

Day Four

The next morning arrives cloaked in a brittle stillness. The rain that had dogged him for hours has finally stopped, but it’s left behind a colder, meaner kind of silence.

The wind has sharpened with the chill of dawn, slicing through the fabric of Jungwon’s soaked jacket, biting at his skin as if trying to remind him that he’s still alive. Every step he takes feels heavier now—sluggish and deliberate, like his body is finally starting to reckon with what he’s just done. With what it cost.

He glances out at the street, eyes scanning the remnants of the chaos he’d lured away. The horde is dispersing now, their ranks thinned and wandering, scattered like leaves caught in the aftermath of a storm.

His job is done.

But he doesn’t feel victorious. Not even close.

There’s no sense of relief settling into his chest, no triumph pounding in his veins. Just an ache. A dull, echoing emptiness that stretches from his ribs to the soles of his blistered feet.

He should feel proud—he pulled them away, bought them time, gave you a chance—but all he feels is this gaping hollow where something inside him used to live.

So he turns.

And begins the slow, punishing walk back to the rest stop. Back to you.

Not because he knows you’re awake. Not because there’s been any sign, any whisper of hope that you’ve stirred. But because he has to. Because something in his chest—something feral and aching and stubborn—needs to be near you again, even if it’s only to sit beside your motionless body and count your breaths.

Even if you’re no longer breathing at all.

Halfway back, while dragging himself along the road with boots caked in mud and legs that barely hold him upright, he stumbles across a curb overgrown with weeds and cracked cement. And there—sprouting defiantly between the rubble and ruin—is a small patch of wildflowers.

Delicate. Bright. Alive.

They sway in the breeze like they’ve never known the end of the world. As if they exist in a time untouched by rot and ash. And Jungwon doesn’t know what kind they are—hasn’t the faintest clue. He doesn’t even care.

He sees them and thinks of you.

You, curled beneath a threadbare blanket, your forehead damp with fever. You, whispering your final requests with the last of your strength. You, promising you'd be okay—just to spare him.

His breath catches in his throat, and then—

He runs.

Doesn’t think. Doesn’t hesitate. He sprints like a man chasing salvation, like a single second might make all the difference between reaching you in time and arriving too late.

His feet pound against the pavement, raw and ragged. He slips once—knees colliding with the ground, palms tearing open on shattered glass. Blood seeps from his hands, but he doesn't stop. He can’t. He presses on, stumbling to his feet with a ragged gasp and pushes forward again, faster, harder, propelled by something that isn’t logic or certainty but need.

Because he doesn’t know if you’re still breathing.

Doesn’t know if the others were able to hold the infection at bay, if the amputation worked, if the fever broke.

He doesn’t know anything.

But he needs to.

Because if you are awake—if you’re still there—if your eyes are open and searching for something to hold onto in this world—then he wants to be the one you see. Wants you to remind him that it’s not too late to hold on to what’s left.

Not hope.

Not some dream of a better world.

Just you.

Because in a world where everything is dying, where everything good slips away too fast—you are the only thing he can still believe in.

Day Five

You still haven’t woken.

The others take turns watching you now. Heeseung insists on it, says Jungwon needs to get some air. He does but only so he could hunt down the remainder of A’s people.

He doesn’t tell them that he’s not hunting them for safety. That he’s hunting them because it’s the only thing that makes the noise in his head stop.

He stalks the woods in silence, teeth clenched, gun steady. Every bullet he fires feels like penance. Every body that hits the ground is a fraction of the rage and helplessness he can’t bleed out any other way.

By the time he returns, you haven’t moved. And he hates that the sight of your motionless figure still makes him hope.

Day Eight

He starts blaming himself.

Not just for this. For everything. For dragging you back to the camp when you wanted to leave. For believing he could protect anyone. For every command that got someone hurt. For letting you go that night, when you said you were bit.

You had looked him in the eye and told him. And what had he done?

Screamed. Panicked. Held you like you were already slipping through his fingers. You had to be the one to make the plan. To tell them what to do. To walk away. And he let you.

He let you.

Day Eleven

He wakes up from a dream where you died.

Your body had gone cold. Your eyes clouded. But worse—your voice, the one he’d memorised in every tone, every laugh, every biting remark—it was gone. Forever.

He screams himself awake.

Jake and Sunghoon find him on the edge of the rooftop, heaving, fists clenched in his hair, shoulders shaking. He doesn’t say anything. Just stares down at the world and tries to remember how to breathe.

Day Twelve

He’s still out there, combing the surrounding woods for any trace of A’s remaining people.

Deep down, he knows there probably aren’t any left—not this close to the rest stop. But that doesn’t stop him. He keeps going, driven not by strategy or necessity, but by something far more relentless: the need to do something.

To bleed out the guilt he can’t seem to quiet.

Day Fourteen

You move.

Just your fingers. A twitch. Barely there.

He’s the only one who sees it.

He grabs your hand and nearly crushes it in his grip, whispering your name like a prayer, like a drowning man breaking the surface. But you don’t stir again. And when he tells the others, they think he’s imagining it.

He doesn’t care.

He knows what he saw.

Day Fifteen

The second Jungwon steps past the barricade, he knows something’s changed.

He can’t explain it—there’s no sound, no shout, no rushing footsteps to greet him. Just the stillness of the evening air, the muted creak of the gate behind him, and the way the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end like some part of him already knows.

He moves automatically, his legs dragging with exhaustion, muscles screaming from days without rest. The rifle slung over his shoulder feels heavier than ever, the dried blood on his sleeves long since stiffened into the fabric. Every step toward the convenience store feels like wading through wet cement, but he keeps going. Because you’re here. Or you were. And that’s all that matters.

Heeseung meets him at the threshold, eyes wide, mouth opening like he’s about to say something—but Jungwon doesn’t stop.

Not until he sees you.

You're standing up. Just barely. But it’s enough to make his heart lurch so violently in his chest that it knocks the breath clean out of him.

You're awake.

You're alive.

His legs buckle.

He doesn’t remember crossing the room. Doesn’t remember letting the rifle slide from his shoulder or the way the others instinctively moved aside for him like they knew—they knew—he wouldn’t be able to wait a second longer.

And then you look at him.

Eyes tired, swollen, half-lidded from pain and medication, but unmistakably you.

“Y/N.”

Your name breaks in his mouth—raw and jagged, torn from somewhere deep in his chest.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, and the second his skin touches yours, he shatters.

His entire body trembles, the sobs clawing their way up his throat with a force that leaves him breathless. He feels your warmth, your breath, the faint thump of your pulse against his temple—and it’s too much. Too much relief. Too much grief. Too much of everything he’s been holding back.

And when he feels your hand on his back, pressing into him, returning the embrace, it splits him wide open.

“You’re okay,” he breathes, over and over, like if he says it enough, he can make it true. “You’re awake. God, I thought—” His voice breaks, catching on the words he’s too afraid to finish. “I thought I lost you.”

Your voice is quiet, trembling. “I’m here. I’m okay.”

He pulls back, just enough to see your face—drawn, pale, bruised, but alive. Alive. His thumb brushes along your jaw, reverent and aching, and it feels like holding something sacred. He can barely believe it.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, voice thick with guilt. “I should’ve been here. I should’ve—”

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You kept them safe. You kept me safe.”

The words don’t make it easier. They just hurt differently. He leans in again, forehead pressed to yours, his breath stuttering as his hands find your waist, gripping like you might fade if he loosens his hold.

“I thought I lost you forever,” he whispers, and this time, the weight of it nearly brings him down again.

And then—then you say it.

“I’m alive.”

Your voice cracks on the words, but they echo like a miracle.

His chest seizes. His breath stalls. “You’re alive.” It slips from his lips like a confession, like an answer to a prayer he didn’t know he was allowed to make. “God, Y/N… you’re alive.”

He lets out a shaky laugh, the sound caught somewhere between disbelief and something dangerously close to a sob. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, and you feel the heat of his tears before they even fall.

He’s crying.

Openly. Unashamedly. His body trembling against yours, breath hitching with every inhale, fingers clutching at your shirt like it’s the only thing tethering him to this moment. He’s held it in for days—for weeks—and now, with you finally awake, it all comes spilling out.

His arms tighten around you, as if trying to pull you further into him, trying to convince himself that this is real—that this isn’t a dream or some hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation and guilt.

And then you kiss him.

Or maybe he kisses you. He doesn’t know who moves first. All he knows is the way your lips find his like they’ve done it a thousand times before. It's desperate, clumsy, shaking with emotion, but he pours everything into it—every sleepless night, every scream he swallowed, every prayer he never voiced.

When you whisper his name, it doesn’t sound like pain anymore. It sounds like salvation.

“I’m here,” he whispers back, lips brushing yours, his voice trembling with the weight of a thousand promises. “I’m here. I’m not leaving you.”

He feels you collapse against him, your face tucked into the curve of his neck, and the sound of your breathing against his skin grounds him in a way nothing else can. He holds you tighter. Closer.

You’re real.

Somehow. Against every odd, through every horror. You came back.

And now, finally, so does he.

He doesn’t let go of you that night.

Not when the others start filtering in, trying not to stare. Not when Jake quietly checks your vitals and nods in quiet relief. Not even when Sunoo tries to pass him a damp cloth and tells him to “breathe or something.”

He stays curled beside you on that mattress, head tucked near your shoulder, his arms wrapped protectively around you like you’ll vanish if he lets go.

Because for two weeks, he lived in the space between grief and hope.

And tonight—for the first time in what feels like forever—he gets to choose hope.

Because you're here.

You're alive.

And he never wants to know a world without you again.

part 7 - hope | masterlist

♡。·˚˚· ·˚˚·。♡

notes from nat: okay NOW i conclude safe & sound... see this is what happens when a writer has major attachment issues. it gives you 18k words on a word document after a series supposedly ended. anyway happy jay day! and I'll come back with many exciting things soon! xoxo

perm taglist. @m1kkso @hajimelvr @s00buwu @urmomssneakylink @grayscorner @catlicense @bubblytaetae @mrchweeee @artstaeh @sleeping-demons @yuviqik @junsflow @blurryriki @bobabunhee @hueningcry @fakeuwus @enhaslxt @neocockthotology @Starryhani @aishisgrey @katarinamae @mitmit01 @youcancometome @cupiddolle @classicroyalty @dearsjaeyun @ikeucakeu @sammie217 @m1kkso @tinycatharsis @parkjjongswifey @dcllsinna @no1likeneo @ChVcon3 @karasusrealwife @addictedtohobi @jyunsim @enhastolemyheart @kawaiichu32 @layzfy @renjunsbirthmark13 @enhaprettystars @Stercul1a @stars4jo @luvashli @alyselenai @ididntseeurbag @hii-hawaiiu @kwhluv

taglist open. 1/3 @sungbyhoon @theothernads @kyshhhhhh @jiryunn @strxwbloody @jaklvbub @rikikiynikilcykiki @jakesimfromstatefarm @rikiiisoob

non-grey/underlined = cannot tag

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idleoblivion · 1 year ago

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"Task Failed Successfully?" Azul Ashengrotto x GN Reader

Synopsis: He’s finally ready to execute his master plan to make you fall in love with him, and it all starts today… the day you planned to confess to him.

