#prompt: inseparable

[batneko]

in two years Riddle is going to text Cater "okay I start pre-law in the fall when do you want to move in together?" and Cater is just going to be like:

[mischievous-thunder]

They tried manspreading too which most certainly worked

One merely needs to zoom in on Wade's crotch for further proof

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 163

Danny pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath, counting to ten and then letting it out. Why was this always his luck? Alright. Okay. Time to move again thanks to Dan pushing his body too far again, and ending up in his core. This was not how he was expecting to spend his days when he ghost-adopted his clone and sort-of son now actual son. Welp, he’ll throw a dart at the map to figure out where he’ll go next. 

Hm. Well, pack up Ellie! They’re moving to a place called Smallville, you always wanted a horse, right?

[novelistwriter]

Twins till the End

DP x DC Prompt

I've seen different fics of Danny and Damian not knowing each other was alive/in Gotham, and I thought that a different flavor of Demon Twins should he made, I do hope someone can make this into a fic.

Danyal and Damian are inseparable and make a deadly duo. Damian is the twin who has combat and weapon efficiency as his strengths, and Danyal has stealth and crafting as his strengths. Danyal can make anything into a useful tool for just about anything.

When Ra's had ordered a battle to the death between both of them, the twins had quickly hatched a plan to have the "loser" be revived when no one was in the Lazarus Pit chamber.

Danyal was the one to lose their duel, and when Damian had brought his twins body to be revived, a few loyal Assassins had aided him. When Danyal left the League with a few of the loyal Assassins, he had given Damian a communicator for them to talk to each other at specific dates, just to make sure that each other is okay and to briefly talk about what's happened to them.

Things happen relatively normally for both of them, Danny became a Halfa, Damian became Robin, Danny became the Ghost King, and Damian has started his own League of Shadows when he gained more followers from the League of Assassins.

After a bad reveal, Danny is able to escape the Fentons with the help of the Assassins that had gone with him. Danny had told them to go back and see if his sister and friends were okay and to bring them to Gotham if they were.

Now Danny and Damian are gonna have to explain why Danny was kept a secret from Bruce all this time.

[d1stalker]

Origin [Logan Howlett]

Summary: Two people, one shared past, and decades apart.

Warnings: fem!reader, angst, fluff, longing, things get bad before they get better! WC: 14k - MASTERLIST

A/N: there are plot points that are inspired by Logan's origin story (thank u marvelwiki), but they are so non-canon compliant its funny so don't call me out tyyy 😙

----

Before he was known as Logan, or as Wolverine, he was James. 

Your James. 

—

It’s quiet in the Howlett estate, the kind of stillness that only comes when everyone has long retired for the night. But while the rest of the mansion sleeps, you remain wide awake. Dressed in your nightgown and nestled under the blankets, you glance at the small, brass pocketwatch resting on your bedside table. The hands read 10:22 PM. Any minute now, you think to yourself. 

Then, like clockwork, you hear it—a faint knock on your door. Three slow, deliberate taps, followed by two quick ones. The secret signal never fails to make you smile. You spring from the bed, feet softly padding across the floor as you hurry to the door. You open it as quietly as possible, your grin widening the moment you see who’s waiting on the other side.

James.

He stands there, dark tousled hair and that familiar mischievous smile that always manages to light up the dim hallway. You’ve known him your entire life, growing up together under the roof of the Howlett estate. Your parents, both loyal servants to the Howlett family, were fortunate enough to be granted permission raise you alongside their son.

From the moment you could walk, you and James were inseparable, sharing countless adventures in the woods, running across the estate’s gardens, and whispering secrets to one another under moonlit skies.

"About time," you whisper, teasing him with a playful glint in your eyes. "You really know how to keep a lady waiting, don’t you?"

A soft snort escapes his lips as he grabs your hand, pulling you gently into the hallway. "My deepest apologies, M’lady," he replies with mock formality, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. "I had to... attend to urgent business in the necessary."

You snicker, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "Ah, I see. Was it a fulfilling experience, sir Howlett?"

He glances over his shoulder, rolling his eyes with exaggerated exasperation, though you catch the small smirk tugging at his lips. He doesn’t respond, but his silence confirms everything. It was.

The rest of the trip is quiet, the two of you moving stealthily through the darkened corridors, careful not to disturb anyone or draw unwanted attention. After all, your mother would certainly disapprove of such late-night rendezvous. It is improper, she would say.

But what choice did you have? The day offered no time for moments like this. You were busy training to take over as the next chief maid, learning the endless routines of the household, while James spent his time with his family or other highborn friends. It was only after hours, when the mansion finally settled, that the two of you could steal away for these secret meetings.

Finally, you reach the gardens. The crisp night air greets you as you slip away from any prying eyes. There’s a familiar sense of peace here, among the fragrant flowers and the towering trees that shield you from the world. James leads you to your usual spot, a stone bench tucked beneath the shadow of the hedges. Wordlessly, he slips off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders before taking a dramatic bow.

"To keep you warm, M’lady," he says softly.

"Hush, James," you laugh, finding his antics endearing. 

You’re grateful, especially as the cool night air nips at your exposed skin. The nightgown, while comfortable, offers little protection against the chill. You pull his jacket tighter around yourself, then pat the empty spot next to you, gesturing to him to sit, to which he does.

“How was your day?" you prompt.

James sighs, leaning back on the bench, his hand casually resting behind you as he stares up at the sky. "Same old, same old," he starts, a familiar twinge of annoyance creeping into his voice. "You know how it is. Dinners with my parents, listenin’ to old men talk about businesses I'll never care about, trying not to fall asleep while they drone on about investments or land expansions. It’s all so posh."

You stifle a giggle, nudging him playfully with your elbow. "Posh? You sound like you're living the dream."

He rolls his eyes dramatically. "If by 'dream,' you mean sitting there pretending to care while wonderin’ how quickly I can escape to see you, then yeah, it's an absolute dream," he quips sarcastically.

Sniggering, you bring your hand up to your forehead, acting distressed. "Oh, how tragic. The poor Lord James Howlett, trapped in a world of lavish dinners and fancy wine. Whatever will you do?"

"Mock me all you want, but it’s unbearable," he groans, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I hate it. All the stuffy clothes, the fake smiles, the way everyone acts like they're better than everyone else." He pauses for a moment, then glances sideways at you. "You're the only real thing here."

The sincerity in his words makes your heart flutter, and you’re suddenly grateful for the darkness hiding the faint blush creeping up your cheeks. Looking away, you try to play it off. "Well, if that’s the case, I guess I should charge you for my company," you tease coyly.

He lets out a huff of amusement, shaking his head. "I'll pay whatever price you want.”

There's a pause as you both sit in comfortable silence. Just then, a soft breeze sweeps through the garden, catching the edges of your nightgown and fanning it up slightly. Before you can even react, he swiftly moves his jacket from your shoulders to your lap, covering your legs. His hand lingers, making sure you're covered before he hastily wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you close against him.

The warmth from his body contrasts with the cool air, and you can't help but laugh softly at his sudden behaviour. "Wow, you really are a gentleman, James."

He tenses slightly, his grip on your shoulder loosening as he looks away, clearly flustered. "I—I just didn’t want you to get cold," he mumbles, his usual confidence faltering.

You smile at how shy he suddenly seems, leaning your head against his shoulder. "Thank you. It’s sweet."

For a brief second, he says nothing, but you can feel the way his heartbeat picks up just a little. Then, almost too quietly, he mutters, "I’d do anythin’ for you."

Your breath catches in your throat, and you tilt your head to look up at him. But you can’t respond, because he clears his throat, looking down at you with a small, sheepish smile. "What about you? Any exciting adventures in the life of a future chief maid?"

Grinning, you recognize his attempt to shift the conversation, and decide to let it go for now. "Oh, you know, the usual. A thrilling day of dusting, folding linens, and trying not to spill tea on your mother’s favourite rug."

He chuckles, pulling you a little closer. "Sounds way more exciting than my day."

You hum in acknowledgement, letting the moment linger. Neither of you speak for a bit, just relishing being in each other’s presence. 

"So, do tell," you say after a while, breaking the silence, "if you could get away from all the fancy dinners and boring conversations, what would you do?"

He smiles slightly, his gaze still fixed on the star-filled sky. "I’d leave. Go far away from here, maybe somewhere quiet. Live in the countryside, where no one cares about wealth or titles." His eyes drop to meet yours. "Maybe you’d come with me."

You laugh gently. "And who would take care of your family if we both ran off?"

Shrugging, his expression grows more serious. "They don’t need me. They need someone who’ll do what they want—someone to follow in their footsteps. That’s never been me."

There’s a weight in his words, and you feel a pang of sympathy for him. You’re about to respond, to tell him you understand more than he realizes, when—

BANG.

Your body stiffens instantly, heart beginning to pound in your chest as you straighten up, eyes wide.

"What the hell was that?" James asks sharply. He turns to you, his face mirroring the confusion and unease you're feeling.

Shaking your head, you swallow the lump that’s forming in your throat. "It sounded like a gunshot."

The two of you stare at each other for a beat, then, right when you’re going to speak again, you hear it—his mother’s scream. It’s high-pitched, panicked, and it sends a jolt of fear through you both.

"Help!" she shrieks from inside the mansion. "James, help!"

Without a word, you bolt to your feet, the peaceful night forgotten as you rush back inside. Your heart is racing as your bare feet fly across the grass, nightgown fluttering behind you. James is ahead of you, moving fast, his expression shifting from confusion to pure fear.

As you reach the back entrance, your mind races with possibilities, none of them good. You burst through the door into the hallway, your breathing laboured from the sudden sprint. Something is terribly wrong.

"Mother!" He calls, his voice sharp with panic as he leads the way toward the main staircase. You follow close behind, anxiety coiling tight in your chest.

Once you get to the bottom of the stairs, you hear footsteps—heavy, hurried—and then you see her. Mrs. Howlett, wide-eyed and pale, comes hurrying down from the upper floor, clutching the banister for support. Her hands are trembling.

"James!" she cries. "Your father—he’s been shot!"

The boy beside you freezes, face going white. "What?" he breathes, disbelief etched into every syllable.

"He—he was in his study, and I—I heard the gunfire. I—I don’t know what happened. I don’t know who—" Her voice breaks, and tears stream down her face as she struggles to speak. "We need to get help!"

He doesn’t waste another second, taking off up the stairs, his long strides making quick work of the distance. You trail after him. How could this happen? Who could’ve done this?

When you reach the second floor, you see the study door slightly ajar, light spilling out into the dark hallway. James' hand wavers over the doorknob for only a moment before pushing the it open wide.

Inside, the scene is worse than you imagined.

There, slumped over his desk, is Mr. Howlett. His once pristine office now looks chaotic—papers scattered, a window broken, and blood, so much blood. A crimson stain is spreading across his shirt.

"Father," James chokes out, rushing to his side, his hands shaking as he reaches for him.

You stand paralyzed for a moment, the sight rendering you speechless, but then the adrenaline kicks in, and you move further into the room. Your mind is screaming at you to do something, anything, but all you can do is watch as James desperately tries to wake his father, calling his name again and again.

Trying to make sense of the horrific scene, your attention is dragged away by the sound of footsteps shuffling behind you. Thomas Logan, the groundskeeper, stumbles in, his movements clumsy, his face twisted with drunkenness. His bloodshot eyes are manic, and in his trembling hand, he’s clutching a gun—the same one that must have been used to end Mr. Howlett’s life.

"Thomas!" Mrs. Howlett yelps. "What are you doing?"

James turns sharply, still kneeling beside his father’s body, his expression hardening immediately. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Thomas lets out a low, slurred laugh, staggering further into the room. His eyes flick between you, James, and Mrs. Howlett, but his focus remains hazy. "I’ve had enough of this, enough of all of it," he mutters, waving the gun in the air. "Your precious mother thought she could keep the truth from you. But it’s time you knew the truth, boy."

"What truth?" The younger man demands harshly.

Swaying on his feet, he points the gun directly at James, his finger twitching dangerously on the trigger. "I’m not just the groundskeeper, you idiot," he snarls venomously, "I’m your damn father."

It’s as if the room has been put on pause. You feel the air leave your lungs, your mind scrambling to make sense of what you just heard. Glancing at your friend, you see the disbelief wash over his features, his eyes widening with shock, denial.

"No," he whispers, shaking his head, backing away slightly. "You're lying. You’re drunk."

But the older man just laughs, the sound hollow and bitter. "You think John Howlett was your father? That man never wanted you! He raised you because he had to, not because you were his. You’re mine, boy. My flesh and blood,” he jerks his head in the direction of Mrs. Howlett. “Go ahead, ask your mama."

You hear Mrs. Howlett begin to blubber in the background at the accusation, but your attention is solely on the boy in front of you.

Betrayal is written all over his face.

His breath quickens, and his hands clench into fists at his sides. You want to reach out to him, concern puling you forward, but then he lets out a scream—a sound so full of pain that you stop in your tracks.

"James!" you cry, but he doesn’t seem to hear you. His eyes squeeze shut, and his body convulses, as though something inside him is tearing him apart from the inside out.

The sickening sound of skin breaking fills your ears, and bone claws shoot out from his knuckles. They gleam in the dim light of the room, sharp and lethal. The sight of them is nauseating, but you’re unable to look away as James blinks, gazing down at his hands, dumbfounded.

"What—" he rasps, his chest heaving. "What’s happening to me?"

“What the hell is this?” Thomas sneers in disgust.  He stumbles, reaching for the wall to steady himself. “Figures... Of course my son’s a freak.”

“You were always a fuck-up,” he continues in his drunken rage. “Useless, soft... a disappointment from the start. Just like your mother. Look at you now, boy.”

“I’m not your boy,” James snarls through gritted teeth, rage building inside him. His eyes flash dangerously. It’s as if something inside him has snapped, some deep, instinctual part of him that has been lying dormant, waiting for this very moment.

“You’re right. You’re no son of mine. Just a goddamn mistake. Should’ve left you in the dirt with your—"

Before he can finish, a roar rips from James’s throat. So raw, so animalistic, you get goosebumps. His entire body tenses, muscles coiled, and then, with terrifying speed, he lunges.

In an instant, his claws sink deep into Thomas’s chest with a thunk. The force of the blow sends the older man crashing back, disbelief and agony seizing his face as blood sprays across the room, spattering the walls and floor. His body thrashes, his hands weakly grasping at his son’s wrists, but there’s no strength left in him. 

A gurgling gasp bubbles from his throat, and then it's over. He collapses to the ground, lifeless, as James stands over him, claws retreating back into his skin. 

"James!" Mrs. Howlett screams, her voice piercing. "What have you done?!"

You don’t know how to react. You can’t process it, can’t breathe. All you know is that you need to get out of here—get James out of here, away from this nightmare before it consumes him. Without thinking, you rush to his side, grabbing his bloodied hand.

"We have to go!" you say urgently.

His eyes dart to you, frantic and unfocused but he doesn’t resist as you pull him toward the door. His mother's cries echo behind you, but you can’t stop, can’t look back.

You run—both of you—through the hallways, out the back door, and into the dark of night. The wind whips around you, stinging your face, but you don’t stop. You run until your legs burn, until you’ve entered the surrounding forest, and the Howlett estate is nothing but a distant shadow behind you. 

All the while, James’s hand stays locked in yours.

Branches scratch everywhere, at your arms, your face, and the underbrush tugs at your clothes as if trying to hold you back, but you push on. Only after the first light of dawn begins to creep in, does the exhaustion hit. Bodies aching and bruised, the two of you collapse beside a small stream. 

You’re on your back, catching you breath, when you tilt to your head to look over at your friend. He’s sitting down, with his hands out in front of him, leering at them. He struggles for air, his breaths coming in short, panicked bursts, and his clothes are torn, stained with blood—his father’s blood, Thomas’ blood. 

His claws are long retracted, but the scars of where they came out of his skin are there, fresh. 

"James," you whisper, but he doesn’t respond. Slowly, you crawl over to his side, pain flaring with each movement. When you reach him, you sit on your knees, looking up at him, trying to meet his gaze. You repeat his name, more firmly this time.

He finally looks at you, but he’s broken. His lips tremble as he opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a choked, almost inaudible, "What did I do?"

Your heart aches for him. Reaching out, you gently take one of his bloodied hands in yours, and as soon as your skin touches his, he flinches, pulling back slightly. "I killed him." he whispers, more to himself than anything. “I—I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t mean to!"

"Hey, listen to me," you say. "You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known this would happen."

"I killed him," he repeats. "I killed Thomas. I—" He glances down at his hands, at the scars along his knuckles, and his expression crumples completely. “He was my father.”

You don’t know what to say, don’t know how to fix this, but you know you have to try, so you wrap your arms around him. At first, he stiffens, but then he collapses to the ground, pulling you down with him. You land on top, your chest pressed against his as the weight of your bodies crashes into the soft earth. He squeezes you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, his face buried in your shoulder as his breath comes in short, broken sobs.

"I didn’t mean to do it," he repeats, the words muffled against your skin. "Something just changed inside me. What am I? What am I turning into?"

“Hush," you whisper, moving one of your hands to brush his hair. "Look at me. Just breathe, okay? You’re not alone in this. We’ll figure it out together, I promise."

His arms tighten around you, pulling you even closer. It’s overwhelming, but you don’t push him away. Instead, you let him hold you as tightly as he needs, your fingers gently stroking the back of his head, trying to console him in any way you can.

"I’m a monster," he whimpers. "What if I hurt you, too?"

"You won’t," you affirm, lips brushing against his ear as you whisper. "You’re not a monster. This… this thing that happened, it doesn’t change who you are. You’re still you."

Beneath you, his body shakes, overcome by emotion he holds onto you. Your forehead is pressed to against his, your breath mingling with his while you continue to whisper reassurances, telling him over and over that it’s going to be okay, that he’s not alone.

Minutes pass, maybe longer—you lose track of time as you lie there together. Gradually, his cries begin to quiet, his breathing slowing as the storm inside him starts to subside. His grip on you loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go fully, still cradling you in his arms.

Shifting, you raise your head to look at him. His eyes are red, his face pale, but he’s calmer. You start to pull yourself off of him, but as you're standing up, he grasps your hand again, and he looks at you with a tired, grateful expression, squeezing it gently as if to say everything he can’t put into words yet.

Then, you continue. Hand in hand, you move deeper into the forest. And finally, after a few more hours, you notice something in the distance. Through the trees, there are rooftops, small and clustered together, their chimneys trailing thin lines of smoke into the evening sky.

“A town,” you whisper, the first word you’ve spoken in hours.

He follows your gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the sight of the small mining town nestled in the valley.

In it, the people’s faces are etched with lines of hard labour and even harder lives, but still, you know you’ll be safe there. 

—

Initially, it’s difficult—this new life you and James have carved out is a far cry from the comforts of the Howlett estate. The town you’ve settled in is rough and unpolished. You both share a modest shack on the outskirts, a place that feels foreign and strange, but over time, it starts to become home.

He finds work in the mines almost immediately. The foreman takes one look at him, his broad shoulders and strong arms, and practically shoves a shovel in his hand without asking any questions. The job is tough, but it suits him. 

Every evening, he comes back to you covered in soot and dirt, his hands rough and calloused, his face lined with exhaustion. You can see the toll the work takes on him, how his body aches, but there’s something else too—a measure of peace that wasn’t there before. It’s as if he’s found a way to silence the chaos inside him, at least for a little while.

It’s not long before everyone in town begins to call him Logan, a name he offers with indifference when asked.

A new identity. 

Logan is a man who works hard, who keeps to himself, who doesn’t ask for anything more than a paycheck at the end of the week. 

Logan is a man who doesn’t need anyone, who can survive on his own. 

To you, he’s still James. 

In the quiet moments, when it’s just the two of you, he lets down the walls, lets you see through the façade. And when you whisper his name—James—he closes his eyes as if that one word alone soothes something deep in his soul.

After weeks of watching him silently carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, you offer him a rag to wipe his face as he sits down at the small table you’ve cobbled together from scraps. He takes it without a word, rubbing at the grime on his skin.

“You don’t have to do this forever, you know,” you say softly, leaning against the table as he tosses the rag aside. "There’s more to life than breaking your back underground."

He glances at you. "It’s all I’m good for now."

"You’re good for more than that," you reply walking up to him, reaching for his hand. He lets you take it, like he always does. "You can’t let what happened define you."

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he gives your hand a small squeeze, his eyes drifting to the floor as he mumbles, "What’s inside me… it’s different. You don’t know what it’s like."

You don’t argue. How could you?

The changes in him, the way his strength has grown, how his senses have sharpened, it all impacts him. He can hear things no one else can, smell the rain long before it falls, and even in complete darkness, he sees as clearly as if it were day. His powers are evolving, changing him.

But you know, deep down, that the man sitting in front of you is your friend—your James—no matter what he’s become.

You’ve seen him wrestle with the fear of what he might turn into, the fear of losing control, but you also see the man who leans into your touch, who lets you bandage his hands after long days in the mines, who presses his forehead to yours when the nights grow too heavy with silence.

And as your time together in the town goes by, there is a shift.

It starts with small things—a lingering glance, a brush of your fingers as you pass each other in the kitchen, the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

Then, it moves to bigger gestures. When you’d pack him his lunch fo the day, you slip in a small piece of parchment with a heart hastily drawn on it, or at night time, instead of falling asleep backs turned toward each other, awkwardly trying to ignore whatever tension is brewing, you fall asleep in his arms, and wake up the same way.

It gets to a point where you can neither of you can deny it. 

You’ve fallen in love.

—

It’s late, and you’re sitting by the fire outside the small cabin, waiting for him to return from one of his now-frequent disappearances into the woods. You used to worry about where he went, afraid he was distancing himself from you, so one night you followed him. What you found took your breath away—him, sitting out on a ledge, with some wild animals surrounding him. There was something in him that they must have recognized, a mutual respect that seemed to transcend anything human.

Since then, you’ve let him go without asking questions, trusting that those nights in the woods bring him the peace he can’t find anywhere else. But tonight, when he returns, he’s different. He doesn’t just brush past you to head inside. Instead, he sits beside you by the fire.

You turn to him, about to ask if everything’s alright, but the words catch in your throat when his hand cups your jaw. His grip is gentle, hesitant, as if he’s afraid to break the moment, but in his eyes, you find a longing, a yearning, that mirrors your own. 

His thumb brushes over your cheek, and for the first time in a long time, there’s no hesitation in his movements. Your heart stutters, and when he pulls you closer, you let him. His lips meet yours, careful at first, but as you kiss him back, you feel the stress drain from his body. 

The kiss deepens, slow, tender, and everything you’ve ever wanted.

—

The next few years are a kind of peaceful bliss you never expected. With each passing day, you and Logan seem to fall deeper into each other, the bond you share growing stronger, more intimate, like you’ve finally found the rhythm of the life you were always meant to have together.

Mornings are your favourite. He always wakes up first, moving quietly so as not to wake you, and he’s gotten into the habit of making you breakfast. You always sneak out of bed and snake your arms around him from behind, pressing your face into his back as he grumbles about you not getting enough sleep. “You’re always up too early,” he’d say. 

“I like being up with you,” you’d mumble in response, and he’ll turn around, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his eyes soft and full of that quiet, steady love he’s never really put into words. And then he’d kiss you like he has all the time in the world, even if he has to head over to the mines. 

On your days off from your job at the pub, you’ll spend hours together, finding little ways to enjoy the simplicity of your life. He will sometimes take you out to the woods behind the house, where you’d walk the trails together. He points out the different wildlife, the plants you don’t recognize, and you tease him about being a mountain man. He’d smirk, giving you that low, raspy chuckle that never fails to make your heart seize in your chest, and tug you closer to his side.

In the evenings, oftentimes, you sit together while you knit, something that started as a hobby but quickly became one of your preferred pastimes. He always pretends to be uninterested, but he’ll watch you anyway. “You’re getting good at that,” he’d say gruffly. 

“Want me to make you a sweater?” You smirk, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe,” he’d grumble, but you can tell he’s secretly pleased at the idea.

The town itself becomes part of your life together, too. You’ve made friends with the locals, joining a small knitting club. If he has time, Logan drops by the pub on your shifts just to check in, sitting at the bar with a beer and watching you work. When your gazes connect very now and then, he gives you that look—the one that says he’s proud of you, that he’s content.

“We’ve got a good thing here,” he murmurs one night, holding you close. 

“Yeah,” you agree softly, kissing his cheek. “We really do.”

But, all good things must come to an end. 

The mining town, though small and isolated, isn’t immune to the tensions that fester beneath the surface. Harsh conditions, grueling work, and the endless grind wear people down, turning frustration into anger, and anger into violence. Fights break out often, especially in the saloon after a long day when men try to drown their sorrows in whiskey. You both have learned to keep your distance from such skirmishes, knowing nothing good ever comes from getting involved.

Still, one night, as you return home from your evening shift at the pub, you hear the unmistakable sounds of a brawl breaking out in the middle of the street. Shouts reverberate through the cold air, followed by the crash of breaking glass. Your heart races as you recognize the deep, guttural growl cutting through the noise—a sound you know all too well.

On impulse, you rush toward the commotion, dread pooling in your stomach. You know this won’t end well. Not here. Not for him.

When you reach the scene, your worst fears are confirmed. He stands in the centre of the chaos, fists clenched at his sides. Two men circle him, their faces twisted with drunken aggression, goading him. The small crowd that’s gathered seems almost entertained, too caught up in the spectacle to understand the true danger festering.

“James!” you shout, trying to get his attention, but to no avail.

One of the men—a burly miner you’ve seen around town a few times, always looking for trouble—lunges forward, his fist swinging. The punch connects with your man’s jaw, hard enough to stagger him back, but instead of falling, you see something shift in Logan’s expression. His eyes darken, his jaw tightens. Then, his claws slowly begin sliding out of his knuckles.

The crowd gasps, and the laughter dies immediately.

“Don’t come any closer,” he growls, his voice low and full of warning. His chest heaves as he struggles to keep control, but you can see the fire burning behind his eyes. He’s on the edge, teetering dangerously close to losing himself.

But the miner, too drunk and furious to notice or care, spits on the ground. “Freak!” he slurs, venom lacing every word. “You think you scare me?”

He charges at Logan again, fists swinging recklessly. Your heart leaps into your throat, and you scream for him to stop. But it’s too late. Logan tries to pull back, to stop what’s about to happen, but the man is too close, too fast.

Everything slows down, the world moving in fractured seconds. Claws slice through the air, meeting flesh with a sickening thud. The miner gasps, his eyes widening in shock as he stumbles, clutching at his chest where the claws have sunk deep. Blood blooms around his hands, staining the dirt beneath his feet.

And suddenly, you’re thrust back into the past. You see James as he was all those years ago, his claws dripping with blood after killing Thomas. The memory crashes into you—the look of fear on his face, the horror in his eyes, the way he stumbled back, realizing what he’d done.

Just like now.

Logan’s eyes go wide, his expression mirroring that same devastation. He steps back, staring at the miner who crumples to the ground, gasping for breath. What follows is a deafening silence, the air thick with shock and disbelief. The townspeople that had been so eager for a show now stand frozen, eyes wide, faces pale.

The man gasps one last breath, then goes still.

Logan stares at the body at his feet, his claws still extended, still dripping with the man’s blood. His chest heaves, his breath shallow, and he mutters under his breath, barely audible, "Oh god… Not again."

You rush to his side, grabbing his arm in desperation. "Come on, let’s go home."

He doesn’t move. He’s locked in place, staring at the man he’s just killed. His hands tremble, the claws still out, and you can see the raw pain in his eyes as the reality of what’s just happened sinks in.

"I didn’t mean to," he whispers again, his voice cracking. "I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…"

—

That night, while you're sleeping, Logan makes his decision.

And when you wake up the next day, the space beside you is cold.

The shack feels too quiet, too still. 

All you can do is stare at the empty spot in your bed. You tell yourself that maybe he’s outside, chopping wood or he’s already left for work. But deep down, you know. 

Throwing on your boots, you don’t bother to change out of your nightclothes, and rush outside. His name is the first thing out of your mouth, sharp and desperate. "James! Logan!" Your voice barrels through the small yard, bouncing off the trees and fading into the cool morning air. 

There’s no answer.

Panic grips you as you search the familiar places—around the shack, the small trail he likes to take into the woods, by the creek where he often spends time when he needs to clear his head. There’s no sign of him.

No footprints, no lingering scent. Nothing.

The townspeople stare as you move through the streets. They know what happened. They saw the claws, the blood. And now, they see you—a reminder of the violence that tore through their quiet lives. But you don’t care about their judgment right now. You’re too focused looking for him, too frantic to worry about the whispers that follow in your wake.

"Have you seen him?" you ask one of the miners who had once shared a drink with him, but he shakes his head and pulls away from you, muttering something under his breath. Everybody keeps their distance, their faces closed off, avoiding your gaze. 

By the time the sun climbs higher in the sky, the truth settles in your chest like a heavy stone. He left. You wander the streets a little longer, until exhaustion finally forces you back to the shack.

He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t even leave a note. The man who you shared your life with, who you fell in love with, is gone—and he isn’t coming back.

In the days that follow, everything changes. The people who once greeted you with a nod or a smile now avert their eyes when you walk by. They speak in hushed tones, voices thick with suspicion and disdain. 

Nobody cares that you had nothing to do with what happened in the street that night. To them, you’re guilty by association.

It starts slowly, but the gossip spreads like wildfire. Saying thinks like: you knew what Logan was all along, that you hid his secret, allowed him to kill their men. Their anger turns to you, and before long, you become the pariah—cut off, unwelcome, the person responsible for the death of one of their own.

The day they decide to exile you is gray and heavy, the sky thick with the promise of rain. No one has the decency to say it to your face. Instead, you wake to a note slipped under your door, the word leave scrawled across it in angry, uneven letters.

You pack what little belongings you have—a few clothes, some keepsakes from the life you left behind at the Howlett estate—and sling a small bag over your shoulder. Then, you walk away without looking back.

Stretching out before you is a desolate, abandoned looking road. Your legs ache with every step, your feet blistering inside your boots, but you don’t stop. The memories of Logan, the town, the life you tried to build together swirl in your mind.

The sound of a a horse whinnying pulls you from your thoughts, and you turn to see a carriage approaching. The coachman—a man with kind eyes and a weathered face—slows as he pulls alongside you. His voice soft and cautious as he asks, "Need a ride?"

Nodding, you’re too exhausted to respond with words, and climb into the passenger seat. He doesn’t ask many questions, sensing perhaps that you’re a soul in need of silence more than conversation. He drives in quiet companionship, the horses' feet against the dirt the only sound breaking the stillness.

He takes you to the nearest town, dropping you off with a quiet wish for better days ahead. You thank him and give him a few coins. You’re standing on the edge of a new beginning, unsure of where to go next but knowing, with painful certainty, that the past is behind you now.

—

In this new place, you slowly begin to rebuild what you’ve lost. It isn’t easy—there are nights when the loneliness threatens to swallow you whole and days when the weight of losing your best friend feels too much to bear. Still, you find work at a small shop, rent a modest room in the quieter part of town, and painstakingly, you carve out a new existence. 

Though no matter how hard you try to move forward, he’s always there. A shadow, lingering in the corners of your mind. You can’t forget him—the way he looked at you with those intense, searching eyes, the way he held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world, the way he left without a word. Your entire childhood, your early adulthood, revolved around him. He was the best part of your life. Every moment spent with him was cherished, imprinted in your memory like a brand you can’t erase.

Nights are the hardest. When the world is quiet, and it’s just you and your thoughts, that’s when the ache becomes unbearable. Each night, your mind drifts back to him. You tell yourself it wasn’t his fault—he must have believed he was protecting you by leaving. 

Maybe he thought you would hate him for killing another man with his claws, for unleashing the violence he tried so hard to contain. Maybe he thought you could never forgive him.

But the more you think about it, the more you realize: if he truly believed that, then he didn’t know you at all.

And that hurts. A lot.

You start to feel like him in some ways, burdened by secrets and anger with nowhere to go. More often than not, you slip out of the town in your nightgown and into the nearby forest, hoping the solitude will offer some kind of peace. It doesn’t, not really, but it’s better than suffocating in your room, choking on memories of what was and what could have been.

—

A year passes since the night he left, and you find yourself standing among the trees once again, lost in thought. It’s not fair—none of it is. You lost everything, and for what? Because you loved him? Because you could look past his mutation?

All of the emotions you’ve done a decent job at managing bubble to the surface, a torrent of grief and rage with nowhere to go. Mindlessly, you draw back your fist and slam it into the trunk of a nearby tree. The impact shoots a sharp pain through your arm, but it’s fleeting, drowned out by the rush of anger. You pull back to punch the tree again, harder this time, desperate for some kind of release.

But the tree doesn’t just splinter. It explodes. 

The force of your punch obliterates the trunk, sending shards of wood flying in all directions. You stagger back, staring at the destruction, stunned. What was just a tall, beautiful arbor is now reduced to nothing but rubble, the strength of your blow far beyond anything a normal person could achieve.

Your breath hitches when it dawns on you. You’re standing in the middle of the forest, surrounded by the evidence of your newfound power. You aren’t just grieving the loss of Logan anymore; you’re discovering that you are, just like him, a mutant.

Except, unlike him, you’re alone.

He’s not here to hold you, to help you make sense of what’s happening. He’s not here to run away with you like you once ran away with him. You have no one to share this terrifying revelation with. You have only yourself.

Looking down at your trembling hands, the faint ache in your knuckles nothing compared to the pain in your chest. It’s as if your heart is breaking all over again.

If you had known—if you had discovered this power when he was still with you—would things have been different? Would he have taken you with him? Would you still be together?

You can’t stop the questions, can’t silence the what-ifs that plague you.

Finally, the dam breaks, and you cry.

Pressing your fists against your eyes, you try to stifle the sobs, but it’s no use. The grief crashes over you in waves as the life you tried to build together all plays out in your mind like some twisted, unending loop.

—

The days bleed into one another.

Each is marked by the slow, steady march of time. You continue to live, to survive, but the discovery of your mutant powers changes everything, setting you on a path you had never imagined.

You learn that you can channel energy through your body, whether that be your emotions, or external, and then amplify it for your own gain. It’s a power that protects you, that makes you feel invincible, but the more you use it, the more distant you become from the life you once knew. 

And then there’s the other side of your mutation—the ability to heal others by absorbing their injuries. 

The first time you did it, it was an accident. 

You were closing up shop, and as you walked along the cobblestone roads, you saw a man lying face down. Instinctively, you quickened your pace, and crouched down beside him. Was he drunk? Dead? Gently, almost hesitantly, you reached out, placing your hand on his back with the faint hope that he was simply unconscious. Your intention was simple—just to check if he was breathing, to see if he would stir at your touch.

But the moment your fingers brushed his coat, a violent surge of pain exploded in your mind, like a thunderclap within your skull. The agony was so sudden, so sharp, that it nearly knocked you off your feet. 

It was more than pain—it was as though the man’s suffering had become yours, pulling you into his darkness. Your vision blurred, and for an instant, you could feel it. Blood. Hot and sticky, trickling down your forehead in a slow, steady stream. You raised a trembling hand to wipe it away, expecting to feel the warmth of it on your fingertips.

But there was nothing. No blood. No wound.

Just the phantom sensation of pain that wasn’t your own.

Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the pain vanished. You blinked, gasping for air, trying to steady yourself. When you looked down at the man again, he was stirring, groaning softly. His eyes fluttered open, and he sat up, as if waking from a long sleep. He looked up at you, confused but grateful, oblivious to the power you had just unleashed.

It feels like a curse, the pain of others transferring to you in ways that leave you gasping for breath. But over time, you learn to control it, to take on only as much as you can handle, and to let the rest fade away.

You never stay too long in one place. Town after town, you move, always careful to keep your powers hidden. The people you encounter are kind enough, but you never allow yourself to get close. You can’t afford to—not when the memory of him still haunts you, his absence a constant ache in your heart. 

What if they leave you too?

Every now and then, there are some nights of passion with a stranger, but you never find another lover, never allow yourself to even consider it. 

As the years slip by, and you move through life like a ghost, always on the fringes, never fully there. In the beginning, you don’t notice it—time is something you stopped paying attention to long ago. But then, one day, nearly ten years after he left, you catch sight of yourself in a mirror.

Your reflection stares back at you, unchanged, unmarked by the years that have passed. It’s as if time has forgotten you, leaving you suspended in a state of perpetual youth. This knowledge—that you could live indefinitely—fills you with a sense of purpose you haven’t felt in years.

So, when the First World War breaks out, you volunteer as a nurse, determined to use your abilities to save as many lives as you can. The troops who come to you are broken, their bodies ravaged by the horrors of war. You take their pain into yourself, healing them with a touch, until there is nothing left but faint scars—a reminder of what they have survived.

It’s during the Second World War that you first hear the rumours. Injured men speak in hushed tones of a man they saw—a soldier who seemed invincible, fighting with a ferocity that borders on the inhuman. They talk of claws—long, sharp claws that can cut through anything, and a healing ability that allows him to shrug off injuries that would kill anyone else.

Could it be him? Could he still be out there, after all these years?

You dismiss the thought almost as quickly as it comes. It can’t be. He would be dead by now, just like everyone else from your past. 

He is gone, and you are alone—that’s the truth you’ve come to accept.

—

Somewhere along the way, you meet Charles Xavier. You don’t know how, but he knows you. He knows you’re a mutant—how you helped in the war. And he wants you to join his team.

You’ve spent so long on your own, relying on your powers to survive, that the idea of joining a team feels foreign, almost impossible. But there’s something in his eyes, something in the way he speaks of his vision for the future, that resonates with you. This isn’t just about survival—it’s about making a difference, about using your powers to protect those who can’t protect themselves. 

And, perhaps, it’s also about finding closure.

Maybe you can help mutants who struggle with their identity, like he did. Maybe this time, you can stop them from running away from themselves, the way you wish you could have stopped him.

So you agree.

And when you arrive at the mansion, you’re introduced to the others who will become your teammates—Jean Grey, Scott Summers, Hank McCoy, and Ororo Munroe.

The early days are challenging. Learning to work as a team, to trust one another, isn’t easy, especially for you, after so many years of solitude. But a camaraderie that develops between all of you, and it feels right. You’re no longer just a group of shunned mutants—you’re a family, united by a common goal.

—

This mission is supposed to be simple—investigate a remote facility rumoured to have ties to illegal mutant experimentation. Charles had briefed the team before sending you out, warning that there might be danger but nothing you couldn’t handle as a group. You’ve faced threats before, so when you arrive at the facility, it’s with the usual caution but no real alarm.

The structure looks forsaken at first glance, the exterior covered in years of grime, windows cracked and dark. But as you all approach, something feels wrong. There’s an energy in the air, a hum of activity beneath the surface. You can sense it, and by the looks of the others, they feel it too.

“We should be careful,” Scott mutters lowly as his hand hovers near his visor.

Jean furrows her brows. “I’m sensing...something. There are people here. This place isn’t empty”

Your stomach twists, and once the team cautiously makes its way deeper into the facility, you start to hear it—the muffled sounds of machinery, the low hum of voices, and then...a scream.

You freeze.

You’ve heard that scream before, in the dead of night, in memories you’ve tried to bury.

James.

Without thinking, you push forward, your body moving on instinct as you race toward the source of the sound. The others call after you, but their voices fade into the background as panic claws at your chest.

The scream grows louder, more desperate, until you burst into a large chamber. And there, in the center of the room, suspended in a tank of bubbling liquid, he is.

His body is thrashing against the restraints that bind him, wires and tubes connected to his skin. Machines whir around him, injecting something into his body—something molten, silvery. 

A team of scientists in lab coats and armed guards surround the tank, all of them focused on the cruel procedure unfolding before your eyes.

You can barely breathe. The sight of him, after all these years—being tortured like this is too much. Pain and rage surge through you, and before you realize what’s happening, you’re moving again.

“What the hell are you doing?!” you scream.

The guards whirl toward you, but you’re already on them. The first one goes down with a single blow, your fist connecting with his chest and sending him flying into the wall. You barely register his body crumpling to the floor before you move on to the next. 

Behind you, Jean and Scott rush in, their powers flashing as they help subdue the remaining guards, but your focus is on the man in the tank, whose eyes are squeezed shut in pain, body convulsing. You can’t think straight—you can only feel the overwhelming need to make this stop, to save him before the experiment finishes. 

But it’s too late.

In a roar of destruction, he breaks free from the tank, glass and metal exploding outward in every direction. His eyes are wild, erratic, his mind lost to the pain and the transformation—he’s a force of nature now. A whirlwind of violence and fury.

You try to reach him, but Jean steps forward, her eyes glowing as she raises a hand. “I’m sorry,” she strains. Her telekinetic force slams into him, knocking him off his feet, and his body crumples to the ground, unconscious, the rage finally quieted.

Standing there, panting, your hands are shaking as you stare at his still form. You’re overwhelmed—by the sight of him after so many years, by the pain of seeing him like this, by the fear that you might lose him before you even got him back.

Scott places a hand on your shoulder, his voice gentle. “We need to get him out of here.”

You nod, unable to speak, and together, the team lifts Logan’s unconscious body and carries him out of the facility. The entire time, you keep your eyes on him, terrified that if you look away for even a second, he’ll disappear. When you finally make it back to the jet, Jean lays him on a stretcher, her powers keeping him sedated for the trip back to the X-Mansion. You sit beside him, your hand hovering just above his, too afraid to touch, too afraid to hope.

The jet lifts off, and your mind races with a thousand questions. 

How did he end up here? Why did they do this to him? 

But above all, one thought consumes you: He’s alive.

After all these years, after all the heartache and loss, Logan—James—is still here.

—

He remains unconscious for three days, his body healing from the horrific procedure he endured. You barely leave his side, watching over him as if your presence alone could somehow anchor him back to himself. His breathing is steady, but his face—it’s both exactly the same and entirely foreign to you. He looks like the man you’ve known and loved, but it’s what is on the inside that worries you.

You swallow hard, your gaze tracing the familiar lines on his skin. Where are you, James? you think. Are you still in there?

Jean had done a body scan soon after you brought him back to the mansion, and the results confirmed your worst fears: they’ve bound adamantium to his bones and buried his personality underneath the most powerful brainwashing you’ve ever heard of.

It’s devastating. Whatever relief you’d felt—if any at all—at finding him alive is now eclipsed by the crushing reality of what he’s become.

The day he is scheduled to wake, Charles calls a meeting. The team gathers in the briefing room, and you sit quietly in your chair, replaying everything that led up to this moment.

Following a seemingly endless stretch of silence from you, Charles clears his throat. “If you’re ready, perhaps you could tell us more about your history with him. It might help us understand what we’re dealing with.”

A deep breath fills your lungs as your hands clutch the table’s edge tightly. Talking about him, about everything you’ve been through together, feels like peeling at old wounds that never really healed. But you know it’s necessary. If anyone is going to help him, they need to know the truth.

“I met Logan—James, as I used to call him—over a hundred years ago, when I was very young” you begin, and you can see the surprise ripple through the room at the admission of your age. “We grew up together. My parents were servants at the Howlett estate, and I spent most of my childhood by his side. He was my best friend… and eventually, he became so much more.” Your voice cracks, and you pause for a moment, collecting yourself.

“After a tragedy involving his family, we ran away together. We lived in a small mining town for years, trying to find some semblance of a life, but things fell apart. He left, and I—I spent years trying to forget him, but I never could. He was—is—everything to me."

Jean leans forward. “I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you,” she says softly. “But you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that when he wakes up… he may not be the man you remember, and not just because of how much time passed.”

You look up at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”

She hesitates, exchanging a glance with Charles before continuing. “The brainwashing they used on him wasn’t just designed to make him forget. It was meant to strip away his sense of self entirely. His mind was… broken down, piece by piece. What you saw back at the facility—his rage, his lack of control—that’s what��s left of him right now.”

Hank speaks next. “We’ll do everything we can to help him, but Jean’s right. You need to be ready for the possibility that he won’t recognize you. He might not even recognize himself.”

Nodding slowly, your heart sinks further and further with each word. 

“We have tools, ways to work through the brainwashing,” he continues, “but it will take time. And patience.”

“Time,” you echo quietly. “I’ve already waited so long.”

Ororo reaches across the table, her hand hovering near yours. “I know this is overwhelming. But you don’t have to do this alone. We’re here to help.”

“I need to see him,” you whisper, your voice firmer than before. “When he wakes up, I need to be there.”

Charles nods gently. “Of course.”

—

When he finally stirs, it’s not a gentle awakening. His whole body jerks, his head whipping around in wild confusion. His breaths come in sharp, uneven gasps, and his eyes dart frantically across the room, taking in his unfamiliar surroundings, and just as his eyes finally land on you, he freezes.

And for a long moment, neither of you speak.

There’s a lump in your throat, and you wait with a bated breath for some flicker of recognition in his eyes, some sign that he remembers you—that he knows you.

But it never comes.

Instead, his gaze narrows, studying you. “Where the hell am I?” he grunts. “And who are you?”

It hurts more than you expected. You knew this might happen—Jean and Charles had warned you—and you thought you had prepared yourself, but it doesn’t make hearing it any easier. 

He doesn’t remember you. 

“Just take it easy,” you manage to say softly. “You’ve been through a lot, James.”

His eyes flicker with confusion as he shifts in the bed, wincing at the movement. "James?" he questions.

You quickly correct yourself. "Logan."

His hand instinctively goes to his chest, fingers brushing against his side as if testing for wounds that aren’t there anymore. “What is this place?” he asks again. 

“You’re at the X-Mansion,” you explain. “You were... rescued. We brought you here to heal.”

“Rescued.” he repeats dryly. “From what?”

You hesitate, unsure how much to tell him. How do you explain everything—the horrors of Weapon X, the brutal experiments, the torture that nearly destroyed him? You can’t even bring yourself to speak the full truth, not yet. 

“You were taken,” you say carefully. “By people who wanted to use you for something terrible. But we got to you before they could. You’re safe now.”

Logan lets out a short, bitter laugh, though there’s no humour in it. “Safe,” he mutters, his voice low and sarcastic. “Right.” He rubs a hand across his face.

“Why do I feel like I’m missing somethin’?” he mutters, his irritation growing. “Like... like there’s something important I should remember.”

Swallowing hard, your heart twists at his words. He is missing something. But you won’t tell him that now. He’s already grappling with so much, and the last thing he needs is the weight of your shared past thrust upon him before he’s ready.

“Don’t worry about it.” Your voice is gentle, coaxing. “It’s... normal to feel confused right now.”

Frowning, he runs a hand through his hair. “Like I’m supposed to believe that.”

“I know it’s hard to understand,” you say softly. “But it’ll get better. You’ll remember in time.”

He doesn’t respond right away, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling as if he’s searching for answers that aren’t there. After a moment, he sighs, his eyes returning to yours. “Alright. Who are you, really?” he asks. “Why do I feel like I should know you?”

Because we grew up together. 

Because we were everything to each other. 

Because you were the one person I never stopped loving. 

“Just focus on resting,” you say, forcing a soft smile. 

He studies you briefly, as if trying to figure out whether or not to trust you. Then finally, he nods, thought you can tell he’s still wary “Yeah... okay.”

The awkward silence returns. 

“I should go,” you murmur, standing abruptly. The chair scrapes against the floor, the sound jarring in the quiet room. “You need rest.”

He doesn’t stop you, doesn’t ask you to stay. He just watches as you turn toward the door, and leave.

Your chest tightens painfully as you walk out of the room, the familiar ache of loss settling in once more. It’s worse this time, though—worse because he’s alive, and yet, in every way that matters, he’s gone.

You leave the room in a daze, your mind swirling with a storm of emotions. Your feet carry you down the hall, and before you realize what’s happening, you find yourself in the washroom. 

The moment the door clicks shut, your stomach lurches. You barely make it a toilet before you’re retching. Tears sting your eyes, and you brace yourself against the cold porcelain, gasping for breath as your body shakes with sobs.

Standing up and flushing, you walk over to the sink, and press your forehead against the mirror. How did it come to this? You found him, after all these years, but the person in that bed isn’t the Logan—it isn’t the James—you once knew. 

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you close your eyes, taking a deep breath as you try to pull yourself together. It's not the time to breakdown, you think, and after splashing some water on your face, you turn toward the exit.

Pushing open the door, you’re met with the familiar gaze of Ororo. She stands in the hallway, her white hair cascading down her shoulders, her eyes filled with something that feels like both understanding and pity.

Your eyes widen, caught off guard, not expecting to see anyone, least of all her.

“I saw you come in here,” she whispers empathetically, “but thought you might need a moment.”

You pause, trying to blink away the redness in your eyes, trying to pretend you’re stronger than you feel. But she sees through it. She always has.

“I’m fine,” you say, the words slipping out automatically.

Stepping closer, her gaze softens as she studies your face. “No,” she disagrees, “you’re not.”

The vulnerability you’ve been trying to keep at bay rushes forward again, threatening to swallow you whole. You open your mouth to argue, to brush it off, but the moment you meet her eyes, the words die in your throat. The pity, the compassion—it’s too much.

Silently, she reaches out, her hand resting lightly on your arm. It’s a small gesture, but it feels grounding.

“I saw him,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “He doesn’t remember me.”

“I know,” she says quietly. “I’m so sorry.” 

—

The next few days are a blur. You keep yourself busy—too busy—hoping that constant movement will keep the gnawing ache at bay. If you let yourself stop, if you let yourself think about what’s happened, the hurt would consume you, so you don’t stop.

Most of your time is spent in your room or the garden, taking refuge in the places where you can hide from everything, everyone.

Sometimes, you train, pushing your body past its limits in a desperate attempt to silence your thoughts. Every hit you land, every punch you throw, never feels like enough.

It’s easier this way, you tell yourself. Easier to avoid him, to pretend he never came back into your life. Because the alternative—watching him live here, knowing he doesn’t remember you, doesn’t understand what you once shared—that’s too painful.

You’d rather pretend he’s still a memory than face the reality that the man you love is here, but not really.

When you walk through the mansion, you see him from afar. You can’t help but notice how he’s begun to soften around the others, how the confused man who woke up in that bed is slowly adjusting to life at the mansion. He has daily appointments with Charles, who you imagine is sifting through his mind, doing his very best to retrieve something, anything.

While there is still a distance in his eyes, still a guarded edge to him, but you can see the small shifts—the way he listens when someone speaks, the faintest hint of a smile when Hank tries to crack a joke.

And sometimes, your eyes meet.

From across the room, you’ll catch him watching you. In those moments, your heart skips a beat, wondering if there’s a reason why he’s zeroed in on you specifically, but then he looks away, and it passes. You never approach him, never ask him how he’s feeling or if he’s starting to remember anything. You’re too afraid of the answer.

One night, you sit in the garden, letting the soft breeze play with your hair, eyes closed. 

“Mind if I sit here?”

The voice startles you, pulling you from your thoughts. Your eyelids flutter, and as you turn, your heart jolts upon seeing Logan standing at above you. And momentarily, it’s like you’re teenagers again—sneaking out at night into the gardens to talk. 

“Sure,” you nod, gently patting the space beside you, as you always did. 

He steps closer and sits down, though not without leaving a small space between the two of you. “I’ve been seeing you around,” he says after a beat.. He doesn’t look at you, his gaze focused on the flowers in front of him. “But... you’ve been avoidin’ me, haven’t you?”

A small laugh escapes you, bitter and self-deprecating. “You noticed, huh?”

“Yeah, not much gets past me. Even that one guy’s attempts at being a leader.”

Despite yourself, you snort. “Scott?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “He’s too easy. Guy looks like a human stoplight with those stupid glasses.”

You bite back a snicker, feeling like a teenager again. The banter, the lighthearted teasing—it makes it seem like maybe, just maybe, there’s still something left of the man you knew.

He turns his head slightly, his expression growing more serious. “You know, I’ve been trying to figure it out,” he says, quieter now. “Why it feels like something’s missing. Every time I see you... I know you’re related to it.”

Shifting a little to look at him, you take in the way his facial hair is a little bit more kempt, how he still has his hair tufts. You miss him, and he’s right here with you. 

“I... thought it would be easier,” you admit, staring down at your hands. “For both of us. If I kept my distance. I didn’t want to add to your stress.”

Frowning, his brows furrow as he processes your words. “Add to it? How?”

“Because you don’t remember me,” you say softly. “And I didn’t want to be a reminder of something you can’t recall.”

He stares at you for a long moment. Then, “you’re right. I don’t remember everything,” he says slowly, “but I know there’s something about you.”

You nod, your throat tight, but you don’t push him. You know it’s only a matter of time before the pieces fall into place. “You’ll remember,” you whisper. “I know it.”

He grunts. “I don’t want you to keep your distance.”

“I won’t. Not anymore.” The idea of him wanting to spend more time with you, fills you with joy.

—

For the next few weeks, it becomes a quiet routine—the nightly conversations in the garden. It’s like slipping into an old rhythm, the two of you always finding a way to gravitate toward each other once the sun goes down. You talk about small things, but it's never too heavy. Sometimes he teases you, and you tease him back, exchanging sarcastic quips. Nothing and everything has changed at the same time.

You’ve started training together too, spending more and more time together each day. It’s almost as if there’s a magnet between you that not even time could weaken.

This night, you’re in the gym together on the sparring mat. It’s the usual scenario playing out—dodging, blocking, throwing punches. He’s fast and strong. And it means a lot to see you see him finally embrace his mutant powers and use them, rather than try to hide and run. 

You’re both breathing hard, the exertion pushing your bodies to their limits. You land a solid kick to his side, and he grunts, stepping back for a moment. Without warning, his claws extend, and your gaze locks in on them.

Of course you know about the adamantium, but seeing it like this, so up close, it’s different. 

“What?” Logan asks, noticing your sudden stillness. His brow furrows, and he glances down at his claws, as if he’s only just realizing they’re out. “What are you staring at?”

“Does it hurt?” you question, clearing your throat. “When they come out?”

He tilts his head, his gaze flicking between you and his claws. “Everytime” he sighs. “But not as much as the old ones.”

Your eyes snap up from his claws to meet his. “... What?” you ask. The old ones?

“They were bone,” he continues, “Hurt like a bitch.”

Your heart starts pounding in your chest. Could this be it? Could he be remembering?

Stepping closer, your voice trembles slightly as you push for more. “What else do you remember?”

His eyes widen, and then he blinks, his stare glazing over for a second, like he’s trying to chase down a memory that’s just out of reach.

“I… I don’t know,” he admits with a bit of frustration. His claws retract, his hand flexing unconsciously as he stares at the empty space where the blades once were. “It’s all bits and pieces. I get these flashes, but nothing sticks. Charles said... he said the barriers in my mind are comin’ down, but it’s slow. Like finding a damn needle in a haystack.”

But the fact that he remembers even a sliver, is enough to fill you with hope.

—

This continues, the small fragments of memories coming back to him. They come unexpectedly, at random times in the day. It’s never anything big, never the full flood of memories you’re hoping for, but each time it happens, it feels like another piece of the puzzle falling into place.

You suggest a walk one afternoon. The mansion has felt a little too closed in lately, and you think maybe the fresh air might help clear his mind. Together, you wander along a little pathway that connects the mansion to a nearby river, the sound of the water in the distance a soothing backdrop as you walk side by side. He’s quiet, more so than usual, and as you glance at him, you notice his expression has grown distant.

“Logan?” you ask softly, nudging his arm. “What’s on your mind?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. His brow is furrowed, like he’s trying to fit together pieces of a puzzle, his thoughts distant, swirling. “I remember…” he starts, his voice quiet, as if he’s speaking more to himself than to you.

Your fingers begin to twitch at your side. Every time he remembers something, it feels like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if he’ll fall into the past, if this will be the moment he remembers it all.

“A cabin,” he says finally, his voice rough but certain. “There was a shack. In a small town. I used to stay there.”

You nod, urging him to continue, anticipated building within your chest. “Go on.”

“It was small. Cold most of the time. But I don’t think I cared.” He lets a chuckle. “I liked it. Felt... peaceful.”

You can’t help but smile a little at the memories he’s bringing up. His steps falter, and he stops in the middle of the path, turning to look at you. “Mining,” he mutters, as if the word itself is triggering something. “I remember mining.”

“That’s good,” you say. ‘I’m happy for you.”

—

The memories keep coming.

You’re in the mansion, passing through one of the long hallways together on your way to eat, when he suddenly stops, his hand reaching out to steady himself against the wall. You turn, concern flooding through you. “Are you okay? What is it?”

He frowns, his eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to force something into focus. “There was a girl.”

“A girl?” you repeat, not wanting to push him but unable to stop the question from spilling out.

“Yeah,” he confirms. “In a big house—like a mansion, I think. We'd play together. She was... she was always following me around. Always gettin’ into trouble.”

You know exactly who he’s talking about.

“Do you remember her name?” 

Shaking his head, you can see the frustration etched onto his face. “No. But she must have been important, I can feel it.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you try to hold yourself together. It was me, you want to say. That little girl was me.

“It’s okay,” you say instead, your hand reaching out to touch his arm. “You’ll remember. You’re already so close.”

He looks at you then, his eyes searching yours for something—answers, reassurance. Once a few seconds pass, he sighs and shakes his head.

“I don’t know how you put up with this,” he grumbles lowly. “With me.”

“Because I know you,” you whisper back. 

To have a chance at another lifetime with him, you’d put up with anything. 

—

He’s busy with Jean and Charles this morning, the duo having started to work together last week, trying to finally break down the wall stopping Logan from recovering his memories. With nothing else to occupy you, you’ve retreated to the mansion’s library, seeking solace in the endless rows of books. The familiar smell of paper and ink is comforting, and for a while, you manage to lose yourself in the words on the page. 

You’re curled up in one of the oversized armchairs, a book resting in your lap, when your ears pick up the sound of heavy footsteps—fast, purposeful, ringing out through the mansion’s quiet halls.