Word Count: ~1.4k

A/N: I love Azul he's such a lil dork to me

Warnings: Azul is down pretty bad, he's also a nervous wreck, Floyd and Jade are there for 2 seconds

It started after his overblot. You saw him at his worst, his most emotional and destructive, yet you still treated him so kindly. You didn’t hold it against him or blame him, if anything you were compassionate. He was caught off guard by your sincerity, and how your presence started making his chest feel tight. His persona he worked so hard to maintain at all times wavered whenever you were near. He stuttered, he forgot what he wanted to say, he smiled too wide and laughed too hard. You ruined his composure every time you were around and it was getting harder to pretend you were just a client or friend to him by the day.

The first step was admitting you had become much more important to him than he had anticipated you would, and that he didn’t want to be without you.

The second step was making you feel the same way.

In a school full of eligible bachelors, Azul was not confident in his current position. Suddenly it felt like everyone around you was a potential suitor, and he couldn’t help but worry it was only a matter of time before somebody else asked you out. And your kindness wasn’t exclusive to him, as much as he selfishly wished it was. You were friendly with plenty of students, was he just another friend to you? He couldn’t be, he couldn’t stand it. And that’s where the plan first came to fruition.

It was rather convoluted and even he knew it. But it was necessary, he reasoned, to make sure you had ample opportunity to see him at his best and most attractive. What better way to do that than getting you to work with him?

He could see it all in his head: He’d ask you to meet in his office, convince you to make a deal to work for him, and make you his assistant so you spent your entire shift with him. Then you’d get to watch him run the lounge and maneuver his way into contracts with ease, and he would get to take advantage of your time alone to get to know you even better. He’d use what he learned from your conversations to make himself look even better, until you’re so impressed you can’t help but start falling for him. You’d think he’s so cool and confident and smart and successful and-

“Oya, are you still listening, Azul?”

“I think he’s busy thinking about someone, hehe~”

Azul opens his eyes to see the twins smiling mischievously at each other. They had been walking out of their dorm together when his mind started wandering, now they’re nearly at their classrooms.

“Keep your voice down.” Azul commands, but it doesn’t hold a lot of weight when he’s clearly flustered. “Somebody might hear you.”

The brothers give each other a look, then go right back to smiling. Azul frowns before he reminds them he’ll be late to the lounge after class and to open without him. Then the trio splits, and Azul spots you as you dart into the alchemy classroom before the warning bell rings.

Today, today was going to be the start of everything.

———

After a very distracted school day (and after making sure Floyd actually went back to the lounge), Azul walked with determination to the hall of mirrors. He picked a day both the track and basketball club were busy with practice so he’d be able to get you alone at Ramshackle. He wasn't threatened by Ace or Deuce, but he needed them out the way while he set things in motion. He was so nearly there, all he had to do was sweet talk his way into getting you back to the lounge to sign a contract that would pave the way to your destined love story.

He’s finally at your door, and his stomach twists in a knot. He raises his fist but hesitates to knock, revisiting every line he had planned in his head one final time. A voice from behind him nearly makes him jump out of skin.

“Azul? What are you doing here?” He turns around to see you watching him curiously. He recovers from his surprise quickly and grins at you politely.

“Prefect! I was just looking for you. Do you have a moment?”

“Yeah, sure. I was looking for you too, actually, I went to the lounge and everything. Do you wanna come in?”

That explains how he got to your dorm before you at least, but leaves him with a lot of other questions. What did you want him for? If you were looking for him at the lounge, did you want a deal? He figured he would have to make a very strong case for the benefits of working for him to get you on board, but if you had something you wanted from him too, that might make things easier. He smiles confidently at this turn of events. “Of course.”

He follows you into Ramshackle. It’s not a problem if your conversation happens here instead he figures, as long as everything else still works out the way it’s supposed to. You gesture to the couch and he sits down.

“So, Prefect, what is it you needed to see me about?” He’s expecting you to say something trivial, something like notes for class or help with an assignment. Something he can already use to show you how competent he is, how hard he’d work to help you as your partner, how-

…Why are you looking at him like that?

He grows more confused as your entire demeanor changes. The air gets heavier, more serious and you won’t look him directly in the eyes anymore. You fidget with your hands a bit, a nervous habit of yours he’s picked up on.

“...Maybe you should go first.”

“What makes you say that?” “Mine’s…a whole thing. Plus you might not like it. Or me, after.”

You’ve got him nervous now. Had something bad happened? He was concerned of course, though the thought that you had a more serious issue and came to him of all people for help filled him with a guilty kind of joy. Now was a chance to prove himself as someone reliable and attentive to you.

“I assure you nothing could make me dislike you.” He admits a little more genuinely than he intended to. He clears his throat before quickly trying to move past it. “And I have time. If something or someone is causing you trouble, it can be dealt with. You just have to tell me.”

Perfect, now you would spill, he'd offer to fix your issue in exchange for your employment, you were right where he wanted you...

…Had you been sitting that close to him before? Once he notices your proximity, he can’t help the growing heat in his face and ears.

You lean in a little closer to him and his face rivals an angry Heartslabyul dorm leader’s. You gently place your hand on top of his on the couch and he starts trembling. You look up at him again, and his wide-eyed expression makes you laugh. He’s always liked your laugh, but the way it sounds right now makes his heart flutter.

“You’re sure you want to know?” You’re teasing him now and he knows it, but he can hardly form a thought other than how alluring you look. Your other hand finds its way to push a piece of hair out of his face and he feels like he’s going to combust. He tries to answer, but it comes out as some stuttered gibberish that only makes your smirk grow wider. “Azul, you’re really cute like this.” “C-cute? I don’t…that’s, I-”

“I like you, silly. I was gonna ask you out once I got you alone.”

His whole body tenses up. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. It’s not like it wasn’t supposed to end up here, but he wanted to be suave and cool about it, and here he was a complete mess. He planned to have a few months at least to brace himself before you’d even start flirting with him, now you’re still not letting go of his hand and you’re leaning in even more-

When you kiss him, his mind bluescreens completely. Your lips move softly against his and he can’t breathe. And when you pull away, any remainder of that meticulous plan he came to your door with is gone, erased from his brain. You stay close for a moment and he swears you’ve never looked more captivating.

“...So, what were you gonna ask me for?”

“I…have no idea.”

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twst x gn reader #twst x reader #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #twst fluff #twst azul #azul ashengrotto #azul x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader

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bueckersstuff · 2 months ago

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SICK & TWISTED

Part I Part II Part III Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

The sting of your slap still burned on Paige’s skin long after you walked away. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t even flinched. She just stood there, staring at the empty space where you had been moments ago, her ears ringing with the echo of your voice—furious, heartbroken, done.

She had done it. Executed her plan perfectly. You had fallen for her, just like she wanted. You had let her back into your life, allowed her to inch her way between you and Natalie, and in the end, you had betrayed the one person who truly loved you.

She won.

So why did it feel like she lost?

Paige swallowed hard, the weight of everything she had done crushing down on her all at once. She had planned this for so long, so meticulously. She had watched from afar as you moved on, built a perfect life without her. It ate at her. She told herself it was about revenge, about making you feel what she had felt all those years ago—the ruin, the isolation, the regret.

It started the moment she saw your name pop up on social media again, years after you disappeared without a trace. She hadn’t let herself think about you in a long time, burying any remnants of the past beneath layers of distractions—basketball, fleeting flings, numbing routines. But when she saw you, looking so content, so fucking happy, something inside her cracked.

You weren’t supposed to be okay.

You were supposed to carry the same scars she did.

That night at the bar, the kiss she stole from you—it had cost her everything. Azzi. Her teammates. Her peace. Paige had convinced herself that it wasn’t real, that it was just a stupid mistake fueled by alcohol and reckless impulse. That you were just another face in a crowd, an unfortunate casualty in her own downfall.

She could still see the betrayal in your eyes, the way your voice cracked when you begged Natalie to stay. You weren’t hers to ruin—you never were. And yet, she did it anyway. Because Paige never let herself lose. Not in basketball, not in life.

Her chest tightened, an unfamiliar ache spreading through her. Guilt? Regret? Something deeper? She didn’t know. All she knew was that for the first time in years, she had no idea what to do next.

She turned on her heel and walked away, her hands clenched into fists.

Because this time, it almost feels like she didn’t win.

Paige sat alone in her apartment, the weight of what she had done pressing down on her chest like an unbearable force. The room was dark except for the dim glow of the city lights filtering through the window. Her fingers hovered over her phone, but she couldn’t bring herself to type anything. What would she even say? That she was sorry? That she didn’t mean it? That it was a mistake?

None of it would matter.

Her mind was a mess, a relentless loop of everything that had happened—the slap, the screaming, the way your voice had broken when you begged Natalie to stay. It played over and over, each time cutting deeper. She had done a lot of fucked-up things in her life, but this… this was a different kind of destruction.

Her phone rang, breaking through the suffocating quiet.

Unknown number.

She thought about ignoring it, but something in her gut told her to pick up.

“This is Paige Bueckers speaking.”

There was silence at first, a pause heavy with something she couldn’t name. And then—

“We need to talk.”

Paige recognized the voice instantly.

Natalie.

For a second, she considered hanging up. She had expected you to come for her, to lash out at her again, to tell her how much you hated her. But not this. Not her.

“What do you want?” Paige said, voice stiff.

“Meet me.”

Paige sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I don’t care what you think,” Natalie shot back. “Meet me at the coffee shop on 5th. Thirty minutes.”

Then the line went dead.

Paige almost didn’t go. Almost.

But something gnawed at her, an unease curling in her stomach. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was the weight of your voice still clinging to her, reminding her that she had finally broken something she couldn’t fix.

So she went.

The coffee shop was quiet when Paige arrived, the usual morning rush long gone. She spotted Natalie immediately, sitting at a table in the corner, hands wrapped around a cup she probably hadn’t even taken a sip from.

Paige hesitated for half a second before making her way over.