Concern rises in your chest. Those footsteps aren’t casual; someone is rushing, and you’ve been around long enough to know that in here, that usually means something’s wrong.

Setting the book down on the small table beside you, you stand and head toward the entrance of the library. The sound grows louder, the footsteps coming closer, and just as you reach the doorway, you collide with a solid wall of muscle.

"Ho—holy sh—" you gasp, stumbling back, startled. Your hands fly to steady yourself, and you look up, wide-eyed, to see Logan standing there. "Logan, you scared m—"

“James.”

You still. 

"What?" you whisper, your mind racing as you stare at him. His face is different—not just the usual irritated-by-himself expression he’s been wearing lately, but something else. There’s a certainty in his eyes, relief and maybe even—

“My name is James,” he repeats. “I was born in Alberta. We grew up together. I... I killed my father.” His voice falters slightly at that, but he pushes through, his gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “You were the little girl in the mansion. You’ve always been there. And I—” His eyes brim with emotion. “I love you.”

The words slam into you, leaving you breathless. You can feel the blood drain from your face, your heart jumping so hard it feels like it might burst. “You... you remember?” You’re barely able to get the words out.

Logan—James—stares at you. “I remember everything.”

A sob escapes your throat, and you throw your arms around him, burying your face in his chest as the floodgates open. His arms come around you immediately, holding you tight, his chin resting on the top of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m so damn sorry. I should have never left. I should have gone back to find you.”

You shake your head, tears soaking into his shirt. “It doesn’t matter,” your voice breaks. “None of that matters anymore. We’re together now. That’s all I care about.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that won’t stop falling. There’s so much love—so much everything—in his eyes, your knees nearly buckle. All you do is hold on to him, as tightly as you can, afraid that if you let go, this moment will slip away.

But it won’t, because he’s really here, he remembers, and he still loves you.

For what feels like hours, you stand there in the hallway, wrapped in each other’s arms. Eventually, you take a small step back, unwrapping your arms and instead grabbing his hands, squeezing them. “We have a lot to talk about.”

He squeezes your hands back in return. “Yeah, we do.”

—

You sniffle, wiping away the last of your tears as you lie in bed with him, pressed so close it feels like you’re trying to merge into one person. His warmth surrounds you, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist, hands drawing small circles. It’s like all the years apart never happened, like you’re finally back where you’re meant to be.

“So, what made it all come back to you?” you ask softly, your voice a bit hoarsefrom all the crying you’ve done in the last hour.

James takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling slowly. “I guess having two strong telepaths diggin’ around in your mind will do the trick,” he responds. “Shit was brutal, but... worth it.”

Tilting his head down, he presses a small kiss to your temple. If even possible, you nestle yourself further into his hold. 

“I thought I’d lost you forever,” you whisper. “All those years... I never thought I’d see you again.”

“Same for me. Thought I lost you too,” James murmurs, his hand running gently up and down your back. “After I left the cabin, I tried to forget. Tried to convince myself you were better off without me, but...” He trails off. “I was wrong—a coward. I shouldn’t have been runnin’ away. Especially from you.”

You look up at him, your eyes searching his. “What did you do all those years? Where did you go?”

He lets out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes. “I wandered. For a long time, I didn’t stay in one place. Fought when I had to, drank when I couldn’t forget. Got into a lot of trouble.” He grimaces slightly. 

You frown. “What kind of trouble?”

“The kind where people like me aren’t supposed to be walking free,” he remarks bitterly. “I gave into the monster I thought I was.”

His words sink in, and you can feel the toll those years took on him, the way they left him scarred, not just physically, but emotionally. “It must have been so hard,” you whisper, your hand reaching up to cup his cheek. “Living like that, without... anyone.”

Leaning into your touch, “Yeah,” he admits. “It was. But... I didn’t know how to live any other way. Not after everything that happened.”

There’s a long pause, the two of you lying there, bodies tangled together as you both process the weight of what’s been lost and what’s been found. Then, he kisses the inside of your hand, looking at you with a faint, curious smile.

“What about you?” he asks softly, tugging you closer. “When did you... ya know, find out you were a mutant?”

The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. You’ve never really talked about that part of your life to anyone, at least not in detail. 

“I didn’t know for about a year,” you begin. “After you left, I was... lost. And then one day... I punched a tree.”

James raises an eyebrow, clearly not expecting that. “A tree?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the seriousness of the memory. “Yeah. I was angry—angry at everything. And when I punched it... the damn thing exploded.”

He stares at you for a moment, processing your words. Then, a slow, amused grin spreads across his face. “Exploded, huh? Guess that’s one way to find out you’re not normal.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Yeah, it wasn’t exactly subtle.”

His smile fades slightly. “What did you do after that?”

Taking a deep breath, you let the memories of those early days as a mutant flood back. “I tried to keep it hidden for a while. Didn’t really know what to do with it. But then... the wars started.”

Eyes narrowing, his expression changes instantly. “The wars?”

Nodding, you continue. “Yeah, the First and Second. I volunteered as a nurse. I figured if I could use my powers to help people, then maybe I could make up for everything I lost. I moved station to station, healing soldiers. I couldn’t save everyone, but I tried.”

He’s momentarily quiet, gaze never leaving yours, even as he processes what you’re telling him. Then, slowly, his features shift into disbelief.

“You were on the frontlines?” His voice low, almost incredulous. He reaches out to brush a few strands of hair out of your face. 

“Yeah. I wanted to make a difference.”

Letting out a sharp breath, James sits up slightly in bed as he stares at you. “Holy shit,” he mutters. “I fought in those wars, too. In the trenches.”

You’re speechless, and the realization washes over you slowly. The whisperings you’d heard from the troops, the rumours you’d chalked up to be nothing more than drunken tales, suddenly come flooding back. A man who couldn’t be killed, who healed from every injury, who fought with claws that could tear through anything.

It was him.

It was always him.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “So it was true…all those rumours about the man who couldn’t die... that was you.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Guess it was.”

All those years, all those battles... and you were both there, so close, yet so far apart. 

“We were so close,” you say, moving forward in to give him a kiss. “And we didn’t even know it.”

He kisses you back, his grip on you tightening. Then, when you pull away, he sighs, leaning back against the headboard. “It’s all so different now,” he begins gruffly. “You’re not the little maid in training anymore, runnin’ around that mansion, worried about getting caught”

You smile faintly at the memories of your younger selves, the girl you used to be, and the boy who was so much more to you than just a young lord. 

“And you’re not sir James Howlett or whatever—Lord—anymore” you tease. “You’ve come a long way from the boy who used to sulk in the garden because he had to attend another dinner party.”

He lets out a noise that sounds like a mix between a huff and a laugh “Yeah,” he agrees. “That feels like a lifetime ago. And in a way, I guess it was.”

While neither of you are the same people you once were, in this moment, you can feel that connection—the one that has always been there.

“I’ve thought about you every day,” he speaks up again. “All those years.”

“James…”

“I love you,” he confesses. “And I’ve loved you my whole life. Before we ran away, after I left, even after I thought you were gone... I couldn’t forget. Didn’t want to.” He sucks in a harsh breath, grabbing your hand once more. “I shouldn’t have left. I should have stayed. We could’ve figured it out together, but I was so... so damn scared. I thought if I stayed, I’d only hurt you.”

You feel tears welling up in your eyes again. “You did what you thought was right,” you whisper, intertwining your fingers. “You were scared, and so was I.”

“I wish I could take it all back,” he says, regret bleeding into his tone. “I wish I could’ve been there for you... We could’ve had so many more years together.”

“We have time now,” you say softly, assuring him. “We have all the time in the world to make up for it.”

He doesn’t respond verbally, but rather he edges forward, brushing his lips softly against yours. “I love you,” he murmurs before closing the gap completely, kissing you passionately.

You smile against his lips, because while he may be known as logan, or Wolverine, he’s still James.

Your James. 

----

A/N: I'm going to have to either write some crazy smut or excessive fluff now because this took it out of me LOL also I hope none of you got confused with the name switching! Thank you so much for reading <3

[caffeinatedvigilantewriter]

Danny is 18, and is on the run from Vlad, who wanted to reattempt his cloning plot. In order to do that, he had to see why Dani was the only cloning that managed to survive. Sam, Tucker,the Fentons and Jazz are dead

So he kidnapped her, and in the process, Dani deaged to an infant. Currentlyx they were both nearing Gotham, and, the GIW were on their tail

Danny made it all the way to Bristol before he had to stash Dani in a alley and deal with the GIW agents

Danny doesn’t return.

An hour later Thomas and Martha Wayne were out for a walk with their one month old son when the heat faint cries of a baby from an alley.

They enter the alley and see an infant girl wrapped in a blanket covered with stars. Her only belongings were a green thermos, vials of bright green liquid and a red beanie with the name ‘Danielle Jane’ scrawled on it.

Normally they would’ve reported this to the police, but everyone knew that the police was corrupted and the fosters homes were horrible.

Besides, there was something about the girl that seemed… otherworldly.

So, the took her in.

Teh next week, the Gotham Gazette was printing papers with the front page ‘Wayne family reveals female twin, Danielle Jane Wayne!’

They had pretended that Danielle was the twin that they didn’t know about until the due date and she came out sickly, so the doctors kept her in the hospital until she recovered.

As they grew up, Dani and Bruce were inseparable, with Dani not remembering her halfa side and Bruce not knowing they weren’t twins. They looked similar enough anyway.

All that change when the twins were 8. Thomas and Martha died, and the pain, shock and grief triggered Dani’s memories of being a halfa. The death kick started Bruce’s quest for vengeance (Dani wouldn’t seek vengeance, she couldn’t, not after Dan)

They began to drift apart. Bruce didn’t tell her about his vigilante plans and Dani didn’t tell him about her halfa status.

By the time they were 19 and Bruce dropped out of collage, they both began traveling. Bruce to train, Dani to have fun.

Dani continued traveling when Bruce returned, promising to visit. Eventually Gotham forgot about the Wayne Heiress, especially as Batman appeared and Bruce adopted more children. Bruce also forgot to tell his kids about their ‘bio’ aunt

There are a couple ways the Batkids could find out about Dani

- Bruce gets lost in the Time stream and Alfred was deemed too old to get custody and Dick was deemed too young. No one knows what to do now, until Alfred calls in Dani, who arrives and immediately gets custody, reminding Gotham that she exists.

- a batkid is cleaning out the attic/empty rooms as a punishment and finds the Fenton thermos, ecto vials, and baby blanket.

Batkid (probs Dick): Bruce why do you have Lazarus pit water in your attaric??

Everyone: …

Bruce: … what?

Alfred: ah, those are your sisters

Bruce: where did Dani get Lazarus water? She hasn’t been at the Manor in years

Batkids: …we have an aunt???

Alfred: Martha and Thomas found her in an alley with those belongings. She seems to have forgotten to collect them. I shall give her a call.

Bruce: …Dani isn’t my twin sister?

Batkids: YOU HAVE A TWIN??!?

Bruce: WELL APPARENTLY NOT @jc-llex

- Bruce and the JLA are breaking into a GIW facility to get evidence for a murder (a collage boy named Daniel Fenton) and found Dani breaking in at the same time

-Dani ends up dating a JLA member and said member introduces her to the team (bonus points if it’s Hal or Diana)

- SO MUCH ANGEST AND CRACK AND FLUFF COULD BE FIT UNTO THIS PROMPT D O Y O U S E E T H E V I S I O N ? ? ?

[kathaelipwse]

Paper Promises & Second Chances | L.Minho

Pairing: Lee Know (Minho) x Female Reader

Word count: 11,250 words | Reading Time: 40-ish mins

Trope: Marriage of Convenience | Single Dad | Bestfriends to Strangers to Lovers | Hurt/Comfort | Slow Burn | Emotional Redemption

Genre: Angst | Romance | Domestic | Slice of Life | Drama

Warnings: full angst to sweet happy ending | Emotional neglect | Mentions of infidelity (ex-wife) | Child emotional distress | Self-worth issues | Past trauma | Heavy angst | Mild language | Emotional breakdowns | Recovery arc | NO PROOF READING WAS DONE

Synopsis: Minho, a heartbroken single father, marries you for the sake of his daughter—nothing more. Once your best friend, now he's cold and distant, weighed down by past betrayal. But when old wounds reopen and soft hands start to heal, both of you are forced to face truths you’ve buried for too long. Can a marriage born from duty bloom into something real—or will it collapse under years of unspoken love and regret?

Author's Note: This one’s for the girls who loved too silently, gave without being asked, and still kept trying—even when it hurt. If you've ever felt like a second choice or a forgotten soul, this story will hold your hand and remind you: your love is not a burden—it’s powerful. Hello my lovies, sorry i was gone for so long, i dont think i can update on daily basis but i will try to stay active and keep updating!!

The marriage, which had been forced on both of y'll by your parents. Lee Know had made perfectly clear, was a strategic alliance. There was no pretense of romance, no whispers of forever exchanged between them. His words, delivered just days before the minimalist ceremony, were a familiar, cutting echo of the past, designed to sever any nascent hope.

"Look, Y/N," he’d begun, cornering you in the hushed elegance of his mother’s living room, where the idea had first been floated. His voice was flat, devoid of warmth, like a winter sky. "Let's be absolutely clear. This… this arrangement. It means nothing to me. Not in that way." His eyes, usually so expressive, were carefully shuttered. "Aera needs a mother. That's it. A stable presence. Understand?"

You’d simply nodded, your throat tight with a pain that was both fresh and agonizingly old. "I understand, Minho," you managed, the formality of his full name a deliberate barrier you hoped he'd feel. A phantom ache from years gone by, now brutally reawakened.

The small civil ceremony had been mercifully brief, a blur of officiant's words and a few polite, distant relatives. Your dress, a simple cream-colored shift, felt less like bridal attire and more like a uniform for a solemn duty. Minho, handsome in a dark suit, had looked impeccably composed, a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside you. There was no exchange of rings—only the signing of papers, sealing a fate neither of you had truly chosen. He had offered you a pen, his fingers brushing yours, a fleeting contact that sent a shiver through you, a sensation you immediately suppressed.

"Sign here," the officiant had prompted, pointing to the line.

Minho had signed first, his hand steady. When it was your turn, your signature felt alien, a stranger’s mark. "There," you'd murmured, pushing the papers back.

Minho had barely glanced at you. "Right. So, that's done." His tone had been purely transactional, a stark reminder of his earlier declaration. You were Y/N L/N now, soon to be Y/N Lee, but the surname felt like a costume you were forced to wear, a temporary, uncomfortable guise.

It was a cruel, almost unbearable irony, considering how your paths had once been so deeply intertwined. You and Minho, inseparable, best friends through every grueling university exam, every late-night study session fueled by instant coffee and shared dreams. You’d known the contours of his laughter, the slight furrow of his brow when he was concentrating, the way his eyes would crinkle at the corners when truly amused. He’d known yours too – your nervous habit of twirling a strand of hair, your passion for forgotten novels, the quiet way you processed the world around you. Your lives had been parallel, often intersecting, a comforting constant in the turbulent waters of young adulthood.

Then she had arrived – his ex-wife, the woman who had later shattered his world by cheating on him. Back then, she had been a whirlwind of dazzling smiles and magnetic charm, and Minho had fallen hard. You had watched, a silent, aching observer, as he drifted further away, consumed by a love that, unbeknownst to him then, would ultimately betray him. And just like that, without a backward glance, he’d cut you off.

"She doesn't like how close we are, Y/N," he’d said, his eyes distant, already elsewhere, avoiding your gaze. "It's for the best. You understand, don't you?"

You had swallowed the bitter pill, pretending understanding, while your heart fractured into a thousand pieces. "Of course, Minho. Whatever makes you happy." The lie had tasted like ash. As if your friendship had never existed, as if the years of shared laughter and confidences were merely a phantom, easily erased.

Now, years later, the universe seemed to delight in its twisted sense of humor. Their mothers, ever the masterminds of well-intentioned chaos, had decided your fates, orchestrating this reluctant union. His mother, concerned for Aera's future, and your own, perhaps hoping to see you finally settled. The rationale was simple: Aera needed a mother, and you, being a 'good, stable girl' who knew Minho, were deemed the perfect, convenient solution. You had no real say, swept up in a tide of parental expectations and societal pressures.

-

A month passed within the confines of the meticulously clean, yet emotionally sterile, house. The initial silence, thick with unspoken resentment and unaddressed pasts, began, almost imperceptibly, to soften. Five-year-old Aera, a miniature shadow constantly at her father's heels, initially shy and reserved, began to cling to you with an unexpected fierceness. She was a delicate thing, all wide, curious eyes and soft brown hair, and beneath her initial reticence, you found a playful spirit longing for connection.

It surprised everyone, especially Minho, who had cycled through countless nannies, each one met with Aera's stubborn, tearful refusal to trust. The child seemed to possess an innate radar for insincerity, sending nannies fleeing with her piercing cries and unyielding resistance. But with you, it was different. Slowly, cautiously, Aera began to unfurl. She’d crawl into your lap while you read her bedtime stories, her small body a comforting weight. She’d shyly offer you her favorite crayon as you sketched together, her hand reaching out for yours, a silent invitation you always accepted. Sometimes, she would just rest her small head against your thigh as you moved through the kitchen, a quiet presence that spoke volumes. Each small gesture felt like a balm to your wounded spirit, a tiny crack appearing in the wall of your resignation.

Even Minho's three furry overlords—Soonie, Doongie, and Dori—the regal, aloof feline trio who usually regarded newcomers with disdainful flicks of their tails, now purred contentedly around you. They would rub against your legs as you walked, settle onto your lap while you watched TV, or even allow you the rare privilege of scratching behind their ears. Minho, ever the doting cat dad, would sometimes pause, a flicker of surprise in his usually impassive eyes, as he witnessed their unusual acceptance.

One evening, he watched as Dori kneaded biscuits happily on your lap. "Huh," he’d said, a rare, almost unreadable sound. "They don't usually… tolerate new people that quickly."

You’d merely offered a small, noncommittal smile, not wanting to break the fragile peace. It was a small validation for you, a quiet acknowledgement that perhaps, you weren't entirely unwelcome in this new, strange life.

A fragile, bittersweet domestic tension began to settle in, a tentative breath of peace in a house built on obligation. The routines of breakfast, school runs, quiet evenings, and shared meals began to form a rhythm, punctuated by Aera's childish chatter and the soft purring of the cats. Minho remained guarded, polite but distant, a phantom in the hallways. "Good morning," or "Did Aera finish her homework?" were the most extensive exchanges. You, in turn, learned to navigate his silences, to exist in the periphery of his life, a role you thought you were accustomed to from your university days, but now carried the weight of a 'paper ring' and a silent promise of nothing. Each day was a tightrope walk between hope and resignation, between the past you couldn't forget and a future you couldn't quite see.

--

One crisp evening, the enticing aroma of roasted garlic and something simmering on the stove—a rich, savory scent—greeted you as you returned home from errands. The fragrance was a surprising comfort, a small, domestic whisper in the otherwise vast, silent house. It was a fleeting illusion of normalcy, one you clung to with a desperate, almost pathetic hope. Minho, having taken a rare day off to spend with Aera, was meticulously plating dinner in the kitchen. His movements were precise, economical, almost robotic, as he spooned pasta onto plates and arranged small, perfectly cooked florets of broccoli beside them. He wore a simple, dark t-shirt, sleeves rolled to reveal strong forearms, and for a fleeting moment, the sight felt almost normal, a fragile bubble of domesticity you desperately yearned for.

"Dinner's ready," he announced, his voice neutral, not looking up from the plates, his gaze fixed on the task. Aera, who had been quietly coloring at the kitchen island, a small, contented hum escaping her lips as she meticulously colored a unicorn, immediately bounced off her stool, her eyes wide with anticipation. "Yay! Dinner!" she chirped, tugging on his sleeve.

As the three of you sat down at the gleaming, expansive dining table, a quiet hum settled between you. The only sounds were the soft clink of cutlery against ceramic, Aera's soft murmurs to her imaginary friend tucked under the table, and the faint, residual sizzle from the kitchen as Minho finally turned off the stove. You watched Aera pick at her food, her small fork pushing around the vibrant green peas with an air of profound contemplation, as if they held the secrets of the universe, rather than just being, well, peas.

"Aera, sweetheart, just a few bites of your veggies," you coaxed gently, your voice soft, almost a whisper, reaching to help guide her spoon. Your fingers brushed her tiny hand. "They're really good, I promise. Daddy cooked them just for you." You offered her a warm, encouraging smile, trying to make it a game.

But the moment the spoon neared her mouth, a storm erupted. Her small face contorted into a defiant frown, every line of her five-year-old stubbornness etched clearly. She shrieked, swatting your hand away with surprising force, sending the spoon clattering against the plate. "No! I don't want it! I don't like green! It's yucky! I want noodles only!" A solitary pea flew across the table, a tiny green missile, narrowly missing Minho’s plate and landing with a soft plink on the polished hardwood floor.

Minho had been having an impossibly rough week. The significant deal, a sprawling, complex project he had poured months of his life, his intellect, his very essence into, had collapsed spectacularly earlier that day. Not due to his fault, but his company's egregious, sloppy error. He had spent hours trapped in scathing, unforgiving meetings, bearing the brunt of the blame, listening to veiled threats about future career prospects. It had left him with the unenviable task of damage control, a throbbing headache, and a bitter, metallic taste of failure coating his tongue. His patience, already stretched thin by the day's relentless frustrations and the suffocating weight of responsibility, snapped like a dry twig underfoot.

"Aera! Stop that right now!" His voice, usually a soothing balm when speaking to his daughter, cracked with a harshness that made you flinch violently. He slammed his fork down on the table, a sharp, metallic clang that echoed like a gunshot in the sudden silence. "Eat your food! You're five, you need to eat your vegetables! We do not throw food at the table! That's disrespectful!"

The little girl froze instantly, her playful defiance replaced by wide-eyed terror. Her lip began to tremble uncontrollably, a single tear tracing a path down her flushed cheek, before she burst into heartbroken sobs, loud and piercing, echoing off the high ceilings. She looked utterly bewildered by her father's sudden, explosive fury, a silent accusation in her tear-filled eyes, reflecting the shattered innocence of the moment.

"Minho, please," you started, your voice urgent, instinctively reaching across the table, your hand hovering uncertainly between them. You wanted to pull Aera into your embrace, to shield her from his sudden, chilling rage. "She's just a child. She's upset. Let's try to calm her down, maybe make a game of it, or distract her—"

But he cut you off with a sharp, angry glance, his jaw tight, muscles bunched along his jawline. His eyes, usually a soft, warm brown, were now cold, devoid of any recognition, like chips of obsidian. "Stay the hell out of it, Y/N." His words were ice, direct and devastating, each syllable a precisely aimed dagger. "This is between me and my daughter. You’re just some outsider. You don't get to interfere with how I raise her. You don't understand."

The 'outsider' comment hung in the air, heavy and poisonous, coating everything in its bitter taste. It wasn't just a phrase; it was a bludgeon, hitting you squarely in the chest. It was a familiar, painful reminder of your precarious place in this arrangement, a stark, brutal jab at the wound he'd inflicted years ago when he’d first cast you aside. It tore open old scars, reminding you of every moment you’d felt secondary, expendable. But seeing Aera’s crushed face, her small body shaking with quiet, desperate sobs, ignited a protective fire in you, extinguishing the self-pity, pushing aside your own hurt for hers. The anger at his cruel words for you was momentarily overshadowed by the fierce, burning injustice done to her.

You pushed your chair back with a violent scrape that grated against the floor, standing abruptly, your hands clenched into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms. Your voice trembled with the force of suppressed emotion, but it was firm, unwavering, born of a quiet strength he hadn't seen in years. "That is not how you parent, Minho! You’re terrifying her! She's crying because you're yelling, not because she's stubborn! Yelling at her like that will just make her fear you! She’s upset, not defiant, and she needs comfort, not a lecture on discipline after you've scared her half to death!"

His eyes, blazing with a fury that mirrored your own, met yours across the table, a silent, volatile challenge. A vein pulsed visibly in his temple. "Don't you dare teach me how to handle my own daughter! Who are you to tell me how to raise her?! I lost a major deal today, Y/N, I'm stressed beyond belief! She needs to learn discipline! You have no right to interfere!" His fist clenched on the tabletop, his knuckles white against his tanned skin. "You have no idea what it's like to be responsible for everything alone! You have no idea what my life is like!"

And then you yelled back, the dam breaking under the pressure of weeks of unspoken grievances and years of buried pain, the words tumbling out, raw and uncontrolled, laced with venom you didn't know you possessed. "Discipline? Or are you just lashing out because you're having a bad day and can’t control your own temper?! Is that it, Minho?! You’re acting like a stranger to your own child! Then you shouldn't have remarried me if you haven't moved on!" Your voice rose, raw with emotion, tears stinging your own eyes, hot and sudden. "You’re bringing your past hurt, your anger, your failed relationship into this house, and it’s hurting Aera! Your parenting is harsh, Minho, and you don't realize your words are like slow poison! They sting, badly, and they leave scars! On her, and on everyone around you!" Your gaze held his, piercing through his anger to the raw pain beneath. "You have no idea how much your words can sting, how much they can poison someone and lure them to their own death by making them feel like they aren't good enough! for you or for aera or for anyone!"

Aera, meanwhile, had scrambled from her chair, her small body trembling with silent sobs that shook her shoulders. Her face was blotchy, tears streaking lines down her cheeks. She pushed her chair back further with a pathetic squeak and bolted, a tiny, heartbroken blur disappearing into the sanctuary of your room, the soft thud of your room's door closing echoing in the sudden, suffocating silence that descended upon the dining room.

The argument had bled all warmth from the room, leaving only an oppressive, heavy quiet that pressed down on you both. You stood there, chest heaving, the remnants of your outburst vibrating in the air, your body tense, ready for another verbal attack, for the inevitable counter-blow. Minho remained seated, a statue of furious control, his face a mask of stone, his eyes fixed on the empty space where Aera had been, a flicker of something unreadable – regret? shame? – in their depths. The tension was a physical entity, suffocating you both, heavy with the weight of unspoken words and shattered expectations. You couldn't bear to look at him, couldn't bear the lingering echo of his words, the raw, unadulterated hurt they inflicted.

With a final, sharp, ragged breath, you turned, the sound of your own steps unnaturally loud in the silence. You walked, almost ran, to your own bedroom, the slamming of your door echoing the turbulence in your heart, sealing you away from the man you were legally bound to, and the relentless cycle of hurt he so effortlessly inflicted. You leaned against the closed door, your back pressing against the cool wood, tears finally falling freely, hot and unstoppable. The bitter taste of regret mingled with the lingering, agonizing sting of his cruelty, a reminder that some wounds, no matter how old, could always be reopened.

The sharp, insistent ring of the doorbell jolted you awake far too early the next morning. You glanced at your phone—6:45 AM. Too early for anyone, especially after last night's emotional wreckage. Before you could even process it, you heard Aera’s excited squeal from the living room, she was up way early….she had been sleeping besides you for the longest you could remember. Oh no. Not today. It could only mean one thing: Minho’s parents had arrived unannounced.

You quickly splashed cold water on your face, trying to erase the lingering traces of tears and the dark circles under your eyes. As you walked into the living room, a practiced smile plastered on your face, Minho's mother immediately enveloped you in a warm hug. "Y/N, dear! Goodness, you look tired. Minho is still asleep, I assume? He works so hard."

You forced a light laugh, your heart pounding. "Good morning, Eomma. Appa. It's lovely to see you." You subtly glanced towards Minho's closed bedroom door. "Yes, he… he had a very late night at work. I didn't want to disturb him." You avoided eye contact, hoping your feigned cheerfulness would mask the raw fight that had exploded just hours before. Aera, surprisingly, didn't say anything either. She just clung to her grandmother's leg, her gaze briefly meeting yours, a silent pact of secrecy passing between you. Perhaps the shock of her father’s anger had sobered her, or perhaps she sensed the fragile peace you were trying to maintain.

Aera, who had curled up with you in your room last night—a first, a small, comforting victory in the chaos—was now buzzing with excitement around her grandparents. She chatted happily, completely absorbed in their presence, making no mention of her sudden transfer to your bed. You spent the morning attempting to play the perfect host, brewing coffee, preparing breakfast, and engaging in light conversation, all while a frantic energy pulsed beneath your calm exterior. Minho remained conspicuously absent. Aera, after failing to rouse him, bounced off to join her grandparents in the kitchen.

Later, as the day wound down and the evening shadows lengthened, Minho’s mother made a casual remark. "Y/N, dear, Aera will want to sleep with her father tonight, now that we're here. And you'll need your own room, of course. It's only proper." Her words were gentle, but the implication was clear: you would have to sleep in Minho’s room. Your stomach churned. The thought of sharing that space, even platonically, after what had happened, was a fresh wave of agony. You simply nodded, forcing another weak smile. "Of course, Eomma."

You tried to delay the inevitable, helping Aera prepare for bed, tucking her in as Minho’s parents settled into the guest room. Minho was still not home. He had sent a brief, impersonal text earlier: Will be late. Don't wait for me. That was all. No apology, no explanation, just a curt notification.

You lingered in Aera's room until her breathing deepened, then reluctantly made your way to Minho's room. The air felt heavy, charged with his lingering presence, even in his absence. You changed into your sleep clothes, the silence of the large room amplifying the ache in your chest. You climbed into the vast bed, pulling the duvet up to your chin, trying to find a comfortable position on the very edge, as far from his side as possible. You tried to sleep, but the words from last night still festered, raw and stinging, replaying in your mind like a broken record. "You’re just some outsider." They were a poison, slowly eroding your already fragile sense of belonging.

Restless, unable to find solace, you eventually shifted, your arm instinctively reaching for the bedside drawer, expecting your own room's familiar collection of books and a comforting balm. Your fingers brushed against cold metal, then paper. You froze, realizing your mistake. This wasn't your room. It was his. Your hand paused, then curiosity, morbid and irresistible, compelled you forward. You pulled the drawer open slowly.

Inside, beneath a few neatly stacked papers, lay a silver photo frame. Your eyes fell on it, and your breath hitched. It was a wedding photo—Minho and his ex-wife, all smiles and starry-eyed adoration, captured in a moment of pure, unadulterated happiness. He looked so young, so in love. So happy. It was a stark contrast to the distant, weary man he was now. Aera looked so much like Minho, you realized, studying the tiny face in the picture. Her hair color was undeniably her mother’s, a rich, dark brown, but the shape of her eyes, the set of her lips, it was all Minho.

Below the frame, tucked away, were stacks of papers. You carefully picked them up, your fingers trembling. They were old love poems and song lyrics, handwritten in Minho’s neat script, overflowing with devotion and longing. For her. Each word was a sharp jab, twisting deeper into your gut.

It stung, a deep, twisting pain in your chest, radiating outwards. You had kept hoping, against all logic, that Minho might eventually like you, that he would move on from the phantom of his past love, or at least that you could somehow return to the easy closeness you shared as friends. His ex-wife was the very reason Minho had distanced himself from you in university, the reason he’d thrown away your bond. You had always loved him, a secret you guarded fiercely, unwilling to jeopardize a friendship that meant the world to you. And just like that, he had slipped away, as if your bond meant nothing. You hadn't attended their wedding; you just couldn't bear it. You had believed you’d moved on, burying the feelings deep, only to be proven wrong, again and again, with every quiet moment you spent under his roof, every silent hope you nurtured. And now, seeing this proof of his enduring devotion to a ghost, you hated yourself for still liking him, for allowing this agonizing vulnerability, for clinging to the idea that you could ever fill a void meant for someone else. You felt utterly, irrevocably unwanted.

You quietly, meticulously, put everything back, arranging the papers and the photo frame exactly as you’d found them. Tears rolled silently down your cheeks, hot and unbidden, pooling on the pillow. Getting up from the vast, empty expanse of the bed, you walked towards the small couch tucked into a corner of the room. Curling into its cramped space, you wrapped your arms around yourself, with Aera sleeping peacefully in the bed a world away. You hoped Minho wouldn't even realize you were there.

You couldn't sleep. The photo, the poems, his words, Aera’s tears after minho had yelled her like she had commited a crime—it all swirled in a tormenting vortex. Just as the first hint of pre-dawn light filtered through the curtains, the door swung open, and he walked in. Minho.

He didn't notice you immediately. He quickly stripped off his coat, tossing it over a chair, and walked over to the bed, his movements quiet, precise. He bent down, his shadow falling over Aera, and gently pulled her closer, kissing her head. "I'm so sorry, baby i was wrong for yelling at you…i shouldn't have taken out my anger on you," he murmured, his voice a low, raspy apology, filled with a regret you knew was solely for her. You pretended to be asleep, your breath shallow, your heart aching with a pain so profound it was almost physical.

He slowly got up, went for a bath, the sound of the running water a muffled background noise. When he came back, dressed in fresh sleepwear, he laid down beside his daughter, pulling the duvet over them both. His eyes, now adjusted to the dim light, drifted from Aera’s sleeping form to the far corner of the room. He saw your cramped form on the couch. That's when it hit him—right, his parents were here… you were here, not in the bed, but on the couch. A flicker of surprise, then something akin to confusion, crossed his face before he settled deeper into the pillows, his gaze drifting towards his bedside table. The neatly arranged items, the way the drawer had been moved by a centimeter or so… it was clear you had seen something, something he had been wanting to trash but hadn't had the heart to.

He hadn't meant to cause you so much pain. The thought was a weak, pathetic excuse, a whisper in the furious storm brewing within him, barely audible over the roaring self-condemnation. He watched you curled on the couch, a small, desolate shape in the dim, pre-dawn light that filtered through the curtains, painting the room in shades of grey. You looked tired, utterly exhausted, and undeniably, profoundly hurt. This wasn't the superficial fatigue of a long day at the office or a sleepless night; this was the deep-seated weariness of a spirit burdened, a soul bruised by repeated blows. Your posture, hunched and defensive, spoke volumes, a stark contrast to the vibrant, open person he remembered.

He sat heavily on the edge of his bed, the duvet still warm from Aera’s small, innocent body, and his gaze drifted back to the bedside table. The photo frame, the stack of papers. They were exactly as he'd left them, a testament to his own lingering attachment to a past he desperately wanted to erase. Yet, the slight displacement he’d noticed earlier, the tiny shift of a centimeter or two, spoke volumes, a silent accusation. You had opened the drawer. You had seen it all. The wedding photo with his ex-wife, her beaming, false smile a stark contrast to the betrayal that followed. The saccharine love poems he’d poured his naive, foolish heart into for a woman who had ultimately shattered it into irreparable pieces. The relics of a past he couldn't bring himself to truly discard, not because he still loved her, but because the searing pain, the bitter rage, and the profound, crippling insecurities born from that very betrayal, still clung to him like a suffocating shroud. They were a part of him now, an ugly, festering wound that refused to heal.

He hadn't loved her in years, not in the way he'd once foolishly believed was love. That emotion had curdled into resentment and a deep-seated fear of vulnerability. But the betrayal had warped him, convinced him that he was inherently unlovable, perpetually destined to be left, replaced, or cheated on. And those festering insecurities had, time and again, found an easy target, lashing out at the reader. A wave of shame washed over him, a cold, bitter tide.

He remembered the day in university, years ago. His ex-wife, then his dazzling girlfriend, had demanded he cut ties with his 'too-close' female friend. He’d barely hesitated, blinded by infatuation and his own desperate need for validation. "Just… fuck off, Y/N," he’d snapped, his own fear of losing his new, captivating love overriding every ounce of loyalty and genuine affection he held for his best friend. He’d seen it then, the instant flash of pain in your eyes, a bright, hopeful spark extinguished as if by a sudden gust of wind, replaced by a quiet, heartbreaking emptiness that had never truly returned. He’d justified it then, told himself it was for the best, that you should move on. Now, looking at you on the couch, he knew he had been a coward.

And last night. His words had been even worse, sharper, more venomous than anything he’d ever directed at anyone, let alone you. Calling you an 'outsider,' demanding you to 'stay the hell out of it.' His own fury, fueled by his humiliating professional setback, had found an outlet in the one person who offered him solace. He had failed you as a friend, as a husband, as a human indeed. The thought settled in his gut like a lead weight. He was disgusted with himself, truly, profoundly disgusted.

The woman who stood by him, who patiently navigated his moods, who had, without a single complaint, taken on the arduous role of Aera’s mother, was someone he had consistently, cruelly, pushed away. The irony was suffocating. The fact that she still kept trying, kept all the mundane details of their shared life running smoothly, kept a calm and happy demeanor for Aera’s sake—it was a testament to your quiet resilience, a quiet strength that shamed him. It twisted his gut with a familiar, burning guilt. You were suffering, he realized with a sickening lurch, probably worse than he could ever imagine, because you were always so acutely insecure about your whole existence.

He remembered your quiet struggles in university, the way your family had subtly, constantly, undermined you, with their casual taunts and backhanded compliments. "Why can't you be more like your sister, Y/N? She always knows what she wants." Or, "You're so quiet, are you even trying? You need to speak up more, get noticed." They had been like tiny, insidious cuts, wearing away at your self-worth, systematically eroding your confidence. You had been living in a subtle hell of constant comparison and criticism, and he, in his blind rage and self-pity, had only added to it. He had taken you out of one toxic environment and, in his arrogance, put you back into the same nasty rhythm of his own rage and insecurities, constantly reminding you that you are just here as a replacement, a convenient solution, never truly desired or loved for herself. He had broken the one promise he’d silently made to himself: to protect you. Just to be broken in the worst manner and hurt you in the worst way one could have even imagined.

The image of your small, trembling body on the couch, a faint tremor still visible in your sleeping form, merged with the memory of Aera's terrified sobs from last night. His words, he realized, were like acid, slowly eating away at the very foundations of your spirit, leaving you hollowed out and fragile. He had sworn to himself, silently, during their university days, that he would never make this girl cry. He had sworn to protect that quiet, hopeful spark in your eyes, the gentle kindness that drew others to you. And now, he was the one extinguishing it, systematically, with every cruel word, every cold shoulder. He had fallen in love with the manipulation, the subtle coercion from the woman he'd once 'loved,' who had asked him to cut ties with his best friend and probably the only person who wad truly ever seen him fully. He had been so blind, so consumed by his own wounded ego after being cheated on, that he hadn't seen the true, unwavering kindness, the steadfast loyalty, that had always been right in front of him, waiting patiently.

He knew, with a gut-wrenching certainty, that he didn't deserve you, you deserved something he had touched and lost in a matter of seconds. He was a mess, a twisted knot of anger, self-loathing, and unresolved trauma. He had used your gentle presence, your unwavering support, your quiet affection, to somehow convince himself he was still good enough, still worthy of someone's affection, even if that affection was born of duty and circumstance. It was disgusting. He was disgusting. Every breath he took felt tainted by his own hypocrisy and cruelty.

He rose from the bed, moving slowly, carefully, his limbs heavy, so as not to disturb you or Aera. He knelt by the couch, the worn fabric pressing into his knees, his heart heavy and aching with a pain that rivaled his own. You were so small, so defenseless in your sleep, your face still etched with the residue of tears, a tear track glistening faintly on your cheek. He gently, carefully, cradled you in his arms, lifting your feather-light body as if you were made of glass. He could feel the slight shudder of your breath against his chest, the warmth of your skin. He laid you on the bed, pulling the duvet over you, watching as you instinctively snuggled into the warmth, finding comfort in the familiar scent of the linens. You looked tired, exhausted, and profoundly hurt. He reached out a trembling hand, brushing a stray strand of hair from your forehead, his fingers lingering, wanting to smooth away the pain he had caused. He remembered their university days and how his callous words had destroyed your spark. He silently vowed to make amends, to somehow, impossibly, bring that light back. He would try, even if he didn't deserve it. He owed you that much. He owed you everything.

The next morning, the air in the house was thick with an unfamiliar quiet, a strained politeness that felt heavier than any argument. Aera, surprisingly bright-eyed and cheerful, announced with a giggle that she would be spending some time with her grandparents. Minho's mother, ever efficient, confirmed the arrangement. "Just for a few weeks, dear," she said, patting your hand. "Aera loves staying with us, and it will give you both some quiet time." The irony was a bitter taste in your mouth. Quiet time. Aera, seemingly having forgotten the previous night's tension, bounced between her grandmother and father, showering them both with hugs. She hugged you too, a quick, trusting embrace that felt like a lifeline. Then, with a final wave, she was gone, her cheerful chatter fading with the closing of the front door.

And just like that, the house had gone silent. Too silent.

It wasn't merely the absence of Aera's lively presence; it was a profound, suffocating quiet that settled into every corner, amplifying the unspoken chasm between you and Minho. The walls seemed to hum with the tension of two people meticulously avoiding each other. The mornings became a carefully orchestrated dance of near misses. You would rise early, perhaps make yourself a quick toast, and then retreat to the small sunroom with a book, hoping to be out of the way. Minho, it seemed, adopted a similar strategy. You'd hear the faint sounds of him getting ready, a cabinet closing, water running, but by the time you ventured into the main living areas, he would already be gone, the lingering scent of his cologne the only proof he'd been there.

Weeks passed, stretching into an agonizing eternity of carefully maintained distance. Three weeks, to be precise. Aera still didn't want to come back, delighting in the endless attention and treats at her grandparents' house. And with each passing day of her absence, the silence between you and Minho grew heavier, thicker, more impenetrable. It became a third entity in the house, a silent, oppressive companion.

You existed like strangers. Not just under the same roof, but in the same emotional space, breathing the same air, yet worlds apart. There were no more shared meals, no accidental brushes of hands in the kitchen, no fleeting glances across the room. You found yourself retreating more and more into your own world within the house. You spent hours tending to the small, neglected garden in the backyard, pulling weeds with a fierce concentration that masked your inner turmoil. You reorganized closets, baked elaborate cakes you never ate, and started learning a new language online or even force yourself to go meet your friends you had made after minho had left you in the university. Anything to fill the aching void, anything to drown out the silence, anything to avoid the man who was legally your husband.

He, in turn, seemed to retreat into his work. You would be asleep when he came home, the faint creak of the floorboards or the distant click of a lock the only indication of his return. And by the time you woke up, he would already be gone, leaving behind only the cold emptiness of the space beside you in the bed, a stark reminder of his deliberate absence.

It annoyed you, this constant, almost theatrical avoidance, but you kept yourself busy. You told yourself it was better this way. Less chance of another confrontation, less chance of his words wounding you again. Yet, beneath the busy veneer, a profound loneliness began to take root, nurtured by the silent, aching void where a relationship should have been. You were married, yes, but you were more alone than you had ever been. The house, once filled with the muted hum of your hopes, now echoed with only the sound of your own quiet suffering, a poignant testament to the unbearable weight of silence.

The quiet, which had initially been a suffocating weight, had morphed into a strange, unsettling companion. Three weeks of this strained existence had passed, each day a blur of work, domestic tasks, and the meticulous avoidance of Minho. He would leave before you woke, return after you slept. The house was a large, elegant shell, echoing with the silence of two souls desperately trying not to collide.

Then, one evening, as you were meticulously organizing the spice rack for the third time that week, Minho walked into the kitchen. He was dressed in a crisp suit, his briefcase already by the door. "I'll be leaving for a business trip," he announced, his voice flat, devoid of any preamble or desire for discussion. "Four days. If you need anything leave a message"

You merely nodded, your back still to him as you rearranged the cinnamon sticks. "Okay," you mumbled, not trusting your voice to betray the tremor you felt. You didn't ask where, or why, or if he’d be safe. He didn't offer. And just like that, with a barely perceptible sigh, he was gone, leaving behind only the lingering scent of his expensive cologne and an even deeper silence.

The first two days of his absence were surprisingly tolerable. You found a perverse relief in the house being truly, unequivocally empty. No more silent dances in the morning, no more listening for the faint click of his key in the lock late at night. You worked on your online language lessons, gardened, read, and even found yourself humming a little as you cleaned. It was a fragile, self-made peace.

But then came the third day.

The silence began to press in, heavier than before. The vastness of the house, usually a comfort, became a cruel, echoing reminder of your solitude. You found yourself pacing, restless, unable to settle into any task. Every shadow seemed to stretch, every creak of the floorboards sounded louder. You missed him. The thought hit you with the force of a physical blow, surprising and sickening. You missed his presence, even his distant, guarded one. You craved the casual background noise of another adult in the house, the faint scent of his coffee from the kitchen, the distant sound of his voice on a call.

You wanted to kill yourself for still craving it, for being such a needy, pathetic idiot. You were a grown woman, independent, yet here you were, consumed by a longing for a man who had made it painstakingly clear he didn't want you. The knowledge that he wouldn't be home for another day, maybe more, felt like a crushing weight.

Driven by an impulse you couldn't control, you wandered into his bedroom. The room was stark, masculine, smelling faintly of him, clean and crisp. Your eyes landed on his walk-in closet, and specifically, on one of his dark grey hoodies, casually draped over a chair. It was the one you always wanted to wear, thick and soft, the fabric looking impossibly comforting.

With trembling hands, you pulled it on. It was absurdly large, the sleeves falling over your hands, the hem reaching your mid-thigh. But it smelled like him. It was warm, retaining a faint residual heat from his body, and in that moment, you desperately wanted to believe it was how his body warmth would feel like, too. It was a pathetic comfort, a desperate mimicry of an intimacy you didn't have. And probably, you thought with a bitter twist, this was how his ex-wife had gotten all the attention, love, and affection you craved like a greedy, needy idiot. The thought was a sharp pang of self-loathing.

That night, you found yourself in his bed, not the couch. The immense space felt both comforting and vast, emphasizing your loneliness. You curled into the center, the soft duvet pulled high, clutching one of his pillows tight against your chest like a lifeline. It smelled of him, of clean linen and his subtle, unique scent. You buried your face in it, and the tears, long suppressed, finally came. You cried. You sobbed your heart out into the pillow, silent, racking sobs that shook your entire body, until your throat was raw and your eyes burned. You cried yourself to sleep, exhaustion finally claiming you, the hoodie a second skin, a substitute for the warmth you desperately craved.

Minho had finished his business early. The deal, against all odds, had unexpectedly pivoted in their favor at the last minute, and he’d caught an earlier flight, arriving back late on the third night itself, eager to finally decompress in the quiet of his own home. He opened his bedroom door slowly, not wanting to disturb anyone, and stepped inside.

He froze.

There, in his bed, was a small, unfamiliar shape. Not Aera. As his eyes adjusted, he saw you, curled up in the center of his large bed, nestled deep in his duvet, your face buried in his pillow. And then he saw it—the oversized dark grey fabric. His hoodie. You were wearing his hoodie, hugging his pillow like a lifeline.

He moved closer, his steps soft, almost reverent. The streetlights cast long, pale shadows across the room, illuminating your form. As he got closer, the light caught your face. His breath hitched. Your eyes were swollen, your nose red and raw, the delicate skin around them puffy. You had been crying yourself to sleep, god knows from how long. The sight was a punch to the gut, a visceral ache that resonated deep within him.

It hurt him, seeing what he had done to you, the silent suffering you endured. The countless promises he kept breaking, the wounds he kept inflicting, and you were still here, still loving him, still clinging to whatever fragmented pieces of him you could find. He wanted to shake you, to tell you to stop this, to tell you he didn't deserve it, that he was a mess, a broken man. But then, a sickening realization dawned. He had been enjoying it. He had been enjoying the attention you had been giving him, the quiet comfort of your presence, the ease with which you handled Aera and the cats, the unspoken adoration in your gaze. He had been a selfish, manipulative bastard, using someone's love for him to grow by himself, to believe he was good enough, to patch up his own gaping wounds….again and agian and AGAIN.

And it had costed you. You had become someone he couldn't even tell was the same happy, bright person who had been his best friend in university. The spark in your eyes, once so vibrant, was now a dull flicker.

He wanted to hold you close, to beg for another chance, to plead for forgiveness. He knew, with a certainty that shamed him, that you were too forgiving, too kind, too good. You would just say yes. He knew he didn't deserve your kindness, your patience, your affection. He was a monster who had systematically broken the one person who still saw something good in him.

Slowly, gently, he lay down beside you, careful not to disturb your sleep. He didn't pull you closer, didn't dare to. He simply lay there, facing your back, his arm tentatively reaching out to rest beside you, not touching. Good lord, he was an idiot a fucker to have used you in such a twisted manner to heal himself.

--

You woke up slowly, disoriented, a soft warmth enveloping you. For a moment, you thought you were still dreaming, wrapped in the comforting illusion of his arms from your tear-soaked sleep. Then, a shocking realization jolted you into full awareness. You were in Minho’s bed, not the couch. Your head was tucked against a solid chest, and an arm was draped loosely, possessively, around your waist. His scent, still lingering from the hoodie, was now undeniably close, warm and real.

Panic seized you. Your eyes flew open, wide and disbelieving. Had he come back? Had he… had he seen you? The thought of him witnessing your vulnerability, your desperate craving for comfort, sent a fresh wave of humiliation through you. You hadn't asked him if wearing his clothes, touching his stuff, was okay. You were an intruder, caught in the act. Your breath hitched, and your body went rigid, every muscle tensing, preparing for his reaction, for the cold dismissal, the cutting words.

Minho, who hadn't slept a wink, had felt the subtle stiffening of your body against his. He knew the exact moment you woke up, the slight intake of breath, the sudden rigidity that replaced your earlier pliancy. He kept his eyes closed for a moment longer, bracing himself. Then, he opened them, his gaze falling on the top of your head nestled under his chin. He felt your silent panic, the rapid thrum of your heartbeat against his chest.

He pulled you infinitesimally closer, a gentle, reassuring movement. His voice, a low, husky whisper, barely audible, broke the suffocating silence. "Hey," he murmured, his breath warm against your hair. "You're all good. Just… breathe." He didn't offer an explanation for his presence, or yours, simply the quiet comfort of his voice. He ran a hesitant hand down your arm, a light, soothing touch designed to calm.

You didn't move, still rigid, suspended between fear and a fragile, desperate hope. His arm remained around you, firm but not constraining, and you could feel the steady beat of his heart against your cheek. The world outside the duvet felt distant, irrelevant. For a fleeting moment, a dangerous, intoxicating part of you wanted to melt into his embrace, to lean into the warmth, to let the exhaustion finally claim you fully.

He was about to say something more, something perhaps apologetic, perhaps even a confession of his own turmoil, when the shrill, insistent ring of his phone shattered the fragile moment. It blared from his bedside table, a jarring intrusion into the hushed intimacy of the morning.

He sighed, a deep, exasperated sound, and reluctantly loosened his hold on you. "Duty calls," he muttered, the warmth instantly draining from his voice as he pulled away. He reached for the phone, his body turning away from you, the brief spell broken as quickly as it had formed. The sudden absence of his warmth left you feeling cold and exposed. You quickly rolled to your side, turning your back to him, pulling the duvet tighter around you like a shield, pretending to still be asleep.

The conversation was brief, clipped, all business. You heard snippets: "Yes, the Q3 report… confirmed… by noon… I understand I will be there." By the time he hung up, the moment was lost. He got out of bed, the mattress shifting slightly. You kept your eyes squeezed shut, willing him to leave, to disappear, to give you space to process what had just happened, what hadn't happened. He probably thought you were still asleep, and you desperately hoped he did. You heard him move around the room, the faint rustle of clothes, the opening and closing of drawers as he prepared for his day. He didn't speak again. Eventually, the click of the bedroom door signaled his departure.

You waited until the house was utterly silent before allowing yourself to fully breathe, tears silently tracing paths down your temples into your hair. The weight of what had just happened—the almost-moment, the broken spell, the lingering scent of him on the sheets—was almost unbearable.

Another week passed. Aera returned home, bringing with her the familiar, welcome sounds of childish laughter and bustling energy. The house, once again, hummed with a life that wasn't entirely desolate. Her presence was a comforting buffer, a shield against the suffocating quiet that still lingered between you and Minho.

But despite the return of Aera's vibrant energy, the two of you didn't talk. Not about that morning, not about the argument, not about anything that truly mattered. It was almost as if it had been entirely forgotten, a nightmare you had both silently agreed to erase from your shared consciousness. The polite, superficial exchanges resumed: "Did Aera eat her breakfast?" or "Are you picking her up from school today?" The facade was perfectly maintained for Aera's sake, a fragile peace treaty built on unspoken rules and avoided truths.

One afternoon, a faint, acrid smell drifted through the house. You followed it to the backyard, to the small, ornate fire pit that Minho sometimes used for grilling. He was standing over it, his back to you, watching something burn. As you approached, you saw the remnants of ash, and then, a corner of paper that hadn't quite caught fire. It was a faded photograph.

Your breath hitched. Your eyes widened as you recognized the faint outline: the blurred faces of Minho and his ex-wife, her long hair, his joyous, open smile. He was burning the photo. And as the flames consumed the last tangible pieces of his past, you noticed other fragments among the ashes – charred remnants of paper that looked suspiciously like old love poems. The ones you had found in his bedside drawer.

Your heart gave a strange, painful lurch. He was doing it. He was finally letting go. A part of you felt a quiet, fragile hope ignite, a timid flame in the vast emptiness of your despair. But another part, the one that had been repeatedly wounded, felt a deep sense of trepidation. What did it mean? Was this for you? Or just for himself?

He didn't acknowledge your presence, didn't turn around, didn't offer an explanation. You watched him for a long moment, the smoke curling into the sky, carrying away the ashes of regret, the remnants of a life that had wounded them both. You never questioned his actions, never asked him what he was burning, or why. You didn't want to hear something which would hurt you again, something that would dismantle the fragile, almost-peace you had managed to reconstruct. So you simply stood there, watching the smoke rise, and then quietly turned and walked back inside, leaving him alone with the ghosts he was finally trying to lay to rest. The silence between you, once again, remained unbroken.

The fragile peace, or rather, the carefully maintained truce, held for another week. Aera's cheerful presence filled the house with a comforting background hum, a much-needed buffer against the vast silence that still stretched between you and Minho. You went about your days, keeping busy, burying any stray thoughts or lingering aches beneath layers of routine.

--

One afternoon, a subtle ache began to prick behind your eyes. By evening, it had blossomed into a dull throb, and a shiver ran through you despite the comfortable indoor temperature. You felt a familiar tickle in your throat, the tell-tale signs of a cold, or worse, something more significant. You reached for the thermometer in the bathroom cabinet, a small, discreet gesture. The digital display blinked back a concerning number: 38.7∘C. A fever.

You pressed your hand to your forehead, confirming the heat radiating from your skin. Just a little cold, you told yourself, forcing a smile. I can push through this. You certainly weren't going to mention it to Minho; the less attention, the less interaction, the better. You swallowed a couple of over-the-counter pills, hoping they would dull the symptoms, and tried to act as if nothing were amiss. You went about your usual evening tasks, helping Aera with her bath, reading her a bedtime story, the words blurring slightly on the page.

Aera, however, with the keen observation skills only a child possesses, had noticed. As you were tucking her in, she had seen you briefly hold the thermometer, her small eyes widening with concern. "Mama, are you okay?" she’d whispered, her brow furrowed.

"Of course, baby," you’d lied, stroking her hair. "Just a little tired."

Later that night, long after you had put Aera to sleep and Minho had finally returned home from work, the fever began to climb. You felt a wave of dizziness, your limbs heavy, your head swimming. You had been trying to prepare a late dinner, a simple meal you barely had the energy to consider, when the room started to spin. The counter felt cool against your forehead as you leaned into it, trying to steady yourself.

Minho, having just stepped out of the shower, walked into the kitchen, drawn by the unusual quiet and the scent of… nothing cooking. He found you there, slumped against the counter, your head bowed, your body practically radiating heat. The prepared ingredients for dinner sat untouched on the counter, a silent testament to your sudden incapacitation.

His heart leaped into his throat. "Y/N?" His voice was sharp, laced with an immediate, raw fear. He rushed to your side, placing a hand on your forehead. Your skin was burning, dangerously hot. "God, Y/N, you're burning up!"

He quickly gathered you into his arms. You were surprisingly light, limp and unresponsive. You didn't stir, your eyes remaining closed, your breathing shallow and ragged. Panic, cold and sharp, seized him. He quickly carried you to his room, his strong arms cradling your feverish body as if you weighed nothing. He laid you gently on his bed, the cool sheets a stark contrast to your inflamed skin.

The next few hours were a blur of frantic worry for Minho. He rummaged through the medicine cabinet for fever reducers, then raced to the kitchen for a damp cloth, pressing it to your forehead. He called a doctor, explaining your symptoms, his voice tight with concern. Your fever wasn't going down; if anything, it seemed to be climbing. You hadn't woken up once, remaining unresponsive to his worried murmurs, to the cool cloths, to the medicine he managed to coax past your lips.

He watched you, helpless, as the night wore on. The worry was a physical ache in his chest, a suffocating weight that threatened to consume him. He sat by the bedside, his hand constantly on your wrist, checking your pulse, feeling the erratic beat beneath his fingers. He pulled a chair close, leaning his head against the mattress, his arm still outstretched, his fingers resting lightly on your wrist. He felt consumed with guilt, with a crushing sense of inadequacy. He had been so cruel, so blind, so caught up in his own pain, and now you were suffering, and he felt utterly powerless. The whole night he went around with that, watching your shallow breaths, praying for the fever to break. He fell asleep there, slumped by the bed, his hand still on your wrist, a silent, desperate vigil.

You woke up slowly, disoriented, a strange, profound sense of peace washing over you. The crushing ache in your head was gone, replaced by a dull, persistent throb, and the oppressive feverish heat had finally subsided, leaving a faint chill on your skin. The world wasn't spinning anymore, and the frantic pounding in your temples had calmed to a steady rhythm. You realized you were in Minho’s bed, the familiar scent of him comforting you, the soft duvet tangled around your legs. A soft weight was pressed against your side, and a quiet, rhythmic breathing filled the space next to you.