Natalie looked up as she approached, her eyes tired, but sharp. “Sit.”

Paige slid into the chair across from her, folding her arms over her chest. “Alright. I’m here. Say whatever you came to say.”

Natalie exhaled, setting her cup down. “I know everything.”

Paige froze. “What?”

Natalie leaned forward slightly. “I know what you did to her. I know what she went through because of you.” Her voice didn’t waver, but there was an underlying anger beneath it, something restrained but ready to snap. “Do you?”

Paige looked away. “It wasn’t—”

“Don’t,” Natalie cut her off. “Don’t sit there and try to make excuses. I don’t care why you did it. I care about what it did to her.”

Paige’s throat felt tight.

Natalie continued, her voice steady. “Do you have any idea how hard it was for her to move on? How much it took for her to be okay again? You weren’t there. You didn’t see her when she couldn’t even step outside without feeling like the whole world was against her.”

Paige clenched her jaw. She had imagined you moving on so easily, living this perfect life without a second thought about her. But that wasn’t the truth, was it? The truth was that she had left you with scars she never even bothered to look at.

“She had trauma, Paige.” Natalie’s voice softened, but the weight of her words only grew heavier. “She saw a therapist for it. That’s where we met.”

Paige blinked.

She hadn’t known that. Hadn’t even considered the possibility. She had spent so long justifying her anger, her obsession with revenge, that she never stopped to think about what it actually did to you.

“She told me everything,” Natalie said. “And I still fell in love with her.”

Paige’s fingers curled into fists beneath the table. She didn’t know why those words stung so much. Maybe because Natalie was saying them with such conviction. Maybe because, deep down, Paige realized she had spent all this time trying to break something that had already been broken—something that had taken years to piece back together.

And now she had shattered it all over again.

“I just…” Paige swallowed, her voice suddenly quieter. “I didn’t think—”

“No, you didn’t.” Natalie exhaled, rubbing at her temple. “But here’s the thing, Paige. One stupid kiss isn’t enough to make me think any less of her. I know who she is. I know her heart.”

Paige stiffened.

This wasn’t what she expected. She had thought Natalie would hate you, would see you as a cheater, would walk away and leave you just like she had planned. But instead, Natalie was here, telling Paige that she wasn’t going anywhere.

Paige should have been frustrated. She should have been furious. But all she felt was empty.

Because for the first time, she realized she had been hoping Natalie would back off.

That she would leave.

But she was wrong.

Again.

Paige swallowed the lump in her throat. “I… I should say sorry.”

Natalie’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You don’t get to,” Nat shot back. “Not on your terms. She doesn’t owe you anything, least of all a chance to apologize. You don’t get to decide when or how she heals from what you did.”

Paige didn’t argue. What could she even say? Natalie was right.

Silence.

It was the one thing Paige had never feared before.

On the court, in the locker room, even during the worst nights of her life—she had always found comfort in the silence. It was a moment to breathe, to recalibrate, to steel herself for what came next.

But now?

Now, it was killing her.

You hadn’t spoken to her since that night. No calls. No texts. No bitter, angry words thrown in her face. Nothing. It was like she had ceased to exist in your world, and that should’ve been a relief.

It wasn’t.

It was a punishment worse than anything she could’ve imagined.

For the first time, Paige realized just how much she had relied on your hatred. Your anger had been her anchor, proof that you still felt something, that she hadn’t completely faded from your life. She had convinced herself that if you still had the energy to despise her, then maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t too far gone.

But now?

You had shut her out completely.

And it was ruining her.

She had tried to reach out—half-written texts, aborted phone calls, standing outside places she thought you might be, only to lose her nerve and walk away. Every time she thought about seeing you, about looking into your eyes and knowing that you didn’t care anymore, it made her sick.

But she had to try.

She had to fix this.

Even if she didn’t deserve to.

Paige hadn’t heard from you since. No texts, no accidental run-ins at your usual spots, not even a passing glimpse of you in places she knew you used to frequent. It was like you had vanished, and it was starting to unnerve her. At first, she had convinced herself that it was for the best—that you were better off without her, that this silence was what she deserved. But now, it was gnawing at her. The absence of you was suffocating, like a punishment she didn’t quite know how to endure.

She had checked social media, but there was nothing. No recent activity, no new posts. Even your closest friends hadn’t mentioned you in a while. It was radio silence, and it was killing her.

Then, suddenly, her phone rang. Natalie.

Paige barely had time to answer before Nat’s voice exploded through the line. “What the hell did you do?”

Paige blinked, caught off guard. “Nat, what—”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Bueckers! I swear to God, if—” Nat’s voice cracked, and for the first time, Paige registered the sheer panic in it. “She's in the hospital, Paige. The hospital.”

Paige’s entire body locked up. Her breath caught in her throat, her heart hammering against her ribs. “What?”

“I went to her apartment because she wasn't answering me. I thought maybe she's just avoiding me, but something felt off. So I went.” Nat’s voice wavered, laced with frustration and raw emotion. “And I found her. Barely conscious, barely holding on. She relapsed, Paige. A bad relapse. She's not letting anyone in, she's shutting down completely.”

Paige felt like she had been punched in the gut. Her mind reeled. “I—I didn’t know. I—”

“Of course, you didn’t know!” Nat snapped. “Because you never think about anything past your own damn self! Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You don’t get to just walk away and then wreck her life all over again when she have finally found peace!”

Paige was shaking, gripping her phone so tightly it hurt. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I—”

“Meaning doesn’t matter,” Nat seethed. “She fought so hard to rebuild herself. And now, because of you, she's back to square one. You undid everything.”

Paige pressed a hand to her forehead, guilt clawing at her from the inside out. “I wanted to say sorry,” she admitted weakly. “I just—didn’t know how.”

“Sorry?” Nat’s laugh was humorless, bitter. “Sorry won’t fix this. Sorry won’t undo the nights she spent breaking apart over you. Sorry won’t change the fact that she's finally happy before you ripped it all away again.”

Paige’s vision blurred. The weight of her actions, the destruction she had left in her wake, crushed down on her like a tidal wave. “Is she…” Her voice cracked. “Is she going to be okay?”

“I don’t know,” Nat admitted, voice breaking now too. “But you don’t get to be part of that answer.”

The call ended, and Paige was left staring at her phone, the silence swallowing her whole. She had ruined everything. Again. And this time, she didn’t know if there was anything left to fix.

A few days later, Paige found herself parked outside your house, gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white. You had been discharged, but she hadn’t seen you. Not once. The thought made her stomach churn.

From her vantage point, she could see movement inside. And then, her chest tightened—your ex was there. Paige hated that. Hated how effortless it was for her to be there, to have a place in your life that Paige no longer did.

She wasn’t sure what hurt more—the way you were standing close, or the fact that Natalie had a key and Paige didn’t.

A fucking key.

Paige’s stomach twisted violently as she watched through the window, her fists clenching at her sides.

Natalie was touching your arm, looking at you with that familiar tenderness, and you—God, you were letting her.

Paige hated it.

Hated the way Natalie still cared, hated the way you let her in when you had shut Paige out so completely.

She swallowed hard, trying to suppress the storm brewing inside her. What had she done? Was this truly what she wanted? To punish you? To hurt you the way she thought you hurt her? Or had she only ever wanted to take you away for herself?

The thought festered inside her, twisting and turning until she could no longer sit still. Paige moved discreetly, watching for the right moment. And then, it came—Nat stepped out, heading toward her car. She was alone now.

This was her chance.

Heart pounding, Paige climbed out of the car and walked up to your door, exhaling sharply before knocking. Hard. Loud.

“Open the door,” she called out, her voice softer than before, but desperate. When there was no response, she knocked again, more insistently. “Please. Just… please.”

She let out a shaky breath, pressing her forehead against the door for a second. “I know I messed up. I know I hurt you,” she said, voice raw with emotion. “But I never thought it would affect you this much. I never wanted to be the reason you…” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard. “Just let me see you. Please.”

She was making a scene, but she didn’t care. Let the whole damn neighborhood see. If this was the only way to reach you, then so be it.

Seconds passed. Paige could hear her own heartbeat in her ears, feel the weight of everything she had done pressing down on her. She closed her eyes, willing herself to keep talking, to keep reaching for you.

“I don’t deserve forgiveness,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I know that. I just… I made a terrible mistake. Please...”

Still nothing. Paige’s fingers curled into fists, and she let out a shaky laugh, full of self-loathing. “God, I was so stupid. I thought I was hurting you, but all I did was destroy myself in the process.”

A noise from inside. The faintest shuffle of movement. Paige’s breath hitched. “Please,” she tried again, voice breaking. “If you never want to see me again after this, I’ll leave. I swear. Just… let me see you one last time.”

A long pause. And then, finally, the door creaked open. Paige barely breathed as she looked up, eyes meeting yours for the first time in what felt like forever.

It wasn’t supposed to rain that night.

The sky had been clear all day, no clouds, no sign of a storm rolling in. But as Paige stood outside your apartment, the first drops of rain splattered onto her skin.

Fitting.

She didn’t even know what she was going to say. She had spent the entire day rehearsing apologies in her head, but none of them felt like enough. What did you even say to someone after you had spent years making their life miserable?

She never got the chance to decide.

But then the door opened, and you stepped out.

The moment your eyes met hers, Paige’s breath caught in her throat.

You didn’t look angry. You didn’t look anything.

Just numb.

And somehow, that was worse than hate.

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her throat was tight, her hands were shaking, and all she could do was stare at you like she had forgotten how to speak.

You shifted slightly, stepping off the porch, and Paige instinctively reached for you. “Wait—”

You sidestepped her effortlessly.

Like she was nothing.

“Don’t,” you said, voice flat, empty. “I have nothing to say to you.”

The rain had started to come down harder now, but Paige barely felt it. She was too busy scrambling for something—anything—to hold onto.

“Please,” she tried again. “Just—just listen to me.”

You didn’t stop walking. Not until you’re completely exposed, until you’re completely soaked with the cold hard rain.

Paige moved in front of you, her heart hammering in her chest. “I’m sorry.”

Nothing.

Her voice cracked. “I mean it. I mean it. I—I never wanted to take it this far.”

That made you pause. Just for a second.

And Paige, desperate, latched onto it.

“I know I messed up. I know I don’t deserve a second of your time, but I need you to hear me,” she pleaded, her voice bordering on frantic. “I—I was wrong. About everything. And I—I don’t know how to—”

You exhaled sharply, cutting her off. “Paige.”

Her name sounded so foreign in your voice.

Like something dead.

“I don’t care anymore.”

That shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did. But it did. God, it did.