You opened your eyes fully, blinking against the gentle morning light filtering through the window. Your gaze drifted downwards, and your breath hitched, catching in your throat. Aera was curled up on Minho's chest, her small head nestled against his shoulder, sound asleep, her little hand gripping his shirt. And Minho himself, slumped awkwardly in the chair he had pulled bedside, had fallen asleep, his head resting against the mattress at a painful angle, his arm still outstretched, his hand resting lightly on your wrist. He was holding your pulse, a silent, desperate vigil from the night, a physical tether to your fading life force.

A soft, almost imperceptible warmth, fragile as a butterfly's wing, spread through your chest. Subconsciously, instinctively, your free hand lifted, your fingers gently tracing the lines of his disheveled hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. It was a tender, unthinking gesture, a quiet offering of comfort to the man who had tormented you, yet had stayed by your side all night. Your touch was feather-light, almost a whisper, yet it was enough.

Minho stirred, groaning softly, a deep, tired sound. His eyes fluttered open, still heavy with sleep, then snapped into sharp focus as they landed on you. His gaze was raw, vulnerable, etched with exhaustion and profound relief. He sat up abruptly, his earlier weariness instantly forgotten, his hand tightening almost painfully on your wrist, checking your pulse again. He leaned forward, his forehead pressing against yours, a frantic urgency in his actions. "Y/N? God, you're awake! How are you feeling? Are you okay? Your fever—" His voice was rough, trembling with a fear that startled you.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes scanning your face, relief warring with something fierce and uncontrolled – a desperate need, an unmasked terror. "You scared me half to death, Y/N! Do you understand? To death! Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you tell me you were sick? Why do you always… why do you always keep it to yourself until it's like this?" He repeated, his voice raw, thick with emotion, a startling vulnerability you hadn't heard in years. He put Aera down gently beside him, careful not to wake the child, and then pulled his chair closer, closer than it had been in weeks, his gaze locked on yours, searching, pleading. "You were burning up all night. I couldn't get your fever down. You didn't wake up once, Y/N. Not once."

You listened, surprised, a faint, almost disbelieving smile touching your lips. His scolding wasn't harsh or angry; it was laced with a desperate worry, a loving concern that felt foreign, unsettling, almost painful in its unexpectedness. It felt like a phantom limb, an emotion you had long since amputated from your expectations of him. "Why do you care now, Minho?" you mumbled, your voice still a little hoarse from the fever, weak but steady. You couldn't digest that he was worried for you, for your well-being, not just your utility. It felt alien, after so many years of being secondary, of feeling like a burden, a convenient solution. "Don't worry, I won't die on you. I have Aera to look after… the cats too. Someone has to make sure they're fed and get their daily cuddle quota. I'm useful." You tried to make it light, a deflection, implying your value lay only in your utility, in caring for others. It felt foreign to even believe anyone cared at all for her, for you, the person.

Those words hit him. Hard. The casual self-deprecation, the quiet resignation in your voice, the implication that your life only had value through serving others – it was a blade twisting in his gut, a direct reflection of his own cruel words that had sculpted this very mindset in you. His expression crumpled, the fragile control he'd maintained all night finally shattering. The worry that had been consuming him, coupled with the guilt that had been eating him alive, erupted into a torrent of self-loathing.

"Don't say that again, Y/N," he whispered, his voice cracking, eyes suddenly glistening with unshed tears, betraying the storm within. He took your hand, pulling it to his lips, pressing a desperate, almost bruising kiss to your knuckles, as if trying to brand you with his remorse. "Don't you ever speak of death again. Don't you ever say you don't matter. God, Y/N, I'm a dick. I'm a complete and utter bastard. I treated you like trash, like you were nothing but a convenience. I'm disgusted with myself. I'm so messed up, so fucked, a complete and utter mess." He pulled his hand away, running it through his hair, tugging at the strands, his knuckles white. "My past… it’s poisoned me. It’s made me blind. I'm so broken… and I love you, Y/N. I love you in the most twisted, messed-up way, because I’ve hurt you so much, and you still… you still look at me like this. I don't deserve you. You should just go away, leave me. Don't accept me or forgive me. I don't deserve it."

He was unraveling, the carefully constructed facade of indifference crumbling before your eyes, revealing the raw, broken man beneath. He was caught in a whole self-hate web himself, you realized, his own insecurities, his past betrayals, his deep-seated fear of being abandoned again, had convinced him that no one could ever truly want him, that he was unworthy of love that he was probably someone who would never be wanted or be desired for the man he is and that maybe he needed to be better and better and just better. He needed to save himself from that dark prison, but he was shattering right now, right in front of you, bleeding out all his pain.

Your heart ached, a different kind of pain, a profound, sympathetic pang for his profound brokenness. He wasn't the monster you’d painted him to be in your anger, not entirely; he was a man consumed by his own demons, suffocating under the weight of his unhealed wounds. You reached out, your hands cupping his face, feeling the warmth of his skin, the tremor beneath your fingertips. Your thumbs gently stroked his cheeks, wiping away the single tear that had escaped his closed eyes.

"Breathe, Minho," you murmured, your voice soft, steady, a stark contrast to his despair, a soothing balm against his raw edges. "Breathe deep. I am not going anywhere." You held his gaze, willing him to believe you, to see the sincerity, the unwavering truth in your eyes, to understand that your presence was a choice, not an obligation. "Not now. Not ever. We'll figure this out. Together."

A small, teary smile graced your lips. "You were hurting, and you lashed out. I understand. It doesn't make it right, but I understand."

He searched your eyes, disbelief battling with a desperate hope. "You… you forgive me?"

"I forgive you, Minho," you whispered, your heart aching with a mixture of relief and a new, fragile kind of joy. "But you have to forgive yourself too. And we have to talk. Really talk, this time."

He nodded, a silent, profound promise in his eyes. Slowly, tentatively, he leaned in. His gaze dropped to your lips, seeking permission. You gave it, a slight nod of your head. He closed the small distance between you, his lips touching yours gently, tentatively at first, a soft exploration. It was a slow, healing kiss, a whisper of understanding and forgiveness, not fiery passion, but a quiet, profound connection. He pulled you closer, his free hand moving to cup the back of your head, deepening the kiss, a gentle affirmation, as if tugging you fully into his orbit, finally bridging the chasm that had separated you for so long. You tugged softly on his hair, responding with every ounce of the love you’d kept hidden for so long.

Just as the kiss deepened, a small, sleepy voice broke the spell. "Ewwww, Daddy! Leave Mama!"

You both sprang apart, startled, eyes wide with mortification. Aera stood in the doorway, rubbing sleep from her eyes, her face a comical mask of disgust at your unexpected display of affection. The sudden, raw intimacy was instantly replaced by a wave of embarrassment. Minho’s cheeks flushed a deep red, and you couldn’t help but giggle, the sound bubbling up from deep within you, light and free.

Minho quickly scooped Aera up, pulling her into a tight hug, his eyes still sparkling with a newfound lightness. He walked over to you, gently kissing your forehead. "I love you, baby," he murmured, his gaze warm and direct, full of a promise that went far beyond mere convenience.

You smiled, reaching out to stroke Aera's hair, your heart overflowing. "…I too love you, dummy… both of you."

Aera, now thoroughly distracted by being held, beamed up at you, her face alight. "Love you too, Mama!!" she declared in a cute, loud tone, her little arms wrapping around your neck.

Minho chuckled, a genuine, unrestrained sound that echoed happily in the room, a sound you hadn't heard from him in years. You joined in, your own laughter light and unburdened. The last remnants of the scar between you dissolved, replaced by a warmth that felt like a new beginning. Their new beginning began—together, this time, with an open heart, and with love.

THE END

[leclarifies]

letters (MV33)

꒰ max verstappen x childhoodbestfriend! reader ꒱

synopsis┊it was confusing, even though you were continents apart, you never understood why max never responded to your letters, until you attend the belgium gp to finally get the answers you were looking for. inspired by the prompt, "why did you never reply to my letters?" "you wrote me letters?"

genre┊ fluffy, the fluffiest fluff i've ever fluffed.

word count┊ 4.4k

aria yaps┊ i have worked on this non-stop for two days, and i loved the way it turned out, maybe one of my favorite works. enjoy reading this as much as i enjoy writing this!!

SECOND PART

she was always around max, either from the sidelines or the first person max ran to when he won a race, it was always her. not even his father, even though he held his father to the highest regard, but it was always her.

the little wrinkles on the edge of her eyes when she smiled at him, the way her lips would curl up, or the way she would giggle every. single. time. that he would come and hug her after every race finish. he remembers it all. and the way he would snuggle his face in the crook of her neck and asked her softly after he would win a race, 'did you see me win, schatje?'

she would always smile back with a laugh, 'of course i did maxie.'

it was always about max, her life revolved around him, whether he liked it or not. she adored him and maybe he adored her a little bit more. they were childhood friends, they were inseparable since they were little babies, their mothers being friends made it even harder for the both of them to not be attached at the hip.

she loved being in his presence and he loved her.

the divorce between jos and sophie was hard on max, he blamed himself and his career but she was always there to tell him that it's not his fault. that their decision was their own and she never forgot to tell max that it wasn't his fault, no matter how much they told him that it was.

she saw the way jos had pushed max to his limits, get physical with his own son and his way of escaping that life was run to her arms, she was there tending to every bruise, every wound whether physical or emotional. she was his rock and it was final. nothing anyone could ever say or do would change his name.

"schatje," max had gently woken her up from her slumber, and she stirred awake from his soft voice, she noticed where she was and finally remembered what happened.

max had finished lower than expected and jos had thrown hurtful things about max, she was there on his mother's couch, comforting him and had fallen asleep that way, with max on her lap, "are you sleepy?"

she shook her head, not wanting to admit that yes, indeed she was sleepy, but if max needed comfort then that wasn't a big deal to her, "what's wrong maxie?"

"nothing, you can sleep on my bed if you're tired. i can sleep here," max had brushed a stray strand of her hair behind her ear but she refused, she hated taking his bed because she knew how uncomfortable the couch was, she wanted him to sleep well.

but he wouldn't allow her to take the couch, so they both slept on sophie's couch almost cuddled with eachother because they were both stubborn.

max was necessarily content with how he was living his life right now, but she made it better and that's all he could ask for. was it her smile? maybe her presence? max didn't care. the first memory he could remember from his early childhood was her, and it was etched into his memory like stone.

she was content with being max's rock, she was there to keep him grounded and she too only had memories of him from her early childhood. she wouldn't replace him for the world, he was too precious for anything in this earthly world.

but there was one day, it felt like a bomb dropped on her. her father had told her that he would have to move to korea to continue work, and she didn't know how to break the news to max until a few days before she had to leave.

she knew it was wrong to keep something this big away from max, but she was so stricken with anxiety that she never got the chance to until max came over to her house and saw all the packed boxes with their belongings.

"why didn't you tell me sooner?" max was angry, she could tell, by the way he was pacing around her room, looking at the packed boxes around. max thought he meant more to her than just a measly friend, he felt frustrated— betrayed almost. why wouldn't she tell him? why would she keep something as big as this away from him?

"why didn't you say something before? why now? why before you could see me race this weekend?" max was raising his voice now, and she didn't know what to do. her eyes turned glassy and those doe eyes max loved so much just looked so sad.

she stayed quiet, a guilty look on her face. she knew max would break from the news, and she knew that it would affect his performance, but she didn't know how to stay, how to convince her father that she didn't want to go, so yet again, she stayed silent in important moments of her life.

"schatje, can you say something? say anything?!" max yelled and she flinches, she didn't know what to say or what to do, she wanted to say something, say anything. but nothing would come to her lips. it was so hard for her when he was angry like this, it reminded her of his father and his father was deathly scary when angry.

a sigh escapes max's lips when he sees her flinch, coming close to her to wrap her in a hug. tears escaped from her eyes as she held onto max tight, "i didn't know how to tell you," she whispers into max's ear but max didn't say anything to that, just held her even tighter and he did not want to let go.

"it's okay schatje, i'm not mad at you. i could never get mad at you, i'm sorry for raising my voice. i just don't want you to go," tears started to escape max's eyes too, he didn't want to see her go. he wanted her to stay, and she did too. but the universe was pulling them apart and there was nothing either of them could do about it.

the ride to the airport was tough, being only fifteen and sixteen respectively. max held her hand the entire time, not wanting to let go, he didn't want her to leave, she was his biggest support system and he couldn't imagine her gone like that.

she was the most scared of the two of them, what if her father never returned to belgium? what if she was stuck there in korea forever? what if she never got to see his pretty blue eyes anymore?

max was the one to ground her, no longer lost in her thoughts, "can you promise me we'll keep in touch? or maybe visit from time to time?" max was holding onto her hands tightly, she felt like they would bruise, she could only smile and nod.

her mother had called her over, it was time to go. she looked at max for what it felt like the last time and left her life in belgium.

dear schatje,

hi, this is the first week that you're gone and it's bene been so hard without you here with me. i forgot that you weren't here anymore and i was expecting to see your face, but when i didn't, i may or may not have almost cried.

i miss you so much. tell me how it is in korea, is it cold? do they have bears there? what about the food? is it good? can you eat it? i heard there's a lot of spiy spicy food there? honestly i don't care about what they have there, i just care about you.

when can you visit again? can you tell me if you're ever coming back? i'm so worried about you there, i miss you... so much schatje.

written with a lot of love, your maxie.

max always handed off his letters to his father, telling his father to hand it off to his mother because apparently they kept in contact and wanted to send it off to the post office on behalf of him.

he just wondered how she was doing there.

it's been months and countless of letters max had sent, and none of them replied. he was starting to lose hope, he didn't want to think that his best friend would forget about him so easily like that, but he held out hope. he knew that she wouldn't magically forget about him now that she was there.

jealousy bubbled within him when he realized that she would be meeting new people, what if she met someone like him? who enjoyed karting and wanted to steal her attention?

no, he couldn't be thinking like that. he loved her and he knew she loved him as much as he did, so he told himself to just be patient, maybe letters to korea took months to reach?

the naviety was almost laughable but he was fine with it. he just wanted to hear back from his pretty girl.

"i do not understand why you keep writing letters to that stupid girl, she doesn't reply to you and all it does is distract you," jos had reprimanded his son, but max was stubborn. he didn't care what his father had to say, he loved all of her, even when she was thousands of kilometers away. he wanted to talk, even when she never replied.

max was in the process of writing another letter, but he never listened to his father, not about her. not about how much of a distraction she's been to his career, he didn't care. he used it as motivation to get better on the track, so the next time she saw him, he would be a world champion, that's what he silently promised to her.

it had been two years, and he hadn't heard a peep back. slowly, he was starting to lose hope but he couldn't lose hope, every single time he would send off the letters, he told himself that maybe it got lost in the mail.

max kept writing though.

max's debut in f1 was explosive to say the least, his interviews would absolutely go viral by the things he was saying in them. he didn't understand why, he just said what was on his mind.

what was truly on his mind was her.

was he not good enough for her? was him being in f1 not enough to impress her? why wouldn't she write back?

oh god how he missed her.

he still wrote to her weekly, it was religious at this point. he never forgot and he always told his father to send them off to his mother and the week after that was always disappointment because he wouldn't hear anything back.

little did he know, she never received those letters.

max had slowly stopped writing letters as he got into f1, he didn't see a point in it anymore. she never replied. she didn't care. letters didn't take years to reach korea, and he finally lost hope.

winning his first championship felt empty, the pretty girl who used to be waiting for him wasn't there for him anymore. of course, he was happy to win such an impressive feat, who wouldn't? but it just... lacked her.

max indeed lost hope that she would ever write back, but never lost hope that she was out there, somewhere, watching him race every single week and beat the shit out of his rivals. she loved watching him race and that's what he intended to do until the day he died, he wanted to impress her, maybe that was his ulterior motive to becoming a formula one driver.

all just to impress his best friend who had lost contact with him for a decade now.

"you need to stop figdeting so much," her mother had scolded her, she could only laugh nervously and stop fidgeting around. she wondered why max never wrote back to her, she had written him letters. did he hate her for moving out to korea and not coming to visit belgium?

she shook the thoughts out of her head, she was here now. for his home race, and for the rest of her life. her father had now decided to move back to belgium, because and i quote, 'i don't want my daughter to lose touch with her culture'.

she was 26 now, and she had guessed that he turned 27 not too long ago. it's been so long since she talked to him and she hoped that the spark that she had been yearning for had not been lost to the passages of time.

getting the paddock passes was not easy, it was a war and a half but she managed to snag some for herself and a friend that wanted to visit belgium and would arrive later on in the week.

"how did you even manage to get paddock passes for us?" heejin, her friend that wanted to visit had asked, she could only laugh and explain how she got them, it was a war and a half. heejin laughed along with her as they both arrived and scanned their passes at the entrance.

"i'm gonna meet my best friend here— well it's complicated. i don't think he considers me a best friend anymore, but i still do," she had softly told heejin who was a big formula one fan even before meeting her, heejin raised her eyebrow when she said that.

the both of them were walking down the paddock, passing all of the different team's hospitalities. heejin raised her eyebrow at her friend, who shrugged.

"who's your best friend?" heejin had asked as they pass by the red bull hospitality, she stopped which signalled heejin to stop as well, she looked at the redbull in awe. she hadn't been to a formula one race yet, the closest she'd been was to karting but that didn't bring on the feelings she felt when standing in front of this red bull building.

"well, he's driving the number one car."

"YOUR BEST FRIEND IS MAX VERSTAPPEN?!"

"YOUR BEST FRIEND IS MAX VERSTAPPEN?!"

max had heard a girl yell, he slowly turned his head. he was confused, he didn't have a best friend— well not anymore. she had moved to korea, all memories of her stuck in his head being replayed all over and over again.

that's all he had left of her.

the other girl shushed the girl who yelled, and that's when it dawned on max. the other girl looked awfully familiar, he couldn't quite place why she looked so familiar but she looked like her, like his best friend.

"shh! you can't just yell that out in public," she clamped a hand on her friend's mouth, "they're gonna think i'm insane!" then the both of them giggled, it did sound ridiculous but now he was curious.

was she back? was that her? who was she with? is that her new best friend? is that her?

as they both walked away, max wanted to run up to them, to ask that one particular girl what her name was. what she was doing here and who she was with but all of that died when he got approached by his race engineer.

then he forgot all about that familiar girl that he saw in front of the red bull hospitality.

max would only get another glimpse of her when it was race day, they were walking through the paddock in a similar fashion, but max promised to himself that he would approach them, that he would ask but there was doubt in his heart.

what if she forgot about him?

she couldn't, right?

and so approach them he did, tapping the girl that he felt was so familiar to on the shoulder, she had turned around and they had locked eyes.

it was as if she never left.

the sparks, they all came rushing back and then his heart started beating out of his chest, he wanted to ask so many questions, why she was here, who she was with, when she came back— why she came back, why she never wrote him back.

but the only thing that left his lips were a simple, "hi."

heejin was freaking out, she could tell. she knew that heejin was a big red bull fan too, always talking about how the team was dominating and they had the better car. she had heard all about it. but the little dutchboy she left all those years ago was standing in front of her and not-so little anymore and all those thoughts about her girlfriend was forgotten.

he looked the same, but grown and decked out in red bull merch. she wanted to laugh at how innocent he looked when he tapped her on the shoulder to get her to turn around, he looked stupid, stupidly cute.

all of those feelings from when she was back in belgium came back, she almost forgot what it felt like to be around max— her max. he looked like he was going to cry when he got a good look at her, that he finally realized that yes, it's her. the one that left him in belgium all those years ago.

and maybe she could cry too.

"maxie?" a familiar nickname slipped from her lips and she didn't get a response back, but a bear hug in return.

god, her scent. it was everything to him. he fucking missed it— miss her.

"i thought... i thought you forgot about me," max buried his face into the crook of her neck, she too wrapped her arms around max and buried her face into his chest. his voice was so vulnerable, all she wanted to do was curl around him and tell him that she would never.

she shook her head as she sank into the hug, "i could never forget my maxie," she mumbled into his chest, he held onto her tighter. he never wanted to let go, not now, not ever. she was where she was finally supposed to be, right in his arms.

once they got time alone after his race, max had stolen her away from her friend and dragged her into his driver's room, locking the door and pushing her against the wall, slamming his lips onto hers. he had been dreaming about this for so long, his lips on hers.

he didn't want to so sexual with her, no not yet. being in the small driver's room where they couldn't be free out of the public eye wasn't a good place. he just wanted to touch her, hold her, love her, make sure that she knew how much he had missed this.

missed them being together.

her hands instinctively went up to hold onto his shoulders, holding on for dear life as he kissed her softly. the feelings going through him were a mix of nostalgia, longing and love. he loved her for so long and it was so like her to show up when it mattered the most.

he won it for her today, to show her, that the little max she knew still had it in him to win and to impress her even with a world championship under his belt.

she felt the softness and the gentleness that max was touching her with, she knew how much he loved her. how much he care, how much he longed for her touch and she did too, only so much more.

she had so many questions in her, on why he never replied to the letters she sent or why he never sent any himself, not knowing what happened with her letters and why they never arrived properly.

but she didn't care at the moment, all she cared about was that she was safely in his arms, never to be let go ever again.

safe to say, her lips were to the point of bruising that night. max had forbade her to go back home, or to be away from his sight. he had kissed her silly, not wanting to let her go and there she was, settled nicely in his arms.

it's not like she wanted to go anywhere anyway.

the movie in the background was long forgotten, max's lips felt like they were molded for hers. he had waited for her for so long, waited to feel her skin after so long and this just felt right, it felt right when he was with her.

"maxie— mmhh— my love, stop," she had to talk in between kisses, max didn't want to let her go, his fingers were basically imprinted onto her waist. she was straddling max as he sat upright and kissed her, so softly. like she would break if he was any harder, even though he absolutely did want to kiss her harder.

max released her from the kiss with a pout, his pretty lips were red and swollen from all the kissing they did. everything in the world just seemed to fade into the background when they were together, like everyone else in this world was so insignificant for their time and they were the only people worthy of each other's time.

"but why? i wanna kiss you, i miss you. i have waited for you for ten years, the least you can do is let me kiss you until you're sick of me," max mumbled against her lips and all she could do was giggle.

god, her laugh, he loved it.

she shook her head and left a final peck on his lips, "because i want to talk maxie, we can't just kiss whatever questions we have for eachother away," she told him but he seemed to think otherwise, she had moved back to put a bit of distance in between them, to make sure max didn't go in to kiss her again.

"oh yes we can, i don't care about the questions, schatje. i just wanna be with you, just like old days, but now it's so different because in those ten years without you, i finally realized what i felt and how i felt for you and i can't wait any damn longer to finally kiss those pretty lips of yours, so please. just let me do this for another three hours and we can talk," max begged as he pulled her closer.

she couldn't imagine kissing for another three hours as they spent the last hour doing it, but with him? she would do it for another life-time if she could.

the both of them later had the serious talk when they were done kissing each other, now wanting answers from eachother. their legs were tangled and intertwined with each other's, not wanting to let go from their skin to skin contact.

"first off, why did you never reply to my letters? i wrote you so many. so many that i lost count, i would always write to you but you never replied, why?" max's voice came out strained, all of the painful feelings from the last ten years of his life were coming out, her doe eyes looked up from where she was, laying against his chest.

"you wrote me letters? i wrote you letters, you never replied. i thought you got too busy with your karting career to reply—"

"i could never get too busy to reply to you, but i never got any of your letters, schatje," max murmured against her forehead, kissing it gently after he spoke. she hummed a response before it dawned on her, she had always sent the letters to his father's address and she knew that his father wasn't fond of her, even offering her a huge lump sum of cash just for her to stay away from his son but she never accepted it, always choosing to be beside max, no matter what happened.

she looked up and sighed, she knew what happened now, she connected the pieces, "did you send your letters off to your dad?" she asked, and max nodded before it dawned on him too.

"that fucker hid the letters from you and never sent mine..."

she could only nod sadly, but it didn't matter now. all that mattered was that they were reconnected now.

scattered around them were the countless of letters max had written to her and all of the letters from her that he never received, the years of pining, longing— all of them tucked neatly away into these little envelopes that held all of those unsaid feelings.

a soft sigh escapes her lips, she looked at all of them, there were hundreds maybe. all of them posted to where she stayed in korea but never sent, always kept in a big box where all of his letters were and hers were stuffed in there in a similar fashion.

her heart clenched when she saw how many there were, there were far more many than whatever she sent, even though she did send quite a big sum.

when max had found out, he stormed into jos' house and demanded to ask why he never sent out the letters that he wrote and a big fight broke out, she had to hold of max from physically harming his own father. then they left after given the big box filled with letters.

"there's so many..." she watched in awe as all of them were sorted by date, from the latest to the earliest, max looked up at her with those big blue icy eyes of his, he looked really sad. stuck in his feelings almost, not understand why his father would do whatever he did in the past.

max held her hand gently, pulling her into his embrace, "i have always loved you, even when i was a little kid. i just didn't understand what those feelings were, i just acted on how i felt and being away from you... i just couldn't. so i sent you my love in the form of these letters."

she left a lingering kiss on his cheek, she felt sorry for having to leave all those years ago. she should've fought, should've stood her ground on how much she wanted to stay but she was just a 16 year old kid who didn't know how to, "i know. i'm sorry i had to leave all those years ago."

"don't apologize, schatje. i have never blamed you for leaving me. i have always held love for you in my heart, even if you didn't know it."

"i always knew max, and i still do."

very willing to do a part 2 to this btw, will only do it when requested tho. not proofread, excuse grammar mistakes.

[reidmarieprentiss]

Grass is Always Greener

Summary: based on this ask. Reader is in love with Spencer, he moves on while they're dating. Then reader gets kidnapped and Spencer has some monumental realizations.

Pairing: bi!Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: hurt/comfort, angst

Warnings/Includes: kidnapping, typical CM violence, emotional cheating, bi-sexual Spencer, heartbroken reader

Word count: 7.5k

a/n: i really loved this prompt!! thank you for asking :) there will be a part two by the way don't worry heheh

main masterlist

For the past six months, you and Spencer have been inseparable, caught in the kind of love that novels fail to describe adequately. It isn't just affection—devotion, a deep-rooted adoration that feels like it has existed long before you met, as though you were meant to be intertwined from the start.

You love him in the way you always wished to be loved. You show it in every trim, thoughtful act—baking his favorite pastries just because, ensuring that breakfast is warm and waiting for him before he even wakes up, making sure dinner is ready when he returns home, exhausted but comforted by you.

You bring him flowers, because why shouldn't he receive them too? You find books you know will capture his mind, wrapping them in delicate paper just to see the soft wonder in his eyes when he unwraps them. You plan excursions he'll adore—museum dates, guided historical tours, moments where he can lose himself in the past while you stay anchored beside him.

Your love isn't just spoken—it's lived, woven into every gesture, every detail, every careful thought put into making him feel cherished. Because that's what he is to you—irreplaceable, essential, the other half you never realized was missing until he was there, filling every space with something more profound than connection, something that feels like fate.

If only Spencer felt the same way about you.

—

Your heart stopped. Your lungs refused to work, your breath catching somewhere in your throat like a broken sob that refused to form. The room around you blurred at the edges, your vision tunneling in on Spencer—Spencer, the man you had given everything to, the man you had loved so deeply, so purely, that it had consumed every part of your existence.

"What?" The word came out strangled, barely audible, your voice cracking as tears welled in your eyes. You didn't want to cry in front of him, didn't want to give him that power, but your body betrayed you.

Spencer still couldn't look at you. His hands, which you had held so many times, trembled at his sides. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked like it hurt. "I thought it was the right thing to do," he muttered, as though that was supposed to make sense, as if that explained anything.

Your stomach churned with nausea, fury, and disbelief. "The right thing to do?" Your voice wavered between a whisper and a scream. "The right thing to do was to fuck someone else?"

Spencer flinched at your words and their vulgarity, but he didn't immediately deny it. That silence spoke louder than anything.

Finally, he swallowed hard and said, "I did not—" he hesitated, knowing every word he chose would dictate what happened next. "—I did not sleep with him."

Him.

It hit you like a freight train, a new layer of betrayal unfolding before you. You stepped back as if distance would protect you from the shattering of your heart inside your chest.

"Then what, Spencer?" You forced the words out, your entire body trembling. "What did you do?"

Spencer's face twisted in pain, in something that almost looked like guilt but didn't quite feel like enough. Not for what he'd done. Not for the way he was shattering you into pieces so small you weren't sure you'd ever be able to put yourself back together.

"I fell in love," he admitted, his voice quiet, like saying it any louder would break him too.

But it wasn't him breaking. It was you.

Your scream ripped through the room before you could stop it. "Spencer, that is so much worse!" Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms, grounding you against the overwhelming rush of devastation, betrayal, and fury. "How long?"

Spencer blinked at you, thrown off by the question. "How long?" he echoed as if he didn't understand or know what you were asking.

You took a step closer, the force of your heartbreak pushing you forward even as your body begged to run in the opposite direction. "How long have you been in love? How long have you been emotionally cheating on me like a pathetic, scared loser?"

His breath hitched, his mouth opening and closing like he struggled to find the right words, but there were none. There was no correct answer that would make this better.

Then he said it. "Is this because it's a man?"

You froze, stunned by how wildly he had missed the point. A bitter, humorless laugh escaped you, and you could barely recognize the sound of your voice when you spat, "I don't give a shit what mouth you want to put your tongue in, Spencer." Your hands shook, and you hated it, hated how weak you felt when all you wanted was to be furious enough to drown out the pain. "I care that you didn't respect me enough to tell me sooner! I'm not homophobic; I'm heartbroken!"

That finally made him look at you. Really look at you.

His lips parted slightly, his brow furrowing as if he were just now realizing the gravity of what he had done. As if the wreckage he had left in his wake hadn't been evident from the moment he opened his mouth.

"I didn't—" He stopped himself, inhaled sharply, then exhaled as he could barely hold himself up anymore. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

It was a pathetic attempt at an apology.

"Well, congratulations," you choked out, voice thick with unshed tears. "You did."

Spencer nodded, his expression solemn, the weight of his decision pressing down on him like a physical force. He swallowed hard, and for the first time, he looked humiliated. "I'll have my things gone by the weekend," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Something inside you snapped.

"Fuck you." The words tore from your throat, sharp and unfiltered, dripping with the kind of pain that no amount of time could ever truly erase. "Get it all out tonight and give me the key."

Spencer flinched. His eyes darted up to yours, desperate, pleading, as if something was still left to salvage. "Y/N—"

"Now, Spencer!" you screamed, your voice cracking, breaking under the sheer weight of the moment. Your body was trembling, fists clenched so tight your nails bit into your palms, but you didn't care. You didn't care that tears blurred your vision or that your chest ached like someone had physically reached inside you and torn your heart apart.

Spencer didn't argue.

For once, he didn't try to explain, didn't try to rationalize, didn't try to make this something it wasn't. He simply nodded, defeated, and turned on his heel.

You watched as he moved through the shared space, the home you had built together, now nothing more than a place he needed to evacuate. Every step he took, every moment that passed as he quietly gathered his things, felt like a knife twisting deeper into your already shattered heart.

You wanted to stop him.

You wanted to scream at him to stay, to tell him he could fix this, that you could find a way back to the love you had so freely given him.

But he had already thrown that love away.

And so, instead of begging or breaking any further, you turned your back on him. You wiped your face with shaking hands, steeling yourself against the overwhelming grief threatening to consume you.

When he returned, his bag slung over his shoulder, the key to your apartment sitting in the palm of his hand, you refused to look at him.

Silently, he placed it on the table.

Silently, he turned toward the door.

Silently, he walked out of your life.

And the second the door clicked shut behind him, you collapsed, sobs wracking through your body as you mourned a love lost.

—

It had been an ordinary evening. Spencer had been at the library, fingers trailing along the spines of well-worn books, his mind half-distracted by the text messages you had sent earlier—something sweet, something thoughtful, the way you always were with him. You had made dinner and were waiting for him. He had told you he'd be home soon.

But then he had walked in.

Robert.

It started with a discussion—something about Dostoevsky, of all things. A casual remark Spencer had made under his breath, something about The Brothers Karamazov and moral determinism. He hadn't expected anyone to respond, let alone engage with him in a way that made his brain spark like a live wire.

"You know," Robert had mused, leaning against the bookshelf beside Spencer, "it's funny how people always think Dostoevsky was just arguing for free will. There's a case to be made that he was just as much a determinist as Tolstoy."

Spencer had turned, brows furrowed in curiosity, and he had looked at him for the first time.

Robert had sharp eyes, the kind that saw too much. He was well-dressed but not ostentatiously so—just a crisp button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and dark-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He looked like someone who belonged in the pages of the books they discussed.

The conversation had spiraled from there, shifting seamlessly from Russian literature to philosophy to quantum mechanics. It was effortless. Easy in a way Spencer hadn't expected, in a way he hadn't even realized he had been missing.

And then—then there had been the moment.

Spencer had laughed—actually, he had laughed, full and unrestrained. When he glanced up, he found Robert watching him with a warm, unreadable gaze.

"Do you ever have moments when you feel like you were meant to meet someone?" Robert asked suddenly, his voice quieter and more thoughtful.

Spencer's stomach had twisted—not in guilt, not yet, but in something else. Something dangerous.

He should have said no. He should have left then and there and gone home to you, to the person who loved him and was waiting for him with dinner, affection, and unwavering devotion.

But instead, he had stayed.

And that had been the beginning of the end.

—

"Who's Robert Nelson?" you asked absentmindedly, flipping through the stack of mail on the counter. Your fingers lingered on the envelope, the name printed neatly in the return address, unfamiliar but seemingly unimportant—until you felt Spencer tense beside you.

It was subtle, the way his entire body went rigid, but you knew him well enough to notice. The way his breath hitched for just a fraction of a second and his fingers twitched before he suddenly snatched the letter from your hands with an almost defensive speed.

"A friend," he said quickly. Too quickly.

You blinked, startled by his reaction and voice, which sounded too tight or too careful. You tilted your head, studying how his fingers curled around the envelope as if he were trying to shield it from you.

"A friend?" you echoed, your curiosity morphing into something heavier, something uneasy. "Since when have your friends sent you letters?"

Spencer hesitated for just a breath too long.

"Since—uh, since he moved out of state," he said, but his voice lacked its usual certainty, the effortless confidence that usually accompanied his explanations. He wasn't looking at you, his eyes fixed on the paper in his hand as if it held the answer to whatever silent questions you were beginning to form.

You frowned, your heart beating a little faster, that gnawing feeling in the pit of your stomach growing. "Why haven't you mentioned him before?"

Spencer finally met your gaze, but something in his eyes unsettled you—a flicker of something unreadable, which looked a lot like guilt.

"You never asked," he said softly.

And just like that, an invisible wall settled between you.

—

"Spencer?" you called out from the living room, glancing at his buzzing phone. The name flashing on the screen sent a strange feeling through your chest. Robert Nelson. Again.

Your fingers hovered over the device before instinct took over, and you answered. "Hello?"

There was a brief silence. Then, a smooth, unfamiliar voice. "Oh—uh, hi. Is Spencer there?"

Before you could respond, Spencer was there. He practically ripped the phone from your hand, his grip too aggressive. His fingers nearly fumbled as he clutched it like a lifeline.

"Why are you answering my phone?" His voice was sharp, defensive, almost panicked.

Your breath caught in your throat, stunned by the hostility in his tone. "I—It was ringing. I thought it might be work," you said, your voice quieter now, weaker.

But Spencer wasn't paying attention anymore.

His entire demeanor shifted in an instant.

"Hi, Robert!" His tone was bright and warm in a way that you hadn't heard from him in weeks. His body relaxed, his posture unwinding as he turned away from you slightly as if shielding the conversation from your ears.

And that was when it happened.

The slow, aching fracture of your heart.

You didn't need to hear the conversation. You didn't need to piece together the puzzle. It was already evident.

Whoever Robert Nelson was, he had already taken something from you.

—

"Hey, Reid," Derek called out as he stepped out of JJ's office, stretching his arms over his head. The bullpen was winding down for the day, the usual chatter filling the air. "You gonna invite that little number of yours to 'team bonding' at O'Kieffe's?"

Spencer looked up from his paperwork, brow furrowing slightly. "Robert?"

Derek's expression flickered with confusion, his head tilting. "Who's Robert?"

Before Spencer could answer, Elle interjected, her curiosity piqued. "Wait—who's Robert?"

Spencer adjusted his tie absentmindedly, utterly oblivious to the way both of his coworkers were staring at him now. "My boyfriend…"

A beat of silence.

Derek blinked, his mouth slightly open as if he'd misheard. "What?" His tone was a mixture of shock and something else—concern, maybe. "Since when? What happened to Y/N?"

At that, Spencer finally hesitated, his fingers tightening around his pen.

There it was—that fleeting look of guilt, so quick that anyone who wasn't trained to notice microexpressions might have missed it.

Elle's eyebrows shot up, catching on to the shift instantly. "Yeah, what did happen to Y/N?" she echoed, crossing her arms, her sharp gaze locked on him.

Spencer opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out. He hadn't prepared for this conversation and hadn't thought about how it would sound when he finally said it out loud.

That he had left someone who loved him more than anything.

He said that he had fallen for someone else while still wrapped in the warmth of Y/N's love.

Her name, which Spencer used to say with so much affection, now felt like a reminder of what he had destroyed.

His silence lingered just a little too long.

And that was all the answer they needed.

—

"Round table. Five minutes." Hotch's voice carried across the bullpen, his usual no-nonsense tone making it clear there was no room for delay.

The team exchanged glances, some groaning about Monday morning's abruptness, others silently gathering their things and making their way toward the conference room. Spencer followed, clutching his coffee; the bitter taste ground him in the early morning haze.

Once they were seated, JJ took her usual spot at the front, but something about her demeanor was off. Her shoulders were tense, her expression pinched in a way that wasn't just professional concern—it was personal.

She clicked on the projector, and the screen illuminated with a digital map of Virginia. Red markers pinpointed locations across the state—too many markers.

"A string of kidnappings has taken place here in Virginia," JJ began, her voice steady but strained. "All within the last two months. The victims all match the same victimology."

As she spoke, she clicked on the next slide.

A series of photos appeared on the screen. The faces were of women in their twenties with similar features and build. This pattern should have been just another set of behavioral data points in the grander scheme of the case.

But Spencer's stomach plummeted.

His grip on his coffee tightened involuntarily, his breath hitching in his throat. His heart slammed against his ribs in recognition, dread coiling in his gut like a living thing.

The victims—they all looked like you.

It's the same hair color. Same facial structure. They have the same soft smile in some photos and the same sharp glint in their eyes in others. They weren't you, but they might as well have been.

His pulse pounded as JJ continued speaking, words blurring together as the room suddenly felt too small.

"The unsub is abducting women who fit this profile, holding them for an unknown period, and then—"

Spencer barely heard the rest.

All he could think about was you.

You—who had barely spoken to him since he left. You—who he had destroyed. You—who he no longer had the right to check in on, to protect.

But as his vision swam, his chest tightening painfully, only one thought cut through the noise.

Were you safe?

…

The answer came quicker than Spencer could have ever prepared for.

No. You weren't safe.

Once the team broke off into their assigned pairs, the case had already begun unraveling alarmingly fast. The latest victim's body had been recovered, their time of death recent—too recent. It meant the unsub was either already hunting for a new woman… or they already had one.

By the time Spencer and Elle arrived back at the BAU, the tension in the air was palpable. The office's usual controlled chaos had been replaced with something far heavier. He could feel the urgency with which agents moved in the hushed voices and sharp exchanges. Something had shifted.

Then he saw it.

His first clue was the woman sitting at JJ's desk, shoulders shaking, her face buried in her hands as she sobbed. It took him a second to recognize her—your best friend.

His second clue was even worse.

His entire body locked up as his gaze landed on the case board. The details of the investigation had changed.

And there you were.

Your picture.

Your face.

Pinned in the center of the board, more significant than any other victim's. A fresh missing persons report was tacked beside it, and the timestamp was barely hours old.

The breath left Spencer's lungs like he'd been punched in the gut.

His vision blurred at the edges, the words and numbers on the board becoming nothing more than meaningless static.

His hands clenched, the phantom memory of holding you flashing through his mind. His brain, the same brain that could recall statistics, equations, and case files with perfect clarity, was failing him now, drowning him in nothing but cold, raw terror.

You were missing.

And Spencer had never felt more helpless.

The room around him faded into a blur of voices, movement, and urgency—but none mattered. Only you mattered. His feet moved before his mind could catch up, pushing him toward JJ's desk, toward your best friend who was still crying into her hands.

"When?" The word tore from Spencer's throat, rough and desperate. "When was the last time anyone heard from her?"

Your best friend lifted her tear-streaked face, eyes red and swollen. "L-last night. We were supposed to meet for brunch this morning, but she never showed up. She—she wouldn't just disappear. She wouldn't—" Her voice broke, fresh sobs wracking through her as JJ placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Her phone's off," JJ said, her face tight with emotion, her voice barely steady. "Local PD found her car still parked outside her apartment. No sign of forced entry. Her purse was left behind."

Spencer clenched his jaw, his stomach twisting painfully. He knew what that meant. She was taken from inside. The unsub had been watching you, had known your routines, and had waited for the perfect moment to strike.

And he hadn't been there to stop it.

A hand clamped onto his shoulder. "Reid." It was Hotch. His voice was firm, grounding, pulling Spencer back into reality. "I need you to focus. We will find her, but we need to move fast."

Elle spoke up, flipping through the case file. "Unsub's pattern suggests he holds victims anywhere from 48 to 72 hours before…" She didn't finish the sentence, but they knew how it ended.

Before he killed them.

Spencer had 48 hours to save you.

He swallowed hard, forcing his mind to snap into place, to work past the terror and focus on finding you.

"Where was her last known location?" he demanded, stepping toward the board, his eyes locking onto your picture, committing every last detail of your presence to memory. He knew he would never forgive himself if he failed and lost you.

JJ pointed at the map. "Er, apartment. The surveillance cameras didn't catch anything obvious, but we're combing through traffic cams now. We need to figure out where he took her."

Spencer's hands clenched at his sides, his knuckles turning white.

"Then let's start there," he said, his voice steady now, ice-cold determination replacing the panic.

He had failed you once.

He wasn't going to fail you again.

The search was relentless. The entire team moved unyieldingly, combing through evidence, footage, and witness statements with the desperation that came when one of their own was in danger.

But for Spencer, it was different.

It was you.

He felt it in his bones, a suffocating weight pressing down on his chest, an overwhelming tide of guilt that gnawed at him with every passing second. He should have never left you. He should have never chosen something else, someone else.

Because now, as he stared at the grainy traffic cam footage of your last known whereabouts, he realized the truth.

Robert was never going to replace you.

He had been a distraction, a fleeting novelty, someone new and engaging in a way that had tricked Spencer into thinking he was feeling something more. But what was new had worn off, and emptiness had remained.

You were never dull.

You were home.

And he had walked away from it—walked away from you.

And now, he might never get to tell you how wrong he was.

"Reid," Hotch's voice cut through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. Spencer turned sharply, his eyes burning, his hands trembling slightly at his sides.

"We have something," JJ said, her face tight with restrained emotion. She motioned to the screen. "Traffic cams picked up an unfamiliar van near Y/N's apartment. No plates, but it made three passes before stopping."

Spencer's pulse hammered as he stared.

There.

In the grainy footage, a dark-colored van sat idling just across from your apartment, a shadow behind the wheel. And then—a figure.

You.

You stepped out of your building, completely unaware. His breath caught in his throat as he watched the scene unfold, knowing precisely what was coming next but unable to look away.

The van door slid open. A person—the unsub—moved fast, grabbing you before you could react. You fought, your body twisting, struggling—but you were outmatched.

Then, just like that, you were gone.

Spencer's hands curled into fists.

"We need to identify that van," Hotch ordered. "Garcia, get into the city's surveillance system—track that route. Find me where he took her."

"I'm already on it, sir." Garcia's quick and focused voice came through the speaker.

Spencer barely heard them. His eyes stayed locked on the screen, on you, on the last moment before you had disappeared.

He had spent so much time thinking you would always be there, that there would always be time to fix things and make things right.

But time was running out.

And if he lost you—if he never got the chance to tell you how much he still loved you, how you were the only person who ever truly mattered to him—

He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to live with himself.

Garcia worked fast—she always did—but this time, Spencer could hear the urgency in her voice, the rapid clicking of her keyboard through the speaker, and the barely restrained panic beneath her usual rapid-fire delivery.

"Okay, sugarplums, I got something,” she announced, voice tense. "That creepy, unmarked van? It popped up on a traffic camera near an abandoned industrial site about fifteen miles from Y/N's apartment. There are no stops between the two locations. I'm sending you the coordinates now."

Spencer barely waited for Hotch to give the order before he was moving, grabbing his bag and gun and shoving past the concerned glances of his teammates.

This was it.

This had to be it.

The drive was agonizing. His fingers twitched on his knee as he stared out the window, mind racing with every possible outcome. If you were there—if they got to you in time—he could still fix this. He could still tell you the truth.

He had made the biggest mistake of his life, confused comfort with monotony, and was a fool to think there was something better than the love you had given him so freely, so wholly.

That you were the only one he had ever truly wanted.

The convoy of SUVs screeched to a halt outside the factory, tires kicking up dust and gravel. Guns were drawn, and orders exchanged in hushed, precise tones. Spencer's pulse hammered as he fell into formation with Morgan and Hotch, his grip on his weapon too tight, his breathing too shallow.

They breached the building in seconds.

The air inside was stale, thick with the scent of rust and decay. Spencer's stomach twisted as they moved swiftly through the darkened corridors, his ears straining for any sound—any sign of you.

But there was nothing.

No muffled cries, no scuffling footsteps, no you.

Then—

"Clear!" Morgan's voice rang out from another room, frustration cutting through the tension.

"Clear," Elle echoed from the opposite side.

Spencer's heart plummeted.

The space was empty.

Empty.

No unsub. No van. No, you.

They only discarded debris, a few rusted chairs, and the lingering, suffocating feeling they had just lost time they didn't have to spare.

Spencer stood frozen in the center of the room, his mind struggling to process what had just happened. The futility of it all hit him like a brick wall.

His knees felt weak.

"No, no, no," he murmured under his breath, his gun lowering as his vision blurred. "She was supposed to be here! He took her here. She—she was supposed to be here!"

"Reid." Morgan's voice was cautious, but Spencer barely heard it.

He couldn't—not over the deafening roar of panic, regret, guilt.

His hands were shaking. His chest was tight. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force himself to breathe, to focus, but all he could see was your face, your picture pinned to the board, the footage of you being taken—

And the realization that he might never see you again.

"Reid." This time, Hotch's voice was sharper, more commanding. Spencer snapped his head up, his breath ragged.

"We'll find her," Hotch said firmly. "But we need you to keep it together."

Spencer's breath hitched, his pulse pounding so loudly in his ears he could barely hear anything else. They were wasting time. Every second spent standing here, every moment spent catching their breath, was another second you were still out there, terrified and alone, waiting for someone to save you.

And he had promised to love you.

And he had failed.

"Oh, you need me to keep it together?" Spencer snapped, his voice shaking, his entire body shaking. His vision was blurring at the edges, rage and fear coiling so tightly in his chest that he could barely contain it. He turned on Hotch, his heart hammering against his ribs like a wild, desperate thing. "Well, Y/N needs me to find her! She needs not to die!"

The words tore from his throat, raw and broken.

Morgan's eyes widened slightly, JJ flinched, Elle turned away—but Hotch didn't waver. He stood firm, unyielding, his sharp gaze locked on Spencer with a kind of patience Spencer didn't deserve right now.

"And we will find her," Hotch said, voice calm but edged with authority. "But not if you lose control."

"Lose control?" Spencer let out a short, bitter laugh, his fingers digging into his arms as if to ground himself and keep from completely unraveling. His throat burned, his head spun, and all he could see was you. You, you, you. "She's out there, and we don't even know if she's alive! We don't know if we have hours or minutes before she—before—"

His breath caught.

Before you died.

The word sat there, a looming specter he couldn't bring himself to say out loud.

Morgan stepped forward, voice softer this time. "Reid, listen, man—"

"No!" Spencer cut him off, wild-eyed, frantic. "You don't get it! None of you get it! I—” His voice cracked, his body swaying slightly, the weight of his guilt pressing so heavily on his chest it felt like it was crushing him. He tried to steady himself, but he felt like he was drowning. "I—this is my fault."

A thick silence settled over the room.

Spencer's vision blurred with unshed tears, and his breath ragged.

"She loved me." His voice was quieter now, almost hollow. He clenched his jaw, blinking rapidly, his nails digging into his palm. "And I—I walked away. I left her for someone who meant nothing." He let out a shuddering breath, his chest tightening so hard it physically hurt. "And now I might never get to tell her that she was—is—the only person I've ever truly loved."

A lump formed in his throat.

"I don't—I don't deserve to find her," he whispered, the truth burning as it left his lips. "But I need to. I have to. Or I'll never—I can't—"

He couldn't finish.

If he didn't find you and fix this, nothing else would ever matter.

Elle had been watching Spencer unravel since they returned from the failed lead, her sharp gaze tracking every minute detail of his breakdown—the frantic pacing, the erratic breathing, and his hands wouldn't stop shaking. And now, after his outburst at Hotch and how he looked like he was about to self-destruct right in front of them, she had had enough.

She moved fast.

Before Spencer could react, Elle's palm cracked across his face.

The sharp smack echoed through the room, cutting through the tense silence like a gunshot. Spencer's head snapped to the side, his breath hitching in shock as pain bloomed hot and fast across his cheek.

For a second, no one moved.

Elle wasn't finished.

She grabbed him by the collar, yanking him forward, forcing him to look at her. "Get your shit together, Reid!" she hissed, her eyes burning with something more than anger—something more profound.

Spencer froze.

His chest heaved, his mind scrambling to catch up, to process what had just happened. His cheek stung, but it was nothing compared to the tidal wave of rage, frustration, and unrelenting guilt that had been crushing him from the inside out.

"What the hell was that?" he gasped, staggering back, touching his face like he wasn't sure the pain was real.

"That," Elle said, voice low and dangerous, "was me snapping you the fuck out of it." She jabbed a finger into his chest, stepping closer, invading his space, making sure he couldn't look away.

"You're losing it, Reid. And you cannot afford to lose it right now."

Spencer opened his mouth, but she wasn't done.

"You think you're the only one who's scared?" Elle seethed. "You think you're the only one who wants to tear this city apart to find her? We all do. But guess what? You spiraling like this? It's not helping. It's making it worse."

Spencer's breath hitched, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I—"

"No, shut up," Elle snapped, cutting him off, her voice sharp enough to wound. "I don't want to hear you start whining about how guilty you feel, about how this is all your fault, about how you were an idiot for letting her go."

Spencer's throat closed up.

"You screwed up," she stated, flat and brutal. "You got bored. You wanted something new. And now you've realized you had something irreplaceable and threw it away."

His eyes widened slightly—because, fuck, she knew.

Elle saw right through him.

"But guess what, genius?" Elle leaned in, her voice dropping just enough that the words hit like a punch to the ribs.

"None of that fucking matters if you don't find her."

His stomach dropped.

Elle's gaze was unrelenting, her expression hard as steel. "You want to feel sorry for yourself? Fine. Do it after we bring her home." She stepped back, releasing her grip on his collar. "But right now, Spencer? You need to be the smartest damn person in this room."

Spencer exhaled sharply, still reeling, his cheek throbbing, his pulse raging.

But he understood.

Elle wasn't slapping him because she was angry. She was slapping him because she refused to lose another teammate. Because she refused to lose you.

Because she knew that he was the best chance you had.

Spencer straightened, inhaling deeply, forcing his mind to clear. His face still burned, his chest still ached with remorse, but for the first time since seeing your picture on that board, he wasn't drowning in it.

Elle watched him closely, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she saw the shift.

"Good," she said, giving him one last firm look. "Now, let's go find her."

Spencer nodded, jaw tight, mind finally sharpening into focus.

Because Elle was right. None of his regrets, self-loathing, orlizations meant anything if he didn't bring you home.

"Damn, Greenaway," Derek mumbled, rubbing his jaw as he shot Elle an amused glance. "What's a guy gotta do to get a little love tap?" His smirk was wide, teasing, attempting to lighten the crushing weight pressing down on all of them.

Elle, still standing firm after knocking some sense into Spencer, turned her head slightly, giving Derek a slow, deliberate once-over. "Keep talking, and it'll be a lot more than a tap," she shot back, a smirk of her forming. Then, with a playful wink, she turned back to the case, already flipping through files as if she hadn't just physically assaulted a coworker for his good.

Spencer barely registered the exchange, his brain already re-firing on all cylinders. The sting in his cheek was nothing compared to the fresh surge of determination flooding through him. And so, the team buried themselves back into the investigation, working with precision, intensity, and the desperate, unyielding need to bring you back.

Morgan and Hotch went back through the victimology, looking for any deviation in the unsub's pattern that could hint at where he had taken you.

JJ and Elle were in the batcave, working with Garcia, pushing for more footage, leads, and anything else to tighten the search radius.

Spencer was at the board, staring at your photo, the location pins, and the scattered details. His mind ran every scenario, analyzing every variable. His hand hovered over the map, tracing each route the unsub could have taken.

Think, Spencer. Think.

He had 72 hours.

Time was running out.

And he wasn't about to lose you.

And then he heard it.

Garcia's sharp victory cry rang through the speaker, cutting through the tension like a blade.

"Oh, hell yes! Gotcha, you sick son of a—"

Spencer's head snapped up, his heart slamming against his ribs as the bullpen erupted into movement.

"Garcia?" Hotch demanded, already reaching for his earpiece. "What do you have?"

"I have him, sir; I freaking have him!" Garcia's voice was a mixture of triumph and pure adrenaline. "Okay, listen up because I found this guy's most incriminating, unsub-like, foolish mistake—his utility bills."

Spencer's pulse skyrocketed.

Garcia barely took a breath before launching into explanation mode.

"So, I was cross-referencing every possible known location the previous victims were held in—warehouses, abandoned buildings, private properties, all that jazz—but something wasn't adding up. All of those places had been searched already, right? So, I started looking at nearby structures that weren't in use but still had active utilities. Gas, electricity, even just running water, because let's face it—no creepy serial kidnapper is taking sponge baths in a rusty bucket."

"Garcia," Hotch cut in, his patience thin, "where is he?"

Garcia let out an excited, breathless laugh.

"There's an abandoned farmhouse thirty miles outside town, just off an old service road. It's been off the radar for years, but someone's been paying the bills—sporadically, inconsistently, just enough not to raise alarms. And guess what, my sweet crime fighters?"

Spencer gripped the edge of the table.

"The latest bill?" Garcia continued, triumphant. "It was paid yesterday."

Spencer inhaled sharply.

That meant he was still there.

That meant you were still there.

Morgan was already reaching for his gear, his movements quick and efficient. "That's it. That's our guy. Let's move."

Hotch didn't hesitate. "Gear up. Now."

—

"Can you shut up for the love of God?!" the unsub snapped, his voice cutting through the cold, damp air of the farmhouse basement. His patience had worn thin, and the roughness in his tone carried more frustration than malice.

You hiccupped through your tears, your body trembling—not from fear, but from overwhelming exhaustion. Your wrists ached where they were bound, your face was sticky with dried tears, and yet, despite everything, you couldn't stop talking.

"I'm sorry," you sobbed, sniffling dramatically. "It's just—" Another sniffle, another watery gasp for air. "He left me, and then I get kidnapped, and now he's probably gonna save me, and then I'll go home to an empty house, and he'll go home to his stupid boyfriend."

Your captor's eye twitched.

"For the last fucking time," he growled, turning toward you with visible irritation, "they're not going to find you!"

You barely reacted, too caught up in your despair.

"You don't know that," you muttered, your voice wobbly but oddly conversational. "I mean, he's like a genius or whatever. And his team is good at their jobs. They always catch the bad guy." You sighed dramatically, tilting your head back against the wooden beam. "So, yeah, I'd say the odds aren't exactly in your favor."

The unsub's jaw clenched. He paced in frustration, his hands raking through his unkempt hair.

"You should be scared," he spat, though there was less conviction now.

You sniffled again. "I'm too heartbroken to be scared."

Your voice cracked on the last word; it wasn't just for show this time.

The unsub laughed, a cruel, condescending chuckle that grated against your nerves. "You're pathetic," he sneered, shaking his head.

You let out a soft, bitter huff, your fingers twitching where they were bound. "And you aren't?" Your voice was steady now, sharper than before. "You have to kidnap women just to get one to talk to you."

The unsub's face twisted with rage. His hand shot out, grabbing the back of your head roughly, yanking it back so you were forced to look up at him.

Then, cold metal pressed against your temple.

"I could fucking kill you right now," he snarled, his breath hot against your skin, his fingers digging into your scalp.

You blinked up at him. Not flinching and not pleading.

Just looking.

"Okay," you said simply.

For a long, tense moment, he didn't move.

Your heartbeat was steady, even as the seconds stretched between you. His grip was tight, his breathing heavy, the gun unwavering against your skin.

But you didn't break.

Because, honestly? You didn't care.

Maybe it was the exhaustion. It could be the sheer emotional devastation of everything leading up to this moment. Or maybe it was the painful, gut-wrenching realization that even if Spencer saved you, he wouldn't stay.

That hurt more than anything else.

The unsub groaned, exasperated, and after a few lingering moments, jerked back, lowering the gun.

He paced, rolling his neck like trying to shake off whatever he had just felt.

"You don't fear death, do you?" he muttered, more to himself than you.