Paige shook her head, blinking through the rain. “No. No, you do. I know you do.” She reached for you again, and this time, you didn’t move away.

But you didn’t reach back.

You just stood there, staring at her with eyes that were hollow.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Your voice was softer now, almost pitying. “I spent years letting you ruin me. And I’m done.”

Paige felt her breath hitch, her stomach twisting painfully.

Done.

The word echoed in her head, over and over, like a death sentence.

And then—before she could stop herself—she did something she had never done before.

Paige Bueckers dropped to her knees.

The wet pavement bit through her jeans, but she didn’t care. Didn’t move. Just kneeled there in front of you, hands clenched at her sides, heart cracked wide open.

“I was wrong.” Her chest tightened, the truth spilling from her lips before she could stop it. “I didn’t want to punish you. I just—I wanted you. And I was too sick and twisted to realize that until I’d already ruined everything.”

The rain was freezing, soaking through her clothes, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t care.

Not when she was losing you.

Not when she had already lost you.

Your eyes widened slightly, but you didn’t move to help her up. You didn’t care.

“I was a coward,” she whispered. “And I hurt you. And I don’t deserve to be standing here, asking you for anything. But I will. I will, because even if you never take me back, even if you never forgive me, I need you to know that I was yours all along. I was just too fucking stupid to see it.”

The rain poured harder, soaking the confession into the streets, into the air between you.

Paige swallowed hard, her hands gripping the wet pavement as she bowed her head.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to fucking make it right.” Her voice wavered, raw and wrecked. “But I want to. I need to.”

Silence.

And then, finally, your voice.

“You should go home, Paige.”

It was the final blow, the last thread snapping.

Paige didn’t move.

She just knelt there, trembling, as the rain poured down around her—washing away everything but the unbearable weight of regret.

The rain was relentless, pounding against Paige’s skin like tiny needles, soaking her through until she was shivering. But it didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered except you.

You, standing there in front of her, looking at her like she was a stranger. Like she was nothing.

Paige had always been good at getting what she wanted. The game, the fame, the people—everything had always been within her reach. Even when she lost, even when she failed, there was always a way back. A way to fix it.

But this?

This was slipping through her fingers, and she didn’t know how to stop it.

She pressed her palms against the wet pavement, fingers digging into the concrete as she gasped for breath. “Please.”

You barely reacted.

Paige squeezed her eyes shut, the weight in her chest suffocating. “I—I'll do anything,” she choked out. “Just… don’t walk away from me.”

Your silence was louder than anything.

Paige looked up, blinking against the rain, her vision blurred—not just from the downpour, but from the sting behind her eyes. She was losing it. She knew she was. And she didn’t even care.

She reached for your wrist.

You pulled back before she could touch you.

The rejection burned.

Paige let out a shaky breath, her voice hoarse. “I miss you.”

You exhaled, long and slow, like you were trying to stay patient. But there was nothing left for her in your eyes.

Paige tried again, her voice desperate. “You don’t understand—I haven’t slept, I haven’t eaten, I can’t think without—” She sucked in a sharp breath, her chest caving in. “You’re in my head. You won’t leave my head. And I don’t—I don’t know how to live with that.”

You finally spoke, your tone even and quiet. “That’s not my problem.”

It felt like a punch to the gut.

Paige shook her head quickly, her hands trembling. “It is—it is your problem, because I—” She swallowed, her throat raw. “I love you.”

The words spilled out before she could stop them.

The weight of them crushed her the moment they were free.

She had never said it before. Not to you. Not to anyone.

And now, she had nothing left to lose.

The rain poured harder, the silence between you deafening.

You let out a quiet laugh—one that wasn’t amused at all. One that sounded like disbelief, like exhaustion.

Paige watched your face carefully, desperately, waiting for something. Anything.

You just shook your head. “You don’t love me.”

Paige flinched like you had hit her.

“Yes, I do.” Her voice cracked, raw and broken. “I do.”

You looked away, exhaling sharply. “No. You love the idea of me. You love what you can’t have. You love the way I let you get away with hurting me.” You stepped back, shaking your head. “But you don’t love me.”

Paige felt her stomach drop, the rain masking the hot tears that slid down her face.

This wasn’t working. This wasn’t fixing anything.

She couldn’t let it end like this.

Paige scrambled closer on her knees, gripping the hem of your sleeve, holding on like you were the last solid thing in her crumbling world. “Just—just tell me what to do,” she begged. “Tell me what I can say, what I can give, and I’ll do it.”

You closed your eyes briefly, as if you were tired of her.

Then, your voice came, quiet but firm.

“There’s nothing you can do.”

Paige’s entire body went cold.

No.

No, that couldn’t be true.

“I’ll change,” she whispered, frantic. “I’ll fix myself.”

Your eyes met hers again, and this time, there was nothing there but finality.

“You can’t.”

Paige felt like she was going to throw up.

You pulled your arm from her grip, and she didn’t have the strength to hold on.

She watched helplessly as you stepped back, shaking your head once more. “Go home, Paige.”

The rain kept falling.

Paige stayed on her knees.

The rain poured relentlessly, soaking Paige to the bone as she knelt on the pavement outside your house. Her knees scraped against the wet concrete, her hands trembling as she reached for you, but you stepped back, out of her grasp.

"Please," Paige's voice cracked, raw and desperate. "Just listen to me. Just—just give me a chance to fix this."

You stood there, drenched and unmoving, your face unreadable, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions raging inside her.

"A chance?" You laughed, but there was no humor in it. "A chance to what, Paige? To hurt me again? To ruin me all over?" Your words cut deeper than the cold. "I don’t care anymore. I’m done."

Paige shook her head violently, her breath hitching. "You’re not done. You can’t be. Not after everything—"

"Everything?" You scoffed. "Everything you destroyed?"

Paige felt the sting of her own tears mixing with the rain. Her chest heaved, desperation clawing at her ribs. She had always been good with words—charming, persuasive—but now, they failed her. Everything she said felt small, insignificant against the weight of what she had done.

"I—" she choked, swallowing back a sob. "I didn't mean for it to end like this. I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. "You did mean it, Paige. You planned it. You executed it. And now, what? You regret it?"

Paige dropped her head, her wet hair clinging to her face as the weight of your words crushed her. She had done this. She had dug her own grave, and now she was suffocating in it.

"I don't know how to fix this." Her voice was small now, broken. "Tell me what to do. Tell me how to make it right."

You stared at her, your expression unreadable before you sighed, shaking your head. "You can’t. And that’s the worst part. You can’t fix any of it."

Paige’s chest tightened, a sharp pain stabbing through her ribs. She let out a shuddering breath, her entire body trembling. "Please… I love you."

You flinched, as if the words physically hurt. Then, after a beat, you let out a hollow laugh. "You love me? Paige, you don’t even know what love is. If you did, you wouldn’t have done this."

She reached for you again, this time her fingers barely grazing your wrist before you pulled away completely.

Then, behind you, a car parked abruptly, followed by the door slamming shut.

“What the hell is going on?” Nat’s voice sliced through the rain, sharp and laced with disbelief.

You turned slightly, your body shifting as if suddenly aware of the entire situation—the rain, Paige kneeling in front of you, Natalie, the weight of everything pressing down on you.

Nat’s gaze flickered between you and Paige, her expression quickly morphing from confusion to pure, unfiltered rage. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

Paige barely had time to react before Nat was marching forward.

“Get up,” Nat snapped, glaring down at Paige with disgust. “Now.”

Paige didn’t move.

Nat let out an incredulous scoff. “Are you serious right now? You show up, make a goddamn scene, and now you’re just gonna sit there like some kind of—" She threw her hands up, exasperated. “No. You know what? I don’t care. Get inside.” She turned to you, voice softer now, more urgent. “You’re shivering. Come on.”

But you didn’t move either. Not at first. Paige could see the conflict warring inside you, could see the way your fingers twitched like you wanted to reach for something—but what?

Her?

Paige squeezed her eyes shut. She was delusional. She can feel herself getting sicker every minute.

“Come on,” Nat pressed again, stepping closer, placing a firm hand on your back. “Please.”

That’s what did it.

With one last lingering look at Paige, you finally turned, stepping back inside without a word.

Paige’s heart dropped.

The door was still open. Nat hadn’t gone inside yet. She stood in the doorway, crossing her arms, her glare returning in full force.

“You need to go home, Paige,” Nat said, voice cold.

Paige shook her head, barely blinking against the rain. “Not until I talk to her.”

“Talk to her?” Nat scoffed. “What else is there to say? You did enough damage already. You don’t get to waltz back in and pretend you give a shit now.”

Paige clenched her jaw. “I never stopped caring.”

Nat let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, really? That’s rich, coming from the person who spent months making her life hell. Who made her relapse.”

Paige flinched at the word.

Nat took a step forward, voice lowering into something dangerous.

"Go home, Paige," she said, her voice void of warmth. "She doesn’t want you here."

And then, without another word, she stepped inside and slammed the door shut.

The sound echoed in the empty street, a finality that should have sent Paige walking.

But she didn’t.

She stayed.

The hours passed, the rain never stopping. Paige sat down on the porch steps, her body growing heavier by the second. She could feel exhaustion creeping in, the cold seeping into her bones, but none of it compared to the ache inside her chest.

Paige remained frozen, rain dripping down her face like the tears she refused to wipe away. Her hands curled into fists against the pavement, her chest rising and falling in uneven gasps.

She had done this.

She had lost you.

She had broken you.

And now, she had to live with it.

The TV droned on in the background, just noise to fill the silence of your apartment. You weren’t paying much attention—until a familiar name made your head snap up.

"Paige Bueckers will not be playing tonight due to illness," the commentator announced. "The Wings star guard was ruled out earlier today, and sources say she’s been battling a high fever."

You stared at the screen, something tightening in your chest. Paige was sick. You should’ve felt indifferent. You should’ve ignored the small flicker of concern gnawing at you. But the news unsettled you more than you wanted to admit.

Still, it wasn’t your problem. Not anymore.

You turned off the TV.

Your phone buzzed on the counter, the screen lighting up with a familiar name. Paige.

You hesitated. You had seen the news earlier—Paige was out for the game due to illness. You felt something twist in your chest, but you ignored it. This wasn’t your problem. Not anymore.

But then the phone rang again. And again. Until, finally, with an exhausted sigh, you answered.

"What?"

Heavy breathing. A ragged inhale, followed by a weak exhale.

"Please…" Paige’s voice was barely above a whisper, thick with fever and exhaustion. "I’m sorry. Please."

You clenched your jaw. "Stop.”

"I need you."