You let out a small breath, watching him, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Not really."

—

The farmhouse was empty.

It was abandoned.

And that realization hit like a freight train.

As the team swept through the decrepit structure, their boots crunching against the dust-covered floorboards, the air grew heavier with every room they cleared. The farmhouse was utterly vacant—there was no sign of you, no sign of the unsub, no proof of where you had been taken next.

And then Spencer's world crashed down. Again. He didn't know how much more he could take.

His knees hit the ground before he could stop them, his whole body wracked with sobs. The grief that had been building inside him for hours, days, weeks—since the moment he walked away from you—exploded all at once.

Morgan was there instantly, his strong arms steadying Spencer, pulling him into a solid, grounding hold as Spencer fisted his hands into his vest.

"No, no, no," Spencer choked out, shaking violently. "We're too late, we're too late."

"Hey, hey—stop that." Morgan's grip tightened, his expression strained with worry. "We don’t know that."

But Spencer's mind wasn't listening.

Because the only explanation for an empty farmhouse was that the unsub had already killed you.

That he had already moved your body.

And Spencer would never get to tell you.

I never got to say he was sorry. Never get to tell you that he loved you, was a fool for leaving, and would have spent his entire life making it up to you if he could.

That you were his heart.

And now you were gone.

The team stood frozen, the weight of failure settling over them like a suffocating fog.

And then Spencer's phone rang.

His breath hitched, and his fingers clumsily fumbled for the device. His whole body felt numb, and the ringing pierced his grief. It was JJ.

He barely had time to answer before her voice rang through the line, breathless, disbelieving, urgent.

"Spencer—she's here."

His heart stopped.

"What?"

"Y/N just—she just walked into the precinct." JJ sounded just as stunned as he felt. "She's unharmed. She's safe."

Spencer felt his entire world tilt so violently that he nearly collapsed again.

He was on his feet in seconds, his head spinning, his chest heaving.

"She's alive?" The words tumbled out of him wild and frantic, like he feared saying them out loud would make them untrue.

JJ exhaled sharply. "She's alive, Spence. She's okay."

Spencer's legs nearly gave out.

Morgan caught him before he could crumble.

The team exchanged stunned glances, their exhaustion, and devastation shifting into something else entirely.

Hope.

Relief.

Victory.

Hotch's voice cut through the moment, commanding but urgent.

"Let's go. Now."

Spencer was already running.

—

Practically stumbling into the precinct, his breath ragged, Spencer's heart slamming against his ribs as he scanned the room in a frenzy. His eyes darted wildly, looking for you.

And then he saw you. Alive. Standing near JJ's desk, your arms crossed, your expression completely unreadable as you answered one of the officer's questions with a nod. No visible injuries. No signs of distress. Just… there.

Breathing.

Existing.

He felt like he was going to collapse.

The relief hit him so hard that he nearly forgot how to move, breathe, and function. His vision blurred, his pulse roared in his ears, and for a second, he could only process that you were here and safe.

Then you turned, and your gaze met his.

And everything inside Spencer froze.

Because there was no relief in your eyes.

No joy.

No desperation, no tears, no emotion at all.

It's just tired indifference.

His lips parted, and his feet moved toward you instinctively. His hands itched to touch you, feel you, hold you, apologize, beg, and break at your feet if he had to.

But before he could say anything, you exhaled deeply, turning back to JJ, dismissing him entirely without a second glance.

Like he was just… some guy.

Some stranger.

Someone who meant nothing.

The rejection was like a blade to the throat.

Spencer finally found his voice, but it was weak and hoarse. It was filled with exhaustion, guilt, and everything he had wanted to say to you but had never had the chance.

“Y/N—”

You barely spared him a glance.

"I just want to go home," you said flatly, your voice drained, emotionless, like you had nothing left to give—not to the case, Spencer, or any of it.

And that hurt more than anything.

Because he had prepared himself for your tears, he had braced himself for anger, for screaming, for you shoving him away, slapping him, hating him outright.

But this? This emptiness? This indifference? This was worse.

This was so much worse.

Spencer stood there, stunned, feeling himself shatter in real-time as you sighed, rubbing at your tired eyes, before quietly saying to JJ,

"Can someone take me home?"

And just like that—

You were gone.

And Spencer had never felt more alone.

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

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[mischievous-thunder]

It's only the Deadpool Prime for our Precious Logie Badger

[menagerofmischief]

pretty tattoos -> ln4

wc: 1.2k tags: piercer!lando, cockwarming, unprotected sex, piv, part one | part two | part three

Lando’s shop was empty and quiet. Probably because it was already after working hours when you arrived, like the two of you had agreed. 

After the last piercing you had gotten, Lando had indeed taken you out to dinner. And after that, the two of you were inseparable. And you couldn’t be happier.

It was after a night out that you mentioned wanting a tattoo. Immediately there was a sparkle in Lando’s eyes as he began gushing over how he hoped you would mention it because he was itching to ink your body. 

After he dropped you home, laying a gentle sweet kiss to your lips before walking away, Lando had texted you the date and time of your tattoo appointment. Only if you wanted it, of course. And boy, did you want it. 

Lando’s shop was a familiar place by now. Both from your own experiences and from the little visits you made just to see him. So you didn’t hesitate to get yourself comfortable as Lando prepared everything, the stencil already pressed against your skin.

Getting a sternum tattoo as your first tattoo was certainly a bold choice, you wouldn’t deny that. The room was slightly chilly, causing your exposed nipples to perk up, goosebumps raising along the skin of your arms. 

“You changing your mind?” Lando asked, noticing you had gone quiet. His voice was teasing, but you knew that if you really did change your mind he would drop everything without a word. 

“No,” you shook your head. “Just a bit nervous. I heard the sternum is a painful place to get a tattoo.”

“It is,” Lando agreed, smiling at you. “Don’t worry tho, I’ll keep you distracted.” he said with a wink, bringing a smile to your face. 

“Oh, you’ll keep me distracted!” You teased, prompting him to laugh. 

Lando finished setting the necessary material up and sat down in the chair. You looked at him, tilting your head to the side. “Isn’t that my spot?”

“Nope,” he told you, shaking his head. “Your spot is right here.” He patted his lap, his lips curled upwards in a smirk.

“How could I forget,” you smiled, walking towards him slowly. You ran your hands down his body, palms pressing against his chest before dipping lower, toying with the zipper of his pants.

You opened his pants and Lando wasted no time lifting his hips to help you slide them down his legs, the outline of his already hard cock visible in the grey material of his boxers. A wet patch was already forming on the material from where his leaky tip was positioned. 

Lando took the boxers off quickly, pushing them to join his jeans. His hands grabbed your ass and he pulled your body closer, your bare legs pressing against his. 

You giggled, wrapping your hand around his dick. It wasn’t your first time seeing him naked but everytime was as good as the previous. Your eyes zeroed in on his piercing, going through the tip of his cock, the metal balls shining under the led lights of the studio.

Spit dribbled down from your mouth onto his cock and you used it as lube to stroke him a few times before lifting up your skirt and climbing into his lap. The lack of pantied underneath the skirt made it all the easier to position his dick at your entrance and sink down on him, taking him fully. 

“Fuck,” Lando groaned, his hands gripping your hips, both of you moaning at the sensation. His piercing pressed against your walls, adding to the stimulation. Lando’s hand caressed your back, making you arch your chest forward him. 

“You ready?” He asked gently, one of his hands groping your tits, his fingers playing with your nipples and twisting your piercings. 

“Yeah, I’m ready.” You replied, nodding your head at him. “You sure you can tattoo in this position?”

“Oh please,” Lando scoffed playfully. “Of course I can. Now hold on, this is gonna hurt a little.”

Lando lifted up the tattoo gun and started his work, tracking the stencil on your skin. You gasped a little at the pain, feeling your chest tighten as he worked, involuntarily clenching around him which had his breathing going shallow.

Thankfully it was a small tattoo, which meant it didn’t take much time for Lando to finish it. The whole time he kept teasing you playfully, talking about random things and cracking terrible jokes in effort to distract you from the pain, which really did work. But so did the feeling of his pulsing length buried deep inside of you. 

You finally felt like you could breathe again properly when Lando finished the tattoo, putting away the machine and cleaning it up. One of his hands cupped your flushed face, his eyes meeting yours. “Looks pretty great if I do say so myself,” he told you, his eyes flicking down to the tattoo. “Now how about a reward for my best client?”

“Please,” you gasped out, your walls clenching around his dick. Lando groaned, wrapping his arms around you and standing up then pushing you onto the leather chair all while still remaining inside of you. 

“Did so well,” he told you before pressing his lips down against yours in a sloppy kiss. “Took it so well, didn’t you? Now you’re gonna take my cock, yeah?”

His thrusts started slow, making you feel every inch of his hard cock, the piercing dragging against your walls, making your head spin with pleasure. One of his hands sneaked between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit fast and rubbing circles around it before he flicked your piercing, making you moan out. 

The rhythm of his hips grew frantic, becoming more desperate with each thrust. After cockwarming him for what felt like hours it didn’t really take long for either of you to reach your orgasm.

“God, Lando!” You moaned, nails digging into his back as your orgasm crashed over you, triggering his own. 

You both stayed still for a moment, catching your breath, then Lando pulled out slowly and used one of the previously prepared tissues to clean you up, all the while rambling about the tattoo healing process. You really couldn’t deny that he was adorable. 

The two of you put your clothes back on and you waited for Lando to finish closing up the shop before you left together. “So, wanna come over to my apartment?” You asked, taking his hand in yours. “I got some great leftovers. And they’re not expired.”

He laughed, lacing his fingers with yours. “You truly know a way to my heart!”

Lando Norris had pierced his way into your life and permanently inked his place in it. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

thank you for following along the piercer!lando mini series. want more piercer!lando? send an ask and tell me your ideas. feed my need for validation and let me know if you enjoyed this one! like and reblogs are greatly appreciated as well. <3

[tranquilreign]

at arms length I. | mini series

- © tranquilreign - all rights reserved | DO NOT STEAL, TAKE, or COPY any of MY WORK without MY PERMISSION.

🗒 details

pairing; jungkook/reader genre: angst, angst, angst, ex best friends au! college au! warnings: jungkook's a dick, bullying(?), swearing word count: 1.7k

🖋 synopsis

arm's-length (adj.) arh·z·length avoiding intimacy or close contact.

you and jungkook have been best friends since childhood, and you believed nothing could go wrong. but when you hear him talking about you to his friends, you realise just how much he hated you.

🖇links

jungkook masterlist main masterlist request | request rules prompt list at arms length II.

Everyone knew you and Jungkook were best friends. Someone even believed you were dating, given how close you were. You were always there for him when he had girl trouble, and he was always there for you when you needed a shoulder to cry on.

You were inseparable. Friends since you were four years old, there was no doubt you cared deeply for one another.

Or so you had thought.

Your back was pressed against the wall outside one of the lecture halls, hand pressed over your mouth to quieten your sobs. Jungkook sat on one of the tables, his other friends sitting around him, laughing.

"Is she really that bad?" Yoongi asked, uncertain of Jungkook's words. Your friend scoffed.

"Honestly, she never leaves me alone. I had hoped that when we graduated, she'd attend a different college."

The majority of the group laughed at Jungkook's so-called misfortune. Yoongi and Jimin were the only ones who seemed to disagree.

"Kook, she's been by your side since you were kids. She's been nothing but good to you," Jimin spoke, frowning.

You appreciated his words. You had always liked Jimin; he was kind and genuinely cared about the feelings of others. You thought Jungkook was like that, too. But it was clear he was only playing pretend.

Jungkook continued to talk. Pointing out your flaws and sharing secrets you had trusted him with. Tears flooded down your cheeks, his words stinging with each insult.

"Jungkook, that's fucked up," Yoongi snapped at the younger boy. "I'm going for lunch, I'll catch you later."

Yoongi moved toward the door. You panicked, wanting to run, but your feet wouldn't move. You shrank as Yoongi reached the door. His eyes immediately fell on you, watching as you opened your eyes to stare back at him. You shook your head, pleading with him not to expose you. At that moment, Jungkook called out to him.

"What is it?" he asked, maintaining eye contact.

"Save us a table, yeah? We'll be with you shortly."

Yoongi didn't respond. Instead, he gently grabbed your wrist and tugged you along with him. You were numb, stumbling over your feet, trying to keep up with him.

No words were exchanged between you, as Yoongi brought you out to the car park and brought you to his car.

"Get in," he said softly, opening the door to the passenger seat.

You hesitated, but eventually accepted, settling into the car and sitting comfortably. Yoongi shut the door and moved around to the driver's side.

He sighed when he opened the door, leaning over it. Confused, you looked out of the window to see Jimin running towards him.

"What do you want, Jimin?" Yoongi asked bluntly.

Jimin explained that he decided to join Yoongi for lunch, too. However, when he saw you with Yoongi, he grew worried and ran after both of you.

"I just wanted to make sure she was okay."

"Get in," Yoongi sighed.

Jimin nodded in response, moving into the back seat behind Yoongi. You were still, yet your tears continued to fall. Yoongi climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine.

Silence followed as he drove away from the campus grounds, the light rain tapping against the windows. Your mind raced with Jungkook's words.

Had everything you'd been through together meant nothing to him? How long had he hated you for? Why was he so cruel, sharing your secrets?

The car had come to a sudden stop, and you looked around robotically. Yoongi had brought you to his house. Both he and Jimin helped you out of the car, out of fear that your legs would give out.

Jimin held your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, while Yoongi unlocked his front door. Once inside, they led you to the couch. Jimin carefully sat you down but kept hold of your hand. Meanwhile, Yoongi went into the kitchen to prepare something for everyone to eat.

"Y/n, love," Jimin soothed, rubbing his hand up and down your back comfortingly. "Don't suppress it. It's okay to let it out."

As if something had been holding you back, you finally let go. Your heart ached as a gut-wrenching cry escaped your lips. You leaned forward, crying into your knees. Your sobs continued, the memories you had with Jungkook flashing in your mind every time you closed your eyes.

Jimin could only rub your back comfortingly, not wanting to speak as you cried. Yoongi stood in the kitchen, leaning forward on the countertop, head hanging forward.

Your cries echoed throughout the house. Jungkook was your best friend. The one who was always by your side when times got tough. It felt strange, Jimin holding you instead of him.

Jungkook always knew how to calm you down best. He gently stroked your hair while whispering words of comfort. He would slowly rock you back and forth, the swaying helping you relax.

You had finally sat back up, struggling to breathe, hyperventilating. At that moment, Yoongi had stepped back through with food and placed it on the table. He sat opposite you in the armchair, waiting until you were ready.

You cried until you could cry no more, your eyes stinging from how dry they had become. It felt as if all emotion had left your body, reducing you to a shell of who you once were.

You leaned back in the chair, letting your head fall back as you stared at the ceiling. Jimin and Yoongi watched, unsure of what to say or do. Finally, you spoke.

"Thank you for taking me away," you whispered, voice breaking.

Yoongi said nothing, instead leaning forward and taking your hand in his. He caressed your knuckles with his thumb, noticing how cold your hands were.

"You can stay here for as long as you need," Yoongi explained. "I live alone, so no one will bother you."

"I can go to your dorm and get your things as well," Jimin offered.

You nodded, moving slowly to grab one of the bowls of food. Noodles. Something Jungkook would prepare for you when you were sick. Yet, you still ate, wanting nothing more than for this pain to subside.

⊱ ────── {⋅. ♪ .⋅} ────── ⊰

Weeks had passed, and Jungkook hadn't seen or heard from you. It was like you had disappeared off the face of the earth. He would try texting and calling you every day, wondering what had happened, yet you never responded.

Jimin and Yoongi played along, pretending not to know of your whereabouts, and feigned concern when Jungkook mentioned you. They offered to try and reach out to you, which Jungkook appreciated.

You already knew Jungkook would try and use his friends to get a hold of you, and it was something Yoongi and Jimin said they wouldn't do.

Jungkook was surprised when he saw you walk into the canteen one day, dropping his sandwich back onto his plate. He stood up abruptly, catching the attention of his friends. Yoongi and Jimin exchanged looks, just as surprised as Jungkook.

Your eyes held no emotion as you walked over to the food station, grabbing whatever was to your liking. Jungkook, without realising, was walking towards you, his pace quickening into a light jog.

"Y/n," he breathed.

You froze at his voice. You knew this was going to happen, yet his voice still surprised you. Taking in a deep breath, you turned around, staring at him blankly. He was taken aback by your eyes, never having seen them so distant.

"Where have you been. I've been worried sick."

You shrugged.

"I just needed some time," you answered.

Jungkook grabbed your upper arm as you turned to walk away. The feel of his fingers sent a rush of memories flooding back from the times you had playfully fought or laughed together. Shaking his hand off, you set your tray down and continued walking away. Jungkook frowned and followed after you.

"Needed time from what?" Jungkook asked, trying to keep up with you. When you ignored him, he grew more frustrated. "Y/n, look at me!"

You finally stopped, spinning round to look at him.

“I haven’t seen you in weeks, and you come back as if you don’t know me?” Jungkook asked, visibly upset. “I’ve been worried sick! You didn’t answer my calls or texts. I thought something bad had happened.”

You scoffed.

"You were worried?"

"Yes!"

"Funny that," you snapped. "I was just doing what you wanted. Leaving you alone."

Jungkook's brows furrowed in confusion. Where had this all come from? He went to take your hand, but you pulled away from him.

"I heard you. I heard everything you had to say about me to your friends!" you yelled.

Jungkook finally understood. His shoulders dropped, and his face paled. He had been caught. He couldn't keep eye contact with you anymore, looking away in shame. You laughed at how pathetic he looked.

"You don't get to be upset, Jungkook. You hurt me! We've been best friends since we were children!"

You finally released everything you had been wanting to say to him. You yelled and screamed at him for what he had done, exposing him not only for belittling you but also for sharing the secrets you had trusted him with.

"I loved you, Jungkook. I loved you like you were my brother; you were the only one who stood by me when times were tough. When it felt like everyone was against me."

"Y/n... I-"

"Save your breath," you cut him off. "You've made it clear how you feel. Never speak to me again, we are no longer friends. And never will be friends again."

With that, you walked away. Jungkook stood by himself, watching as you left, disappearing from sight.

hi guys, sorry for a little bit of heartbreak here, I was kinda in my feels when I thought of this one.

tranquilreign~

[novelistwriter]

The Phantom of Crime Alley

DP x DC Prompt for Pride Month 2: Electric Boogaloo

Jazz had run away to Gotham, a baby Danny in her arms, and a new identity set up for her and Danny. Jack and Maddie had cut him open and nearly cracked his core. She made sure that no one survived the explosion at her old home, not even the ones she used to call her parents. She even took some of the plans for things that may be useful to Danny.

She's arrived in Gotham during the time of Bruce training to become Batman. She's got a decent apartment in a place called Park Row. As Queen Regent, she makes anonymous donations to make the place much better than it is, for Danny's sake.

Her Danny has become friends with one Jason Todd. They've been inseparable since they've been able to talk, and despite Jason being older than Danny by a year, they share everything like they are twins. Even after Jason was adopted by Bruce Wayne, the two of them find ways to be in contact with each other.

After Jason's death, Danny was both sad and angry. Both Jazz and Danny knew that Jason was the second Robin, nothing can hide from them when they could see souls. Danny's anger led him to kill Joker when the Clown was in Arkham. He may not have complete control over his powers, but he had enough control over them to make sure that the "crime" of killing the Joker did not lead back to him.

Years later, Danny is a vigilante who only protects Crime Alley. He doesn't trust the other vigilantes because they couldn't help Jason in time. Danny will make sure their home of Crime Alley will be safe at all times. It's what they promised to each other after Jason was adopted by Bruce.

Now here Danny is 18 and being pinned by a person in a Red Helmet, being demanded for the location of Robin. He doesn't answer and just uses some of his powers to slip free of the grasp of this muscular man. But his mask comes free after the man tries to grab him again. He tried to hide his exposed face but was too late, the other had seen his face.

"Danny?"

That's a voice he hasn't heard in years, the voice of the one person he had slowly realized he had feelings for. And sure, when he had taken a look at Jason's face, it's different, but still the same one he knows and loves.

[willowsnook]

The history of love

“Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.”

Oscar piastri x childhoodbsf!reader

request from @opastries81 prompt list here

—-----------------------------------------------------

Oscar thinks he probably fell in love with you when you were both 10 years old. Your family had moved into the house next to his, having moved overseas from America for your dad’s job, and it was like a missing puzzle piece in his life had finally fallen into place. 

Everyone always said the two of you were two peas in a pod. The two of you were inseparable, and when his family decided to send him to boarding school, you cried harder than you ever had before. But even after he moved, nothing changed between you besides distance. 

You talked on the phone almost every day, constantly in communication. As you got older, people often pointed out that you became carbon copies of one another, that dry sense of humor, non-expressive behavior, and general casualness. While Oscar might have known he loved you early on, you were oblivious. You missed all the signs.

Like when he memorized your coffee order down to the extra pump of vanilla, he never dated anyone longer than a few weeks but always knew exactly what to say to cheer you up after your breakups. When he flew home early just to make it to your birthday, saying it was for “the cake.” When he watched every dumb reality show you loved, even though he claimed to hate them. When he looked at you like you hung the stars—every time you laughed, every time you weren’t looking.

You just thought… that’s what best friends did. And he was okay with that, deciding that he’d just wait until you’d figure it out, even though it grew increasingly frustrating as time went on. 

“I don’t understand why you can’t just tell her,” Lando questioned as he and Oscar walked into the paddock. 

“It’s not that simple,” Oscar said and Lando threw his hands out. 

“What do you mean it’s not that simple? You two are practically married!” 

Oscar rolled his eyes. "Not this again. She's just oblivious."

"That's an understatement," Lando muttered. "She didn't even realize when you ditched that important testing session last year to help her move apartments."

"I told her I had the day off."

"My point exactly," Lando said, slapping Oscar's shoulder. "She believes whatever you tell her because she trusts you completely. Just tell her the truth."

Oscar sighed, running a hand through his hair. "And risk fifteen years of friendship? No thanks."

His phone buzzed with a notification. It was you, sending a picture of yourself in your F1 team merchandise, captioned: Ready to watch my best friend crush it this weekend!

"Speaking of your wife," Lando teased, peeking at Oscar's phone. "She's coming to the race?"

“Yeah, she’s flying in tonight,” Oscar told him. “Join us for dinner?” 

“I’m not interested in third-wheeling, so no,” Lando said, rolling his eyes. 

“Suit yourself.” 

Since it was the Tuesday of race week, Oscar had the evening free so you were happy to get to go out to eat at a normal time versus the late night meals you were used to when you came for his races. He was already in the hotel lobby when you came down and your mood increased the second you saw him; the tiredness of a long travel day already forgotten. 

“Hi buddy,” you greeted, pulling him into a tight hug. 

“Hi, y/n,” he said into your hair. “Ready?” 

He’d picked out a cute little Italian place that was near the hotel and you were lucky to get seated outside, right next to the water. Looking over the menu, you brightened. 

“They have that bottle of wine I loved so much from that place back home we went to a couple of months ago,” you said. “No glasses option though, just the bottle.”

“We can split it,” Oscar offered. 

“You sure? I know how you get with wine,” you teased and he rolled his eyes. Oscar was generally not a lightweight except when it came to wine. There was just something about it that got to him. 

Sure enough, two glasses later, that familiar glassy look was on his face. You were tipsy and amused, quickly flagging down the waiter so you could leave before he decided to order something else. When you made it outside his fingers slipped easily into yours as you walked. 

As you were walking, you smiled at an old couple sitting on the bench sharing a cup of ice cream. You hoped for that kind of love one day. 

“Do you think you’ll get married one day?” You asked, looking over at Oscar. He laughed at the randomness of the question.

“Of course,” he said confidently. 

“You’ll just have to find someone who can put up with your weirdness first,” you teased. 

“I already have so I’m all set,” he answered and you furrowed your brows in confusion. 

“Who?” You asked. Maybe he hadn’t told you about meeting someone new recently. You had just seen him a couple of weeks ago though. 

“Well you of course,” he said nonchalantly, not even stuttering in his step. He stopped though, once your hand yanked him back. 

“What are you talking about Oscar?” You asked and he gave you a tipsy smile, the pink on his cheeks from the wine making him even more attractive in the streetlight. 

“I mean we are going to get married, isn’t it obvious?” He asked and your lips pursed. 

“Not very obvious,” you told him. “When were you going to tell me?” 

He shrugged, pulling you back along. “Eh, I don’t know. Everyone says that I should but I was just going to wait it out until you said something.”

“How’s that working for you then?” You asked, deciding that this had to just be some kind of bit he was playing. 

“Not very well,” he admitted and you rolled your eyes with a laugh. 

The next morning, you woke up with a slight headache and a fuzzy memory of your conversation with Oscar. Had he really said you two were going to get married? You shook your head, attributing it to the wine and his typical sarcasm.

Your phone buzzed with a text from Oscar: "Breakfast before I head to the track?"

Twenty minutes later, you were sitting across from him in the hotel restaurant, studying his face for any sign of awkwardness about last night. There was none. He looked completely normal, scrolling through his phone while munching on toast.

"So," you started casually, "you were pretty wine-drunk last night."

Oscar glanced up, a small smile playing on his lips. "Was I? I remember everything perfectly."

"Even the part where you said we were getting married someday?"

He didn't flinch, didn't even blink. "Pretty big moment for me to have forgotten.” 

You were frozen, just staring at him. How long was he going to let this bit go on? It was impressive though, how he had yet to break. 

“Right,” you muttered, going back to your food. 

The next few days went by quickly and you didn’t bring up his confession and neither did he. You decided it was business as usual, since he wasn’t treating you any differently than normal. 

On race morning, you were hanging out in the garage when Lando caught sight of you. 

“Hey y/n,” he called out. “Heard lover boy finally confessed, congratulations.”

You rolled your eyes with a smile, “So he roped you into the bit too? I thought you were better than that Norris.” 

Lando’s face scrunched up in confusion. "Bit? What bit?" Lando looked genuinely perplexed, glancing between you and something behind you. "Oscar's been in love with you since you were like, children."

You laughed nervously. "That's not funny, Lando."

"It's not supposed to be funny," he replied, looking increasingly uncomfortable. "Wait, did you think he was joking when he told you?"

Your heart was suddenly pounding in your chest. "I—"

“Lando, let’s go,” a mechanic called out to him and he gave you a sympathetic look before running off. The garage picked up with activity and you made your way to your usual spot, your mind racing. 

It hits you all at once.

Like a memory crashing into your chest, knocking the air out of you.

He was in love with you. The kind of love that was patient. Quiet. Unshakable.

You thought he was just good.A good friend. A good person. But now you see it—the way his eyes softened when you walked into a room. The way he lit up just to hear your voice. The way he always put you first, even when you didn’t ask.

He loved you.

The camera caught you just as a small smile appeared on your face and for the first time, you were desperate for this race to be over as soon as possible. You watched as they took off, Oscar starting second on the grid. The race was pretty uneventful, not a lot of overtakes besides Oscar taking the lead when Max went wide on a particular turn. 

The garage was wild as he crossed the finish line and you joined the team in celebrating, following them to the podium area. 

You stood on your tiptoes trying to catch a glimpse of Oscar as he made his way to the podium. The crowd was deafening, but somehow in that moment, everything felt quiet to you. Your heart was racing, and it had nothing to do with the race that had just finished.

When Oscar took the top step, champagne in hand, his eyes scanned the crowd until they found yours. He gave you that smile—the one you now realized had always been just for you.

After the celebrations, you waited by the paddock entrance, nervously fidgeting with the pass around your neck. When Oscar finally emerged, still in his race suit tied around his waist, his hair damp from champagne, he looked surprised to see you waiting there.

"Congratulations," you said, your voice surprisingly steady despite the chaos in your chest.

"Thanks," he replied, that familiar softness in his eyes. Before you could change your mind, you steadied your hands on his shoulders, leaning up to press your lips against his. There was no surprise on his end, just a small grin before he kissed you back, wrapping an arm tight around your waist. 

“Ready to get married then?” You joked and he brought his lips to yours once more. 

“I’ve been ready for a while.” 

[ozarkthedog]

𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐀𝐜𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬

summary: Declan introduces you to a friend.

pairing: Declan O’Hara x afab!reader / Rupert Campbell Black

warnings: 18+ mdni. filth. unspecified age gap. oral sex (m). Declan calls the shots. fingering. edging. no m/m. slight anal play. dirty talk. squirting. rough sex. Rupert pushing the boundaries aka he’s a menace. cuckhold of sorts. male masturbation. cream pie. light, barely there after care. ep 8 spoilers. w.c: 2.4k

author’s note: i'm a Declan girlie but I had to write something feat. Rupert.

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋅ 𝐅𝐢𝐜 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐬 ⋅ 𝐑𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

Soft golden rays bleed through the aged windows of the O'Hara estate. Its owner, Declan, sits comfortably on a worn chair in the middle of his study. Books and papers litter the room, even on the small sofa adjacent to the chair. As the fireplace crackles, the bright orange flames warm your skin as you kneel naked between your employer's thighs.