Your stomach flipped. Her words, raw and desperate, sent a pang of guilt through you. You closed your eyes, gripping the phone tighter. "You have teammates. Friends. Call one of them."

"No," she croaked. "I don’t want anybody else."

Silence stretched between you. Paige sniffled, her breathing uneven, like even talking was taking too much effort.

You knew she was alone. You knew she had no one here in LA.

But the pain that she had caused you was still fresh, so you ended the call.

The news broke early that morning.

"Paige Bueckers ruled out for tonight’s game due to illness."

Sports analysts speculated, fans panicked, and the media churned out theories. But the truth was far simpler—Paige had spent the entire night outside in the rain, and now her body was paying the price.

Her fever spiked, her limbs felt like lead, and every breath rattled in her chest. Yet, none of it compared to the hollow ache gnawing at her insides. She had done this to herself. She had deserved it.

Still, the Dallas Wings needed her, and she wasn’t used to sitting out. She had fought through injuries before, played through pain. But when she tried to get up that morning, the world tilted so violently that she collapsed back onto the bed.

She wasn’t going anywhere.

The game came and went without her, a rare absence that sent shockwaves through the team. The Wings pulled off a win, but Arike had barely processed it. The second the final buzzer sounded, she was out the door, heading straight for Paige’s place.

When she got there, it was worse than she expected.

Paige was curled up under a mess of blankets, her usually sharp blue eyes dull with exhaustion. Her skin was pale, lips chapped, her whole body radiating fever.

“You look like shit,” Arike muttered, dropping a bag of food onto the nightstand. “You even been eating?”

Paige barely moved. “Not hungry.”

Arike rolled her eyes, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Of course you’re not.” She reached out, pressing the back of her hand to Paige’s forehead. The heat was immediate. “Damn, Bueckers. You’re burning up.”

Paige didn’t respond.

Arike sighed, rubbing a hand down her face. “Look, I don’t know what kind of self-destructive spiral you’re on, but this isn’t it. You need to rest, hydrate, eat—”

“I just need her,” Paige mumbled weakly.

Arike stilled, then let out a slow breath. “You’re serious?”

Paige turned her head slightly, barely meeting Arike’s gaze.

That was all the confirmation she needed.

“Jesus Christ.” Arike stood abruptly, frustration rolling off her in waves. “You’re sitting here, making yourself miserable over someone who clearly doesn’t want to deal with your bullshit anymore?”

Paige’s fingers curled into the blankets. “She doesn’t hate me.”

Arike scoffed. “You sure about that?”

Paige didn’t answer.

Arike sighed again, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Fine. You’re useless like this.” She snatched Paige’s phone off the nightstand and started dialing.

“What are you doing?” Paige croaked, attempting to sit up.

“Fixing your mess.”

Paige’s heart pounded as she watched Arike bring the phone to her ear. The ringing felt deafening in the quiet room.

No answer.

“Shocking,” Arike muttered.

Paige sank back against the pillows, the rejection hitting her harder than it should have.

But Arike wasn’t done. She pulled out her own phone, punched in a number, and held it to her ear.

A pause. Then—

“…Hello?”

Paige froze.

Arike raised an eyebrow, surprised you had answered an unknown number. “Oh, now you pick up?”

You sighed on the other end. “Who is this?”

Arike crossed her arms. “This is Arike Ogunbowale. You don’t know me, but I know you.”

A beat of silence. Arike, Paige’s teammate. Then your voice, wary. “…Paige told you about me?”

Arike let out a dry laugh. “Not exactly. She’s delirious with fever and still only saying your name. It’s pathetic.”

You inhaled sharply, clearly caught off guard. “That’s not my problem.”

“Yeah, well, it’s somebody’s problem because she’s a damn mess.” Arike paced the room, frustration seeping into her voice. “I don’t know what the hell happened between you two, and honestly, I don’t care. But she won’t sleep, won’t eat, won’t even try to get better. She’s self-destructing right in front of me, and she’s saying you’re the only one who can snap her out of it.”

You exhaled slowly. “I’m not coming.”

Paige, who had been listening quietly, let out a hoarse whisper, “It’s fine.”

Arike turned to look at her. Paige’s eyes were half-lidded, exhaustion pulling at her features. She reached weakly for the phone, but Arike didn’t hand it over.

“Just stay on the line,” Paige murmured, voice barely audible. “Please.”

A long silence stretched over the call.

Then, finally—

“…Fine.”

Arike huffed, rolling her eyes. “Unbelievable.” She placed the phone on speaker and set it on the nightstand, shaking her head. “This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen.”

Paige barely heard her. The sound of your breathing through the speaker was enough.

She let her eyes drift shut, body sinking into the mattress.

The fever still burned, her chest still ached, but for the first time in days, she felt like she could finally fall asleep.

You weren’t avoiding Paige.

Not really.

You were just… staying off social media. You weren’t checking your mentions, weren’t scrolling through your feed, weren’t leaving any digital footprints that could drag you back into the mess. It wasn’t about her anymore. You had a life—a good one—and you weren’t about to let the ghost of Paige Bueckers haunt it any longer.

But the world had other plans.

Your office was bright with the glow of overhead lights, the soft hum of keyboards clicking filling the air. Colleagues moved around you, caught up in their own tasks, their own conversations. It was just another workday. Until—

"And in sports news, the Dallas Wings secured a win tonight, led by a dominant performance from Paige Bueckers, who returned to the court after missing a game due to illness—"

Your stomach twisted.

You hadn’t meant to look. Hadn’t meant to care. But the TV in the lounge area, just a few steps from your desk, was impossible to ignore. And the second her name hit the airwaves, your body betrayed you. Your eyes flicked up to the screen before you could stop yourself.

There she was.

Paige, standing at the podium, still in her jersey, hair damp with sweat. She looked exhausted but determined, her fingers flexing around the microphone as the reporters fired questions.

"Paige, after missing last game, you came back with a statement win. What fueled that kind of performance?"

Paige exhaled, looking down briefly before speaking.

"I guess I’ve been playing against myself more than anyone else lately."

A murmur rippled through the press room. She wasn’t looking at the reporters anymore. Her eyes were somewhere far away, somewhere heavier.

"Care to elaborate?"

Paige let out a small, breathy laugh. The kind that wasn’t really a laugh at all.

"I’ve just been… stupid," she admitted. "With my actions. With my choices. With the people I should’ve cared about but didn’t."

A hush fell over the room.

"Is this about someone specific?" another reporter asked, voice laced with curiosity.

Paige’s grip on the mic tightened.

"Yeah."

That was it. Just one word.

The room erupted, reporters shouting over each other, fans online likely blowing up with speculation. But Paige wasn’t looking at them anymore. She was looking down, shaking her head at herself, frustration evident in the furrow of her brows.

"I keep losing my chance," she muttered, almost like she hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

Your pulse kicked up.

You knew the internet would dissect this moment, picking apart every syllable. Who was she talking about? Who was the mysterious girl Paige Bueckers had lost her chance with?

You didn’t need to wonder. You already knew.

A colleague passed by, nudging you playfully. "Damn, even Bueckers is getting sentimental out here. Wonder who she’s talking about."

You forced a chuckle. "Yeah, who knows."

You walked back to your desk, ignoring the glances, the murmurs, the growing buzz around the interview. Your fingers hovered over your phone, instinct begging you to check your notifications.

You didn’t.

But then—

Your phone vibrated against your desk.

A message.

From her.

Your heart clenched, but you didn't open it right away. Instead, you just stared at her name, like it had the power to pull you back into something you weren’t sure you could escape.

Eventually, curiosity—or maybe something deeper—won out.

Paige: I know I have no right to ask for anything from you. But if I could take everything back, I would. If I could fix the way I broke you, I would. I was so caught up in my own ego, my own hurt, that I didn’t see what I was doing to you. And I’m sorry. I really am. I know it’s probably too late, but I just needed you to know that.

You exhaled slowly, the weight of her words settling in.

It wasn’t that you weren’t hurt anymore. You were.

But for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel the need to carry it.

It started with flowers.

A stunning arrangement of white lilies and soft pink roses sat on your desk when you arrived at work, standing out against the neutral tones of your office. The card attached was simple, handwritten in familiar, slanted print:

"I hope today is kind to you."

No name. No indication of who sent it. But you knew.

You stared at the flowers for too long, ignoring the knowing glances from your colleagues as you sat down. You considered throwing them away, but your fingers hesitated over the stems. Eventually, you just left them there, untouched yet unmoved.

Then, the next day—food.

Your favorite takeout, delivered right to your doorstep. The exact order, down to the extra sauce packets and the drink you always paired it with. A note tucked inside the bag:

"Eat well. You forget sometimes."

And the next—books.

Not just any books. The ones you had mentioned in passing before, the ones you had gushed about without thinking she was really listening. Each one arriving in a neat package, carefully wrapped, with another note.

"I remember the way your eyes lit up when you talked about this one."

It kept happening. Sweet nothings disguised as small, thoughtful gestures.

A playlist sent to your email, filled with songs that made you feel something once. A coffee, bought and paid for before you even placed your order at your usual café. Letters—actual handwritten letters—left in your mailbox, in your car, on your desk at work.

They weren’t long. Just little thoughts, little confessions.

"I know I don’t deserve to reach for you again, but I can’t seem to stop."

"I replay everything in my head, over and over. Wishing I had done it differently. Wishing I had just held onto you instead of pushing you away."

"You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know."

You didn’t know what to do with any of it.

Because Paige Bueckers does not pursue people.

She does not chase. She does not fold. She does not give herself away so easily.

And yet, here she was.

Quietly, persistently, undeniably—clearly pursuing you.

And you didn’t understand why.

The session ran longer than expected.

You had barely spoken for the first fifteen minutes, staring at the clock, willing time to move faster. But your therapist had a way of sitting with silence that made it unbearable, so eventually, you caved. You talked. Not about her, not directly. But about the weight on your chest, the exhaustion in your bones, the way you were so tired of looking over your shoulder—whether for ghosts or for her, you weren’t sure anymore.

You thought it helped, for a while. Until you stepped out of the office and saw her.

Paige.

Waiting.

She was standing a few feet away from the exit, leaning against the hood of her car, head down, hands buried in the pockets of her hoodie. She looked different. There were shadows beneath her eyes, like sleep had become a foreign concept. Her posture was all wrong—hesitant, unsure, small.

And then, as if sensing your presence, she looked up.

The second your eyes met, your stomach dropped.

She didn’t move right away, just studied you like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to. But you weren’t going to wait for her to find the courage. You turned, ready to walk right past her—

“Wait.” Her voice cracked.

You ignored her.

“Please.”

Something in the way she said it made your steps falter. Not desperate—broken. Like she had lost something she would never find again.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and faced her. “Why are you here?”

Paige exhaled sharply, shoving a hand through her hair. “I don’t know how to let you go.”

Your lips curled into something humorless. “You had no problem doing it before.”

She flinched. “I—”

“No.” Your voice sharpened, cutting through whatever pathetic excuse she was about to give. “Don’t stand here and act like you care. You don’t get to care, Paige. You lost that right when you—” Your voice cracked, and you hated yourself for it.

Paige stepped forward, panic flashing in her eyes. “I do care. I never stopped.”

You laughed, short and sharp, shaking your head. “You have a sick way of showing it.”

She looked down, swallowing hard. “I know,” she whispered.

Silence stretched between you. The wind howled through the parking lot, biting at your skin. You clenched your fists, grounding yourself.

“I had to start over,” you finally said, voice quieter now. “I had to claw my way out of the hole you threw me in. And now I’m back here. In this hellhole. Because of you.”

Paige’s breathing turned uneven. “I’m sorry.”

You scoffed. “Sorry doesn’t fix anything.”

She took another step closer, hesitantly, like she was approaching something fragile. “Then tell me what does.”

You laughed again, this time bitter. “You leaving.”

Paige’s entire body tensed, like the words physically hurt her. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I love you.”

The breath left your lungs.

Paige must have seen the way you tensed, because she rushed forward, desperation spilling from her every movement. “I didn’t realize it until it was too late. I was so stuck in my own head, so caught up in punishing you, in punishing myself, that I—I destroyed us.” Her voice wavered. “And then you were gone, and I thought—I thought I could live with it. I thought I deserved to.”

She dropped her head, exhaling shakily.

“But I can’t.”

You stared at her, something ugly twisting inside your chest. “You don’t get to say that,” you whispered.

“I know,” she said immediately. “I know I don’t deserve another chance. I know I don’t deserve you. But I swear to God, if I could take it back—” Her voice cracked, and she took a deep, shuddering breath. “I just want to fix it.”

You felt lightheaded. Your breath was coming too fast, your hands were shaking, your mind screaming at you to run.

But Paige didn’t stop.

“I don’t care how long it takes,” she continued, voice thick with emotion. “I’ll prove it to you. I’ll prove that I—”

“Shut up.”

Paige froze.

You pressed your hands against your temples, trying to breathe. Trying to stay here. But everything was spinning, spiraling out of control.

She reached for you.

You yanked away. “Why are you still here?!”

Paige’s lips parted, something terrified flashing in her expression.

You stumbled back, vision going blurry. “You ruin me,” you whispered.

And then the world tilted.

The last thing you heard was Paige’s panicked voice calling your name before the ground disappeared beneath you.

The first thing you registered was warmth.

Soft sheets. The distant hum of the air conditioning. The faint scent of something familiar—clean linen, a hint of lavender and musk. Your head felt heavy, as if your body was reluctant to pull itself back into awareness.

You blinked against the dim glow of the bedside lamp, your vision adjusting to the dark. The room was unfamiliar. Not yours. Panic started creeping in, curling around your chest like a vice.

Where were you?

You forced yourself upright, the world tilting slightly as you did. The movement stirred something in the room. A quiet rustle. You turned your head, pulse spiking—

Paige.

She was on the couch a few feet away, curled into herself, a blanket draped haphazardly over her legs. Her breathing was steady, deep—she was asleep.

Your heart hammered against your ribs.

What the hell is going on?

You barely remembered what happened. Just fragments. The fight. The weight of your own emotions crushing you until your body finally gave out.

And Paige—she must have been the one who—

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, desperate to leave, but the slight creak of the mattress was enough to rouse her.

She stirred, shifting under the blanket. Then, as if instinctually attuned to your presence, she blinked awake, eyes immediately locking onto yours.

“You’re up,” she murmured, her voice laced with sleep.

You didn’t respond. Your mind was still trying to catch up with the reality of where you were.

Paige rubbed at her eyes, pushing herself upright. “How do you feel?”

You swallowed, trying to ignore the tightness in your throat. “Where am I?”

“My place.”

Your pulse spiked again. “Why—why would you—”

Paige must have seen the rising panic on your face because she quickly sat forward, hands raised in a placating gesture. “You fainted. I—I didn’t know where else to take you.”

“My house.” Your voice was hoarse.

She exhaled, nodding. “I know. I just—” She hesitated, running a hand through her hair. “I didn’t want to leave you alone.”

Your stomach twisted.

Paige glanced away, almost shyly. “I told Nat. She knows you’re here.”

That startled you. Paige and Nat had barely ever spoken—at least, not before everything had fallen apart. The fact that Paige had reached out out of respect rather than possessiveness felt… unfamiliar.

Different.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

A thick silence settled between you.

Then Paige, ever careful, ever hesitant, asked, “Are you hungry?”

You barely processed the question, still too overwhelmed by everything else. Your fingers gripped the sheets, grounding yourself. “I just… I want to go home.”

Something flickered in Paige’s eyes—something pained. But she nodded immediately, standing. “Okay,” she said quickly. “Okay, yeah. Of course.”

She stepped toward you, hands twitching at her sides, like she wanted to help you stand but didn’t know if she was allowed. You stood on your own, though your legs still felt unsteady. The room spun slightly.

Paige noticed.

She was in front of you in an instant, not touching, but there. “Wait—are you okay? Maybe sit down for a second—”

You shook your head, your breathing quickening. “No, I—I need to go.”

Paige hesitated, clearly torn between wanting to respect your boundaries and the instinct to make sure you were okay.

You must have looked as wrecked as you felt because something in her expression cracked.

“Alright,” she said, softer this time. “I’ll take you home.”

The way she said it—like she would’ve agreed to anything you asked, no matter how much it killed her—made something inside you ache.

The drive home was wrapped in silence.

Paige kept her hands on the wheel, fingers gripping a little too tight, knuckles pale in the dim streetlights. You stared out the window, watching the world blur past, your mind miles away.

Neither of you spoke.

It wasn’t the same silence that had once been filled with resentment or anger. No, this was something heavier—an understanding of all the wreckage between you, too vast to be stitched together with simple words.

When she finally pulled up to your place, she didn’t move to leave. She sat there, hands still on the wheel, hesitant, uncertain.

You sighed, exhausted. “You can go now.”

Paige swallowed, hesitant. “Can I stay?”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t nod, didn’t shake your head. You just got out of the car and walked inside.

And somehow, Paige took that as a yes.

You didn’t look back, but you heard her follow—her soft footsteps trailing behind yours, careful and unsure, as if waiting for you to tell her to stop. But you didn’t.

She didn’t go any further than the living room.

You saw her out of the corner of your eye as you walked past—standing there, lingering, hands shoved into her pockets, shoulders tense. Like she didn’t know what to do now that she was here.

You didn’t care.

You shut the door to your room behind you and leaned against it, exhaling sharply.

Paige didn’t leave.

You could hear her moving around in the living room, barely making a sound, but her presence was unmistakable. It was unsettling.

For so long, Paige had been a force of destruction in your life, a storm that never left anything untouched. And yet, now, she moved differently. Like she was afraid of breaking what was left of you.

You sat on the edge of your bed, hands clasped together, trying to gather your thoughts.

This wasn’t making sense.

Why was she still here?

Why was she doing all of this?

You had spent so long thinking of Paige as the villain in your story, the selfish, reckless storm that had torn through your life without a second thought. And now, here she was—lingering, waiting, desperate to mend what she’d shattered.

What the hell was her hidden agenda?

The thought clawed at you until you couldn’t sit still anymore.

You pushed the door open, stepping back into the dimly lit living room. Paige was there, sitting on the couch, her hands clasped between her knees, eyes distant.

She looked up the second you entered.

You exhaled sharply. “Alright, what is it?”

Paige blinked. “What?”

“You,” you said, crossing your arms. “What are you doing? What’s your plan? Your angle?”

Paige’s brows furrowed. “I don’t have one.”

You scoffed. “Right. Because you just suddenly decided you care? After everything?”

She flinched.

You didn’t stop. “After months of making my life hell? After making sure I had nothing left at UConn? After ruining everything I tried to rebuild here in LA?” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t care. “You don’t get to just show up, apologize a couple of times, and act like we can go back to normal.”

Paige stood then, slow and careful, like she knew you were on the verge of breaking all over again.

“I know,” she said, voice quiet but steady. “I know I don’t deserve anything from you. I know I ruined everything. I—” She exhaled, shaking her head. “I was selfish. And cruel. And I thought if I could make you hurt even half as much as I was hurting, it would make it easier.”

You stared at her. “And did it?”

Paige swallowed hard. “No,” she admitted. “It only made me lose the only person I ever—” She stopped herself, shaking her head. “I just— I don’t want to be that person anymore.”

You clenched your jaw, willing yourself to keep your emotions in check. “And what? You want me to just believe you?”

��No,” Paige said, stepping closer. “I want to prove it to you.”

You felt the heat of her presence now, the way she was looking at you like she was barely holding herself back.

She inhaled sharply, gathering herself before she said, “I want to apologize. To everyone. To Natalie” Paige hesitated, eyes flickering with something unreadable.

That caught you off guard.

“You… what?”

“I hurt her too,” Paige said simply. “I ruined what you had with her, and I never once considered what that meant for her.” She met your gaze, steady and sure. “If I’m going to do this right, then I need to do it right. And I need to start there.”

You didn’t know what to say.

For months, you had dreamed of hearing Paige apologize, of seeing her wrecked with regret. And now that it was happening, you didn’t know what to do with it.

She was changing. You could see it in her eyes, in the way she carried herself. But could you trust it?

Paige seemed to sense your hesitation because she took another step closer, just close enough that you could see the sincerity written all over her face.

“Just let me try,” she murmured. “I’m not asking for anything else.”

You stared at her for a long moment, then looked away.

You weren’t going to give her an answer.

Paige exhaled, like she expected that.

Still, she didn’t take it as a no.

Paige didn’t stop.

She didn’t hesitate.

She pursued you the way she pursued basketball—with relentless, unwavering determination.

But this time, it wasn’t for a game. It wasn’t about winning.

It was about you.

And for once, she wasn’t trying to take anything from you. She was trying to give.

It started small.

A text every morning, even when you didn’t reply.

Paige: Good morning. Hope today’s not too shitty. Paige: Or if it is, at least let it be the fun kind of shitty.

A reminder before your therapy sessions.

Paige: You got this. No running out halfway through, okay?

And after.

Paige: Didn’t wanna bug you, but… how was it?

She never pushed. Never demanded anything.

But she was there. Always.

You told yourself it was just guilt, that she was overcompensating for the past. That she’d eventually get tired of it.

She never did.

When you got home from a session one day, Paige was there.

She wasn’t waiting on your doorstep like some lovesick idiot, though. She was sitting in her car, parked across the street, looking at her phone.

You hesitated, but when she glanced up and saw you, she smiled. It wasn’t cocky or teasing. Just… warm.

“Hey.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “You don’t have to keep doing this.”

Paige tilted her head. “Doing what?”

“Hovering.”

“I’m not hovering.” She shoved her hands into her pockets. “I’m making sure you’re okay.”

You exhaled. “Why?”

Her expression softened. “Because I want to.”

You shook your head, but she didn’t let you shut her out.

“Did you eat?” she asked, changing the subject entirely.

You blinked at her. “What?”

“Food,” Paige said. “You know, that thing that keeps you alive? Did you have any today?”

You hesitated, and that was all the answer she needed.

She sighed and shook her head. “Come on.”

Before you could protest, she was already moving, grabbing the grocery bag from the passenger seat of her car.

You narrowed your eyes. “What is that?”

“Food,” she said simply. “You’re gonna sit down, and I’m gonna cook.”

You scoffed. “Since when do you cook?”

Paige smirked. “Since right now.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but then she was already stepping past you, into your apartment like she belonged there.

And for some reason… you let her.

She was awful at cooking.

You could tell by the way she furrowed her brows at the stove, as if willing it to make sense.

“Jesus,” you muttered, watching her struggle. “I should’ve just ordered takeout.”

“Shut up,” Paige shot back, gripping the spatula like it personally offended her. “I got this.”

She did not, in fact, have this.

The chicken was overcooked, the rice slightly burnt, but she still placed the plate in front of you with a proud grin.

You stared at the mess of a meal. “You sure you didn’t just try to poison me?”

Paige gasped. “Wow. This is what I get for trying to feed you?”

You huffed, but your lips twitched.

And when you actually took a bite, despite how disastrous it looked, it wasn’t terrible.

Paige watched you like a puppy waiting for praise.

You rolled your eyes. “It’s… edible.”

Her grin widened. “You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

Paige laughed, and something about the sound was so genuine, so light, that you forgot, just for a second, about all the things she had done before.

She kept showing up.

She didn’t ask for anything in return.

She didn’t try to force you into forgiving her.

She just… made herself present.

When you had therapy, she’d be outside, waiting, even if she never said a word about it.

When you had a bad day, she’d drop off your favorite snacks, sending nothing but a simple text:

Paige: In case today sucked. And if it didn’t, then congrats. Free snacks.

She walked you through your panic attacks, through the days where you didn’t even want to get out of bed.

She learned how to help, the right things to say, the right way to be there without suffocating you.

She even got you to laugh again.

And somewhere, somehow, through all of it…

You started to believe her.

For the first time in a long time, everything felt… good.

Not just tolerable. Not just okay. But good.

Paige had worked her way back into your life, brick by brick, never rushing, never demanding more than what you could give. And somehow, you found yourself meeting her halfway without even realizing it.

Even Natalie had softened.

She had always been observant, even when you didn’t realize it. Maybe that’s why she wasn’t surprised when she saw Paige lingering around more, the conversations shifting from tension-filled to teasing, the way you started looking at her with something other than exhaustion.

One afternoon, you met up with Nat at your usual café. She stirred her tea absentmindedly, looking at you with a knowing smirk. “So… you and Paige?”

You tensed, feeling the weight of guilt rise, but she just chuckled and shook her head. “Relax. I knew this was coming the second she stepped back into town.”

You swallowed. “You sure you’re okay with it?”

She took a sip before setting her cup down. “I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting a little at first. But I know you.” She met your gaze. “And I know her. And honestly? I think she gets it now.”

You exhaled, something in your chest loosening. “She does.”

Nat nodded. “Good. Then I’m happy for you.”

And just like that, the last lingering piece of guilt melted away. You reached across the table, squeezing her hand, silently thanking her for everything. She squeezed back, smiling.

She still gave Paige a hard time—because of course she did—but the tension that once strangled the air between them had eased.

You caught them talking the other day when they thought you weren’t listening.

“You really love her, don’t you?” Natalie had said, arms crossed, a knowing look in her eyes.

Paige had gone quiet for a moment before answering.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “I do.”

And maybe, deep down, you’d already known. But hearing it like that, so soft and certain, had done something to you.

Because even you had to admit it now.

You were falling for her again.

But this time, it wasn’t reckless.

It wasn’t blind.

It wasn’t naive.

Paige had earned it.

You were sitting on the couch one night, half-asleep against Paige’s shoulder, when she broke the comfortable silence.

“Be mine.”

It was so quiet, so gentle, that for a second, you thought you imagined it.

You blinked up at her, groggy and confused. “Huh?”

Paige shifted, turning toward you slightly, her face inches from yours.

“I’m asking you to be mine,” she said, a nervous edge to her voice. “For real this time.”

You swallowed, your heart thumping in your chest.

She’d never asked before.

Not like this.

Before, she had taken. Assumed. Expected.

But now?

She was giving you the choice.

And for once, it didn’t feel like a mistake.

It felt… right.

So you exhaled, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Took you long enough.”

Paige grinned, wide and breathtaking, and before you could say anything else, she kissed you.

It was soft, careful, nothing like the reckless desperation of the past.

It felt like home.

And maybe, just maybe, you were finally ready to let yourself have this.

Paige had been nothing but perfect these past few weeks. The way she handled you with care, the way she was making up for everything—there wasn’t a moment you doubted that she wanted this, that she wanted you. And for the first time in a long time, things were steady, safe.

Until now.

You hadn’t meant to spiral. You hadn’t meant to let the past claw its way back into your mind and wrap around your heart like a vice, but the moment you saw Azzi’s name attached to a post, everything cracked.

Her name was everywhere.

She was back in town for a WNBA event, one that Paige was also attending.

And suddenly, everything felt off-kilter.

You tried to ignore it.

Tried to remind yourself that Paige was here, with you, that she had chosen you.

But the past had a way of creeping up when you least expected it.

Paige noticed your shift immediately.

“You okay?” she asked, her hand warm over yours.

You nodded, too quickly. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Paige frowned, unconvinced. “You sure?”

You forced a smile. “Positive.”

But you both knew it was a lie.

Because for the first time since you had let her back in, you felt the creeping weight of doubt.

And you hated it.

Paige had promised to keep you updated.

She was out with her old teammates for the WNBA event—nothing crazy, just catching up with the people who had been her family for years.

And true to her word, she sent little updates throughout the night.

Paige: Just got here. You’d love this restaurant.

Paige: Nika already started roasting me. Save me.

Paige: Aaliyah won’t stop talking about her dog. I might steal him.

You smiled at the messages, heart warm despite the small sting of unease. You weren’t jealous exactly. You just… didn’t like how much Azzi’s presence rattled you.

Paige was yours now.

She had worked for this.

She had chosen you.

So why did it feel like you were losing your grip on something fragile?

The answer came an hour later, when you casually opened Instagram and saw the stories.

Nika had posted first—just a blurry boomerang of the table, drinks clinking together. Harmless, laughter frozen in time. Paige was there, right where she said she’d be, and it shouldn’t have been a problem.

Then Aaliyah’s story. A candid shot of Paige leaning in close to Azzi, heads tilted in conversation. A short clip of the two of them laughing about something you weren’t in on. Familiarity. History. A connection you would never understand.

Your chest tightened. Your stomach twisted, your fingers tightening around your phone.

It was stupid, so stupid.

But you couldn’t stop the sinking feeling, the sharp ache in your chest.

Paige was supposed to be yours.

Why did it look like she was still hers?

You knew Paige was different now. You knew she loved you. But you had also seen her once, broken and desperate, begging Azzi not to leave. You had seen the way she had once needed her like air. And maybe Paige didn’t realize it, but you did. And it hurt.

You didn’t even think before your fingers were typing, before you pressed send.

You: I can’t do this. We’re done. Don’t come back.

The weight in your chest grew heavier the second the message delivered. Your phone vibrated immediately after. Paige. Calling, then texting. You ignored each one.

Paige: What?? What are you talking about??

Paige: Baby, please, talk to me.

Your throat burned as you threw your phone onto the bed, gripping your hair. Why did this hurt so much? Why did you feel like you were right back where you started?

You had come so far. You had healed. Paige had healed.

So why did it feel like she was slipping through your fingers all over again?

Paige was losing it.

And for a long time, she just stared at it, rereading the words over and over as if they would change.

We’re done.

She didn’t understand.

What the hell had just happened?

She had rushed back to her hotel the moment she saw your text, heart hammering, mind racing. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t fair. You were finally good, she was finally good, and now this?

She pulled out her phone hoping to see your reply. Nothing. But then she saw it.

Aaliyah’s story.

Azzi next to her, too close, too familiar.

Realization hit Paige like a truck.

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath. Standing abruptly and grabbing her things.

“Where are you going?” Nika asked, raising a brow. They followed Paige back to the hotel.

The stories. That’s the only thing it could be. The way you ghosted her, the way you shut her out—it had to be because of what you saw.

But it wasn’t what you thought. Not even close.

Paige paced her hotel room before making a decision. She grabbed her jacket and turned to Azzi, who sat on the couch, watching her cautiously.

“I need you to come with me,” Paige said, voice tight. “I need you to help me fix this.”

Azzi frowned. “Paige—”

“I know it’s a lot to ask, but I need her to hear it from you. Please.”

Azzi hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Alright. Let’s go.”

The knocking on your door was relentless. You sat curled up on the couch, hugging your knees, willing it all to stop. But Paige was nothing if not persistent.

“Please open the door,” Paige’s voice came through, raw and strained. “Please, baby. I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”

You stayed still.

Then another voice. Softer. Hesitant.

“It’s Azzi.”

That made you flinch. You weren’t expecting that. You weren’t sure you even wanted to see her, but something about her tone made you move.

With a deep breath, you opened the door. Paige looked wrecked, eyes desperate, hands clenched like she was holding herself back from reaching for you. And beside her stood Azzi, quiet but resolute.

Paige took a step forward, but Azzi gently held her back. “Let me talk to her first.”

Paige hesitated, jaw tightening, but she nodded and stepped away.

You swallowed, stepping back to let Azzi inside. The air between you was thick, heavy with unspoken things.

Azzi sighed, running a hand through her hair before meeting your eyes. “Look. I know why you’re upset. And I get it.”

You clenched your fists. “Do you?”

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. I do. Because I was there when Paige was falling apart over me, and I know how hard that must be for you to forget.”

You exhaled sharply, looking away.

“But that’s not what’s happening here,” Azzi continued. “I’m not here for Paige. I haven’t been for a long time. And Paige isn’t here for me.”

You bit your lip, shaking your head. “Then what was that? What did I see?”

Azzi smiled sadly. “Two people with a lot of history catching up. That’s all.” She tilted her head, watching you. “Paige only talked about you. About how happy she finally is. About how she doesn’t want to mess this up.”

Your breath hitched.

“She loves you,” Azzi said, firm but kind. “And if you love her too, then don’t let your fears ruin what you two have built.”

You closed your eyes, shoulders sinking. You knew she was right. You had known the second you sent that text that it wasn’t fair, that it wasn’t what you truly wanted.

Azzi hesitated before adding, “And you know, even when we were together… Paige had her eyes on you then.”

Your head snapped up. “What?”

Azzi gave a small, knowing smile. “She used to tell me stories about this girl in her psych class. How smart she was, how she always had the right answers, how she carried herself.” She chuckled dryly. “I should’ve known then.”

You swallowed hard.

“I even saw a picture of you on her phone once. A candid. I let it slide. Didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.” Azzi looked down. “But when I saw those pictures of you two kissing that night, it clicked. You think she just randomly picked you? Paige may be bad at her decisions but her self-control is everything. I knew right away that I’d already lost.” She exhaled. “Paige was just too stupid to realize where her heart belonged sooner.”

Shock washed over you. Your mind raced, connecting the dots, seeing the truth that had been right there all along.

Azzi sighed, stepping back toward the door. “Talk to her.”

She opened it, revealing Paige still standing there, arms wrapped around herself like she was holding herself together. Her eyes were glassy, pleading, hopeful.

Azzi gave her a small nod before stepping out, leaving you alone with Paige.

Paige took a shaky breath. “Please don’t leave me.”

Your heart clenched.

“I swear to you, I only want you,” she whispered, stepping forward. “If I have to spend every day proving that to you, I will.”

You bit your lip, trying to stay firm, but the pain in her voice cracked something in you.

Paige reached for your hand, gripping it tightly. “I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Tears pricked your eyes. Maybe it was time to stop running.

Maybe it was time to believe.

The weight of the misunderstanding still lingered in the air, but as Paige sat beside you on your couch, her fingers idly tracing circles on the back of your hand, you realized something—you didn’t want to waste any more time being afraid.

She had proven herself. Over and over again. And now, with everything out in the open, there was nothing left to doubt.

You turned to her, watching as she stared down at your hands, like she was afraid to meet your eyes. You smirked a little, the tension finally ebbing away. "So… all this time?"

Paige blinked, glancing up. "Huh?"

"All this time," you repeated, amusement dancing in your voice. "You had your eyes on me even when you were with Azzi?"

Paige let out a groan, immediately covering her face with her free hand. "Oh my God. We just fixed things, don’t make me die of embarrassment now."

You laughed, feeling lighter than you had in days. "I mean, it’s kind of a big deal. Azzi straight-up told me she caught you talking about me all the time, and that she even saw a picture of me on your phone before. Paige, you were so obvious."

Paige peeked through her fingers, her face flushed. "I wasn't obvious."

You raised an eyebrow. "You told your girlfriend back then that there was a girl in your psych class who was so smart and cool."

Paige groaned again, flopping onto your lap. "I hate this. I hate that Azzi told you everything."

You grinned, running your fingers through her hair. "So, it’s true then? You’ve been into me since way back?"

Paige let out a dramatic sigh, her warm breath against your thigh. "Fine. Yes. I had a stupid crush on you since psych class. Happy now?"

You tilted your head, pretending to think. "Hmm. I don't know. I might need more details."

She turned her head to look up at you, her eyes soft and affectionate. "You really want to know?"

You nodded, and she sat up, shifting so she could face you properly. Taking your hands in hers, she squeezed lightly. "You were different from everyone else. You never looked at me like I was some superstar or some untouchable athlete. You just—" Paige exhaled, shaking her head as if she were back in that time. "You treated me like a normal person. Like I was just some girl in your class who had to work for your attention. And I—I liked that more than I should have."

You swallowed, your chest warming. "Paige…"

She let out a small, nervous laugh. "I didn’t even realize what it meant back then. I just knew that I always found myself looking for you in class, wanting to impress you, wanting to make you laugh. And when I saw you at that bar that night…" Her thumb brushed over your knuckles. "I guess a part of me just couldn’t resist anymore."

Your heart thudded in your chest. "You really are stupid, huh?"

Paige laughed, shaking her head. "The absolute worst."

You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. "Lucky for you, I have a soft spot for idiots."

She grinned against your mouth, her arms wrapping around you to pull you close. "Yeah? Think you can keep loving this idiot?"

You smiled, your forehead resting against hers. "I think I already do."

Paige’s breath hitched, her arms tightening around you before she kissed you again, deeper this time. Everything that had weighed you both down before was gone, replaced with warmth, certainty, and love.

And for once, there was no fear—just you and Paige, exactly where you were always meant to be.

Mornings were slow and peaceful now. No more waking up with a knot in your stomach, no more wondering if you’d lose Paige again. Instead, there was warmth—Paige’s arms wrapped around you, her steady breathing against your neck, the sleepy murmurs of her voice as she pulled you closer, reluctant to start the day without at least ten more minutes of holding you.

“Babe,” you mumbled, shifting in her embrace. “We have to get up.”

Paige groaned, tightening her grip. “Five more minutes.”

“You said that ten minutes ago.”

“Did I?” she teased, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “My bad. Guess we’re stuck here forever.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was full. This was your daily life now—waking up next to Paige, teasing each other, lingering in bed because neither of you wanted to leave the comfort of your little world.

Eventually, you managed to slip out of her grasp and start breakfast, but Paige wasn’t far behind. She walked into the kitchen, hair messy. She looked at you with that lazy, lopsided grin, the one that made your heart stutter even now.

“What’s on the menu, chef?” she asked, resting her chin on your shoulder as you flipped a pancake.

“Food you don’t deserve after trying to trap me in bed all morning.”

Paige laughed, wrapping her arms around your waist. “I was only trying to make up for all those wasted years when I was too stupid to see what was right in front of me.”

You smirked, setting the spatula down. “Oh? You mean all those years you spent secretly pining over me while dating Azzi?”

Paige groaned dramatically, burying her face in your neck. “Are you ever gonna let me live that down?”

“Never,” you teased, turning in her arms. “It’s my favorite thing to think about. Little freshman Paige, sitting in psych class, staring at me instead of taking notes.”

She huffed but couldn’t hide the sheepish smile tugging at her lips. “I wasn’t staring.”

“Right,” you drawled. “Just admiring from afar?”

Paige rolled her eyes, but she was grinning. “Fine. Maybe I did have a tiny, minuscule, microscopic crush on you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Microscopic, huh? So microscopic you had a picture of me on your phone?”

Paige groaned again, resting her forehead against yours. “I should’ve never let Azzi tell you that.”

You chuckled, feeling entirely too smug. “Too late. I’m never letting it go.”

Paige sighed dramatically before pulling you in for a kiss, soft and slow. “If it makes you feel any better,” she murmured against your lips, “I like you even more now.”

Your hands tangled in her hair, breakfast completely forgotten. “You better.”

The rest of the day was a blur of happiness—Paige stealing bites of your food, arguing over what to watch on Netflix, going on a late afternoon walk just to enjoy the fresh air. The simplicity of it all made your chest ache in the best way. No drama, no lingering doubts. Just love, in its purest form.

That night, curled up on the couch with Paige’s head in your lap, you ran your fingers through her hair, thinking about how far you’d both come.

“You still awake?” she murmured sleepily.

“Yeah.”

Paige tilted her head up, gazing at you with soft, sleepy eyes. “Are you happy?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” you whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I really am.”

Paige smiled, the kind that made your whole world feel lighter. “Good. Because I’m never letting you go.”

You leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead. “I’m counting on it.”

And in that moment, with Paige curled against you, breathing steady and heart completely yours, you knew—this was it. This was home. This was forever.

Life with Paige had settled into a rhythm that felt like home. Every morning, she’d wake up first, pressing sleepy kisses to your forehead before heading to practice. You’d get up an hour later, working on your own career, whether from home or at your office downtown. Evenings were spent together, sometimes attending games, sometimes watching them from the couch, Paige curled against you as she dissected plays and strategies between bites of popcorn.

But tonight was different.

You were standing on a rooftop overlooking the city, fairy lights casting a warm glow, the soft hum of music playing in the background. Paige stood before you, fidgeting slightly, her usual confidence laced with nervous energy.

“I had this whole speech planned,” she admitted, rubbing the back of her neck. “But my brain’s kind of short-circuiting right now, so I’m just gonna say it.”

Your heart pounded in your chest as she took a deep breath and slowly lowered herself to one knee.

“I spent so many years running from my own feelings, pushing you away, hurting you because I was too scared to face the truth.” Her voice wavered, but her eyes were steady, full of emotion. “And yet, you still stayed in my heart. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I never want to spend another second pretending like I could ever live without you.”

She pulled out a small velvet box, opening it to reveal a ring—simple yet elegant, exactly your style.

“Will you marry me?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You felt the breath leave your lungs, eyes stinging as you stared down at the woman who had once been your greatest heartbreak and was now your greatest love.

“Yes,” you whispered, then laughed, stronger this time. “Yes, Paige, of course.”

Relief and joy washed over her face as she slipped the ring onto your finger, standing quickly to pull you into her arms. The kiss was deep, full of promises and certainty. Around you, the city lights shimmered, but nothing shone brighter than the love between you two.

The months that followed were filled with wedding plans, career milestones, and unwavering support for each other. Paige continued to dominate on the court, leading her team to championships, while you flourished in your own field. No matter how busy life got, you both made time—time for dinner dates, for late-night drives, for simple moments that reminded you why you chose each other.

The wedding was everything you had dreamed of—intimate yet grand, surrounded by friends, family, and teammates who had seen your journey unfold. When Paige recited her vows, voice thick with emotion, you saw the girl from psych class, the girl who had spent years figuring out her heart, and the woman who now stood before you, completely and undeniably yours.

“I loved you before I even knew it,” Paige confessed, her hands trembling slightly as she held yours. “And I will love you for every day to come.”

And as you said your own vows, as you kissed her to the sound of cheers and applause, you knew—you had found your forever.

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