Declan groans as he feeds you his cock. His thighs widen, as much as his unzipped trousers will allow, on the tattered chair, giving you more room to swallow him down. His heart beats steadily under his lush brown sweater as you suckle his cock while looking up at him under your lashes.

Declan enjoyed times like these when the house was empty, and he got you all to himself. With Maud gone, leaving everything to Taggie was unfair, so he caved and hired a housekeeper. Little did he realize he'd fall head over heels for you.

You both took your time dancing around one another like nervous teenagers at a school dance. Harmless flirting and late-night conversations over the meals you'd cook for him led to Declan taking matters into his own hands.

He was used to control. He enjoyed it, really. The power felt comfortable, and he had no issue wielding it.

Declan was still on edge one day after a trifling day at Coriniuim. His usual soak and cig in the tub wasn't helping. The radio was blasting ear-aching songs, and the water was getting too cold too fast, but that all changed when you walked in on him with an armful of fresh towels.

He took a chance, one that could've ended with him locked up, but you didn't run. You followed his dubious commands and let him exert his dominance, allowing him to reign over you.

Since then, you two have been inseparable.

"Ah, right on time," Declan notes, looking at the clock perched on the mantle in his study as the large front door creaks open.

Declan mentioned inviting a friend over earlier in the day, but you didn't think he meant now.

The sight of your wide doe eyes makes his gut fervently twist. He's always appreciated someone yearning after what was his, especially an individual so well-loved by the women of Rutshire.

"Don' stop, Love," Declan instructs. His Irish accent dips low as he curls a solid hand around your head when you start to draw back. Your wary, garbled sounds vibrate Declan's cock eliciting a hiss from his lips. He sends you a pensive look and keeps you locked as the steps draw near. "You know I like people ta watch, but I wan' to try somethin' new."

Your heart lodges in your throat. Declan had divulged this kink not long after the two of you began dating. It was harmless fun flirting with other men while Declan observed from the shadows like a deviant; the journalist grew feral until he could no longer hold himself back, scurrying off with you in his arms, leaving the poor target in a stupor.

No one could ever come close to Declan; you never want them to.

"I seem to have come at a rather inconvenient time, have I not?" A pondering English baritone fills the room.

Rupert Campbell Black.

With arms crossed, the affluent man leans on the rustic doorframe. He catches your uneasy gaze with a cheeky smile, prompting a wildfire in your belly.

Declan shakes his head, his thick mustache ticking excitedly, "Not at all. Come in."

You try to move again, but Declan doesn't budge an inch. Your brows knot in confusion as your hands fly to cover your exposed bits as best you can.

"Say hello, ta Rupert, Swee'heart," Declan instructs, his dark chestnut eyes alight with devilry.

Your gaze trails from the man's supple leather loafers and pressed lined slacks to the sepia colored dress shirt that exposes a svelte chest as the top two buttons are undone. Rupert oozes high society and overt confidence, the kind of man you'd go dumb even looking at.

"My, my, where has Declan been hiding you?" Rupert croons. His azure orbs fixate with dark intrigue at your naked, shivering form.

As you greet Declan's neighbor, a slight garbled noise barely registers to the men. Tauntingly, Rupert leans over and puts a hand behind his ear, "Sorry, Angel. What was that?"

Your belly flips, and butterflies flutter carelessly in the wake of being so degraded. Still, your cunt produces a wave of arousal and clenches around nothing.

Knowing he doesn't have much patience, you chance another look at Declan and wish you hadn't. His white teeth bared, and his lips pulled back into a light sneer, like a wolf facing down prey, waiting for you to heed his command.

Declan bites back a moan at the hedonic sensation of you stringing together a messy greeting for the affluent man.

Rupert snickers. "Aren't you cute."

"Thatta' girl." He praises before thrusting his length into your throat and cutting off your air.

He waits for a beat, relishing in the watery glaze that coats your eyes and how your chest heaves. Fidgety hands dig into his darkened slacks, knocking the loose ends of his belt. Drool spills down your chin and settles at the base of his cock.

"Ya know ya waited too long ta give Rupert a warm welcome." He fumes, his expression twisting lightly with displeasure.   

With a soft growl, Declan eases his grip. You fall back on your heels, a blight, coughing up spittle and trying to suck down fresh air at the same time.

"Might I say, you've got a real treasure here," Rupert leers down at your messy face and spit-soaked breasts that make your nipples shine in the light. "Lovely to meet your acquaintance."

"Though' you migh' like a taste." Declan offers, looking up at Rupert like you weren't perched at their feet, anxiously awaiting their next move.

"Would I ever." A Cheshire grin tugs at Rupert's lips. He makes a show of folding his button-down sleeves over his muscular forearms as he stalks around you.

Declan beckons you with the tilt of his head, "C'mere, Love. I ain't done wit' your mouth."

You sniffle before taking your place between his knees once more. Declan can sense your worry as Rupert traces a finger down your spine while he crouches behind you. "Don' worry abou' him. He won' do anythin' out of line."

Declan taps his bulbous crown against your swollen lips, drawing your attention away from the blue-eyed beau. His sturdy thighs are a protective shield, enveloping you like a fortress from harm.

As curious fingers tickle your sticky thighs, your lips part with a gasp, allowing Declan to thrust into your warm, wet mouth.

"Jesus Christ, she's soaked." Rupert husks as he softly skims your glistening folds. Your cunt throbs from his unfamiliar touch, coursing a frightening spark of arousal up your spine.

"She's not 'ad much experience." Declan hisses as his crown breaches the tight confines of your throat. Your hand tugs at the thick base that's peppered with dark curls, fingers barely overlapping, pumping in time with his languid thrusts across your tongue.

"You don't say." The Englishman trails off, no doubt thinking of all the crude ways he could defile you.

As you start a slow rhythm, bouncing your head up and down Declan's cock, making the older man unashamedly moan, Rupert swipes his fingers across your seam and gathers all your shiny slick, drawing it up to your clit before lazily circling the tender bud.

Bright lights erupt under your eyelids. Blood rushes south, pooling in your core, heightening your suffocating lust as your body bends to his will.

"Ah ah, Angel." Rupert tsks, grabbing hold of your wriggling hips. His grasp keeps you stock still, unable to evade his voracious touch.

The pads of Declan's fingers press into your scalp as a soft warning. "Be good ta Rupert."

Being pushed and pulled between the two older men was agony of the luscious kind. You only knew of Declan's touch, the succulent highs and lows. The amorous sublime.

A gentle hand glides over your ass before massaging the plump cheek. Your frantic cries are a mumbled mess as you're pushed higher and higher into the pleasurable abyss from Rupert's caress.

He winds two fingers into your core, cursing from your tightness, and splays his dexterous digits along your walls. His thumb lands square on your clit, swiping back and forth with prowess. "So sweet and responsive. Such a good girl." he curls his fingers along your walls, drawing pathetic noises from your chest.

Your body rolls like waves, back and forth between the two men. Rupert's teeth sink into the tender skin of your ass before a gentle tongue soothes the marks and trails down the valley of your cheeks, causing you to choke around Declan's cock.

A wad of spit lands directly on your rosebud just before a wicked tongue ravishes the tight, untouched hole.

Your belly drops at his vulgar touch. No one ever touched you there before. A heavy wave of arousal slips from your cunt as you fight the urgent need for release. Rupert moans hungrily as he laps the rim of your ass.

Your incessant wriggling alerts Declan to Rupert's perverted actions.

"What'd I say, ya daft cunt?" Declan fumes. His mustache twitches as he shoots daggers at the man posed behind you.

Rupert swirls his tongue one final time before leaving your rosebud with a loud pop. "Sorry, chap. I forgot you haven't filled all her holes yet." The tug of his lips says otherwise.

Declan mumbles under his breath and leans back in his chair, focusing on you. "What'a fuckin' sight," he grunts, yanking your tear-coated face off his girth. His large hand completely cups the side of your face, making you feel like a doll with glossy, swollen lips as he stares at you like a man possessed.

Rupert twists his wrist, and your eyes grow wide as saucers. The need to come moves to the forefront of your mind. Declan can tell you're fighting, doing everything you can to hold back as you're slowly dragged to the edge.

Your jaw goes slack, and eyelids flutter; you're willing to endure any repercussions for coming without approval, but then Declan stamps your orgasm out just as quickly as it started.

"No, no, no. Don' be greedy," he tsks, shoving your dumbstruck face back down onto his length.

With Declan's cock stretching your lips and drooling pre cum over your taste buds and Rupert curling his fingers into the spongy spot behind your clit, your nerves scream for release.

The insides of your thighs are soaked, slick from want and a need held so close yet so far away. A soft cry falls from your spit-stained lips as Declan snatches your head off his cock and curves a large hand under your chin, holding you like a precious piece of art.

His opaque orbs sweep across your face, wild and feral; he's on the edge of breaking but holds steady like the stubborn man he is.

"Come on, Declan, let the girl come," Rupert implores to the stoic man holding captive your utmost pleasure.

The corner of Declan's lips tilts. He knows what'll happen. He can see it in your face, how truly gone you are, how nearly close the dam is to breaking.

"Go on, show 'im what he's missin', Swee'heart." Declan encourages, finally allowing you the taste you've wanted all this time.

Your body writhes in their combined hold with unkempt ecstasy as a ravenous cry fills the large study. You come like a geyser, locking like a vice around Rupert's fingers, forcing a curse from his lips as you coat his wrist and trousers with your creamy release.

"Jesus-" Rupert moans, dark and depraved, watching with rabid fascination as your core pulses in time to the beat of his heart.

Declan gathers you into his arms, away from the still man, propping your knees on either side of his thighs. "Sit on the couch and watch," he orders a dumbstruck Rupert before easing you down on his swollen cock.

A whimper catches in your throat from the obscene stretch as his girth widens your channel for the first time that day. Declan grabs your ass and steadily bounces you on his length, helping you rise and fall since your legs have turned to jelly.

"Gone so dumb, ya can' even move," Declan mocks. Coarse whiskers chafe your skin as he nibbles your chin, pouring filthy praises against your jaw, "Still so tight. Maybe two cocks'll do the trick," he drives his girth into your exhausted body. "Wan' your pretty cunt gapin' fa' me."

The seam of his brown sweater grazes your clit on every thrust; the fibers are soft yet overstimulating, your body boils, on the verge of combusting, and there's nothing you can do.  

A low moan catches your attention, dragging you from your frenzied state. As you turn your head to find the strange noise, you see Rupert with his swollen cock in his hand, barely out of his trousers. His cock weeps, the bulbous tip pulsing red, while he sucks your juices off his glistening fingers like a man starved for days.

His animalistic gaze bores into where you and Declan connect. You can imagine how obscene it is. Declan's sticky balls thwap immorally against your ass. Sticky sounds bounce off the walls as he draws more slick from your core, staining the base of his cock in a creamy ring.

Rupert's eyes flit to yours. You silently mouth his name, playing with the man who's used the women of Rutshire like a kid with infinite toys. The subtle action pushes the posh man over the edge.

Biting his knuckles, Rupert spills over his other set with a ragged string of grunts. The image sets off a chain reaction. You follow suit, crying as you come around Declan's cock, and dragging your other half with you. Declan's thick brows furrow, groaning his ecstasy as he fills you with ropes of white.

The three of you gradually come down from the hedonistic scene. Your hearts beat to their natural rhythm as the birds outside sing a dusk setting song.

"T'was lovely to meet you, Angel," Rupert flirts, cleaning his cock with a handkerchief before tucking himself into his trousers. "Hope to see you again real soon."

"Fuck off, Rupert," Declan quips, jutting his chin toward the door.

Rupert sends you a wink before rounding the couch and exits with the fattest smile you've ever seen.

Declan mumbles under his breath and curls his arms around you. He tucks your head under his chin, letting you unwind comfortably before the crackling fire.

"Was that okay, Swee'heart?" Declan's asks with softened eyes.

With a satisfied sigh, you snuggle deeper into his hold, seeking the warmth and protective embrace he can only give. "More than."

feel free to scream at me -> 💌

reblogs & comments are extremely appreciated! follow @ozzieslibrary for new fic updates!

[pbaz7]

ONE SHOT: GRAVITY

paige x azzi

warning: sexual content (lowkey crazy)

word count: 15.6k

A/N: This is lowkey crazy. It wasn’t supposed to be this long but I wanted to follow their prompt fully because they included so many details🥹. This is for whoever asked me to write them in a homoerotic friendship with jealous girlfriends and hella tension. I hope I brought your vision to life 🫶🏼. Also the sexual content is a little crazy just a heads up ✨ it’s what they asked for 😀 Them love reacts better be long because this was rough

—————————————————————————

The first time Paige met Azzi, it was like something in the universe clicked into place. It wasn’t anything dramatic—no lightning bolts or instant sparks between them—but there was a certain ease between them that Paige couldn’t ignore. It was during a Team USA training camp, and while most of the other girls were politely navigating introductions, Paige, in true Paige fashion, latched onto Azzi like they’d known each other forever.

“Alright I guess I’m stuck with you,” Azzi had said after Paige had followed her to nearly every drill, every water break, and even halfway to the locker room. There was a teasing edge to her voice, but the corners of her lips twitched with the beginnings of a smile. A real smile. Not the polite kind she gave to everyone else, but something softer, something that would eventually become just for Paige.

Paige, of course, had grinned wide, completely unbothered by the jab. “Don’t worry you’ll get used to it,” she’d said with a shrug, already acting like they were inseparable. And, as it turned out, they were.

From that moment on, they’d been each other’s shadow. Azzi liked to pretend Paige’s constant attention annoyed her, always throwing in a sarcastic comment or rolling her eyes when Paige got particularly clingy. But anyone who knew Azzi well enough could see the way her expression softened whenever Paige was near. She didn’t just tolerate Paige; she thrived with her around.

Over the years, their friendship grew deeper, more complicated in ways neither of them could have predicted. It wasn’t just the jokes and playful shoves or the way Paige always knew how to make Azzi laugh, even on her worst days. It was the way they existed in each other’s space so naturally, so effortlessly, that it almost felt like breathing and breathing got a little harder when the other one wasn’t around.

At first, the lines they crossed were small, so subtle they could almost pretend they weren’t there. Azzi’s hand lingering a second too long on Paige’s shoulder during a team huddle. The way Paige’s voice softened when she spoke to Azzi, even when she was in full-on competitive mode or yelling two seconds before. Then there were the private moments—stolen late-night conversations where the rest of the world faded away, leaving just the two of them and whatever unspoken thing pulsed between them.

Neither of them addressed it. Why would they? What they had felt perfect as it was. They leaned into it, basked in it, even as it made their exes irritable or filled with discomfort.

“How can you not see it?” one of Paige’s exes demanded once, her voice rising with frustration in the middle of Paige’s room. “The way you two look at each other—it’s like I don’t even exist when she’s around!” Paige had shrugged off the accusation, the same way she always did. She wasn’t about to dissect her relationship with Azzi for anyone, least of all someone who clearly didn’t get it.

Azzi had similar run-ins with her own girlfriends. One had even gone as far as to call Paige a “third wheel,” which made Azzi laugh harder than it probably should have at the idea of Paige being the one who was the third wheel. “Look if you’re insecure,” she’d said coolly, “then maybe this isn’t going to work.” It hadn’t.

Through all the breakups and messy accusations, Paige and Azzi never changed. They stayed in their little bubble, handsy and playful and just a little too intense, but never quite crossing the line. It was safer that way, they told themselves multiple times. Safer to stay in the gray area, where nothing could go wrong and everything stayed perfect.

Except, now, they were older, so things were starting to feel different. Heavier. The looks lasted way too long. The touches lingered with a heat that left both of them feeling uncomfortable.

Now, as juniors at UConn, Paige and Azzi had built something unshakable—at least, unshakable to them. Paige, a red-shirt junior after tearing her ACL the year before, had made her way back to the court with Azzi as her biggest supporter every step of the way. They had been through it all together: the grueling practices, the late-night study sessions, the euphoric wins, the heartbreaking injuries, they have spent almost every memorable moment of their lives by one anothers side. Yet, for some reason neither could articulate—or maybe they just didn’t want to—they refused to fully cross the line and be together.

Which left them here: two college athletes in their 20s, in the best shape of their lives, with years of unresolved tension simmering between them. It was almost comical when Paige thought about it. How many times had she walked into Azzi’s dorm, knowing full well that she wasn’t going to be able to do what she wanted.

Living just a few doors down from each other didn’t help. If anything, it made things worse. Proximity was its own kind of torture. Paige would find herself drunkenly walking past Azzi’s room after a night out clenching her jaw at the thought of knocking.

Whenever the two of them were in the same room, everyone else might as well not exist. It was a phenomenon their teammates had long since grown used to, though it still sparked the occasional teasing when one of them was being unreasonably jealous. At parties, team meetings, or even casual hangouts, Paige and Azzi had this way of orbiting each other. Sometimes it was as simple as the way Paige would lean in close when Azzi spoke, her eyes fixed on Azzi’s lips the entire time. Other times, it was the way Azzi’s hand would find Paige’s arm, her fingers wrapping around her bicep as if it was her right to do so.

Their teammates noticed. Their friends noticed. And, of course, their girlfriends noticed.

It was a source of constant arguments for both of them. Paige’s girlfriend, frustrated and teetering on the edge of insecurity, had confronted her more than once. “Why do you even need me if you have her?” she’d snapped during one particularly heated fight. Paige had stared at her, dumbfounded, because what was she supposed to say? What did she expect her to say? That she didn’t need Azzi? That she could go a day without thinking about her, texting her, missing her when she wasn’t around?

“You’re overreacting,” Paige said, her voice clipped. “Azzi’s my best friend. I’m not about to change how I am with her because you don’t like it.”

Azzi’s girlfriend expressed similar frustrations, accusing her of being “too close” to Paige, of crossing lines that no one else seemed to get away with. Azzi had brushed it off just as easily as Paige had, if not easier. “If you can’t handle me having a best friend, then maybe I’m not the type of girl you’re looking for,” she’d said coolly, shutting the conversation down before it could spiral.

And so the cycle continued. Arguments, tension, half-hearted apologies, and a refusal to change. Because the truth was, Paige and Azzi didn’t see anything wrong with the way they were. To them, it was just how they worked. How they had always worked. They weren’t going to apologize for it.

But deep down, they both knew it wasn’t that simple. It wasn’t simple at all really. They were completely in love with one another.

For now, though, they kept pretending. Pretending that their girlfriends’ constant jealousy didn’t irritate them. Pretending that their late-night conversations and far too intimate inanimate behavior was completely innocent. Pretending that they weren’t both standing on the edge of a bridge waiting for something inevitable to plunge them into freezing water.

Because once they jumped, there would be no going back, no pretending it didn’t exist anymore. And maybe—just maybe—that’s exactly what they were afraid of.

The dorm common room was lively with chatter and the soft clinking of LEGO pieces filling the air as KK, Ice, and Jana sat at the table, deeply engrossed in their latest construction project. Paige, however, was sprawled on the couch, absentmindedly scrolling on her phone. Her girlfriend, Kehlani, sat beside her, the two of them technically together but clearly existing in separate worlds at the moment. Kehlani had been trying, unsuccessfully, to get Paige’s attention for the last 15 minutes, only to give up and return to her own phone in silent frustration when Paige was incessant that she was doing something important.

The atmosphere shifted the moment Azzi walked in. Dressed in her usual athletic wear and exuding her effortless confidence, she greeted the group at the table saying casually, “What are y’all building now?” KK mumbled something about a Star Wars set, but Azzi was already moving past them, her attention zeroing in on the couch—and on Paige.

“Hey,” Azzi said with a grin, walking straight up to them as if Kehlani wasn’t even there. Without hesitation, she plopped down on the couch, her movements familiar. In one smooth motion, she grabbed Paige’s knee, parting them just enough to slide her own legs in between, draping them comfortably across Paige’s lap.

Kehlani looked up from her phone, her eyebrows furrowing as she watched the scene unfold. But she didn’t say anything. This was tame compared to some of the things she’s witnessed.

Paige, on the other hand, chuckled softly, locking her phone and setting it aside. “Hello to you too,” she said, her tone teasing.

Azzi grinned, leaning back against the arm of the couch. “I missed you,” she said casually, her eyes locking with Paige’s. “I haven’t seen you all day.”

Paige’s focus was now fully on Azzi, something Kehlani had been desperately trying to achieve. “You’re the one who’s been busy,” Paige shot back with a playful smirk, her hand sliding over Azzi’s leg as she adjusted it, pulling it more securely into her lap. The movement was instinctive, practiced—like they’d done this a hundred times before.

Kehlani’s grip on her phone tightened. She glanced between them, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Do you need me to move over?” she asked, her tone sharper than she intended.

Paige blinked, as if remembering for the first time that Kehlani was even there. “Huh? Nah, you’re fine,” she said quickly, brushing off the question. Her hand, however, didn’t move from Azzi’s leg.

Azzi leaned her head back against the couch, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “You’re being dramatic, Paige,” she teased, ignoring Kehlani entirely and going back to their original conversation. “I wasn’t even that busy today.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Paige quipped, her fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on Azzi’s shin.

From the table, Ice shot KK a knowing look, raising an eyebrow as if to say here we go again. KK stifled a laugh, shaking her head as she turned back to the LEGO set. They’d seen this dynamic play out too many times to be surprised anymore.

Kehlani, however, was visibly uncomfortable, shifting in her seat and staring at the two of them like she was waiting for something—anything—to break the tension. But nothing ever did. Everyone knew this was just how they were. What no one could quite figure out, though, was why either of their “girlfriends” put up with it.

It wasn’t like Paige or Azzi had ever pretended their relationships were sacred. In fact, both had made it crystal clear on more than one occasion that they wouldn’t hesitate to walk away and that this was just something casual for when they were in season. “If you don’t like how we are, we can end it,” Paige had once said, almost nonchalantly, during a heated argument. Azzi wasn’t any different, offering Kali a similar, “You really don’t have to stay.”

But for whatever reason—whether it was the allure of dating two of UConn’s biggest stars or simply the hope that things might change—Kehlani and Kali stayed around. They endured. They tolerated. Even when moments like this made it painfully clear they were never going to be anything more than someone to turn to here and there when the tension became too uncomfortable to sit with.

Paige licked her lips absently, lifting her hips slightly to adjust Azzi’s legs again, which were still draped over her lap like they belonged there. Her hand gave an idle squeeze to Azzi’s calf before she glanced up. “You busy tonight?” she asked casually, her attention fixed entirely on Azzi.

Azzi tilted her head, her brown eyes drifting down to Paige’s hand on her leg. “Why?” she asked, her voice laced with flirtation.

Paige smirked. “Whatchu mean ‘why?’” she shot back, leaning into the word with a playful edge.

“Why are you asking me if I’m busy tonight?” Azzi pressed, a smile on her face, clearly enjoying the banter.

Paige rolled her eyes, leaning back against the couch. “I’m tryna come over,” she said simply. “Maybe watch a movie or something.”

Azzi chuckled softly, like she knew exactly where this was going. “You fall asleep every time,” she pointed out, her gaze flicking back up to Paige’s.

“Probably because you always pick boring-ass movies,” Paige said, a huge smile on her face.

Azzi’s laughter followed quickly. “You picked the last movie,” she countered, her voice full of mock indignation.

Their back-and-forth was so effortless, so locked into their own little world, that it took Kehlani a moment to realize they’d completely forgotten she was even sitting there. But she hadn’t forgotten. Not for a second.

“What if I want to hang out with Paige tonight?” Kehlani interjected suddenly, her voice cutting through the conversation.

Azzi froze, but only for a moment, her expression unreadable as she leaned back and waited for Paige’s response. She didn’t need to say anything—she already knew Paige would.

Paige turned her head, finally acknowledging Kehlani for the first time fully since Azzi had walked in. “Come on,” she said, her tone light, almost dismissive. “You’ve been with me all day. We can just hang out tomorrow.”

Kehlani’s mouth opened slightly, her brow furrowing as she processed the casualness of it all—the way Paige said it like it was obvious, like it wasn’t even up for debate.

Kehlani’s voice was sharper now, her frustration rising. “What if I don’t want to hang out tomorrow?”

Paige shrugged, unfazed. “Then we’ll hang out the next day.” Her tone was calm, almost too calm, as if she couldn’t understand why Kehlani was making this a bigger deal than it needed to be.

For some reason, that made it worse. Kehlani’s frustration boiled over, her voice rising just enough to catch the attention of KK and Ice at the table. “You don’t get it, do you? This isn’t just about hanging out, Paige!”

Paige exhaled, visibly trying to keep her cool as she leaned back against the couch, her hand still casually draped over Azzi’s leg. “Look, I’m not about to argue with you in front of everybody right now,” she said evenly.

Kehlani crossed her arms, leaning forward slightly. “What? You embarrassed?”

Paige let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head as if the question was almost laughable. Her hands remained where they were—comfortable, unbothered, still casually resting on Azzi, who hadn’t even looked up from her phone since the interruption. “No,” Paige said. “I’m just not about to argue with you right now.”

But Kehlani wasn’t backing down, she never did, her voice rising again as she tried to provoke Paige like always. “Right, because Azzi’s here. You don’t want to look bad in front of her, huh?”

Paige’s eyes flicked to her briefly before she shook her head again, her voice calm. “Come on, don’t make me do this to you in front of everybody.”

Her words, said so casually yet so definitively, made Kehlani’s face flush with a mix of anger and humiliation. KK, Ice and Jana exchanged awkward glances, clearly trying to stay out of it but they were struggling to hold in their giggles.

Azzi, still scrolling on her phone, finally shifted slightly, glancing between the two of them before giving Paige a subtle nudge with her foot, like she was silently telling her to chill. Paige glanced at her, the smallest smile tugging at the corner of her lips before she turned back to Kehlani.

“You good?” Paige asked simply, her voice a little softer. It wasn’t a question that invited a real argument—it was a question that implied this conversation was over.

Kehlani’s lips pressed into a line as she sat back, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. She didn’t say anything else, but the tension in the room was thick, her frustration hanging heavy in the air.

Azzi shifted slightly in Paige’s lap, breaking the silence with a small sigh as she finally spoke. “Y’all good? Or can we go back to pretending this isn’t super awkward?”

KK, Ice, and Jana’s laughter finally filled the room as Paige and Azzi went back to their conversation.

“Alright so, what’s the move?” Paige asked, her voice low as she shifted slightly, her arm still resting over Azzi’s leg. “Your room or mine?”

Azzi smiled, tilting her head as her eyes dropped to Paige’s hand absentmindedly tracing patterns against her skin. “Mine. Obviously.”

“Obviously? Az bro, please. My bed is bigger. Way more comfortable.”

Azzi’s lips quirked. “Your bed’s overrated and I can never wake up on time in there with those black out curtains.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “One my bed isn’t overrated and you know it. Two, I can't handle your non-existent curtains. It wakes me up too early.”

“I know you can’t handle it,” Azzi teased, her smirk growing. “You whine about it every single time. It’s cute, though—makes me think you just like finding reasons to stay.”

The room seemed to grow smaller at that, the air between them growing a little tense. Paige’s laugh came a little too late, her fingers tightening slightly around Azzi’s leg. “Don’t flatter yourself. I stay for the snacks.”

Azzi tilted her head, her gaze flickering to Paige’s lips before settling back on her eyes. “You sure about that?” she asked, her voice dipping lower.

Paige held her gaze, her smirk faltering for a split second as her tongue darted out to wet her lips. “Pretty sure. You don’t have anything else I want.”

Azzi leaned closer, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’ve always been such a bad liar Paige.”

Across the room, Jana stilled mid-motion, her hand hovering over a Lego piece as her eyes darted to the two of them. KK and Ice exchanged a look, KK mouthing a silent “Yikes” before turning back to their project.

“You’re ridiculous,” Paige said, shaking her head with a soft laugh, but the way her fingers brushed over Azzi’s leg a little higher betrayed her.

“Ridiculous enough to keep you coming back,” Azzi shot back.

Paige opened her mouth to respond, but her breath hitched when Azzi added, “But I get it—you gotta keep up appearances. We’ll see later.”

Paige’s jaw tightened, her laugh coming out strained. “Yeah we’ll see later.”

That was the moment Kehlani finally broke, the tension in her chest snapping. She stood abruptly, her phone clutched tightly in her hand.

Paige barely looked up, still holding Azzi’s gaze. “You good?”

Kehlani let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, I’m great. Just remembered I’ve got somewhere else to be.”

Azzi finally turned her head, raising an eyebrow as she glanced at Kehlani. “You sure?”

Kehlani ignored the comment, grabbing her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. “Have fun tonight Paige. Looks like you already are.”

Paige’s smirk faded as she watched Kehlani walk out, the door slamming harder than it needed to. For a moment, the room was quiet, save for the faint sound of KK, Ice and Jana pretending to be preoccupied with their Legos.

Azzi broke the silence, her voice light. “Think she’s mad at me?”

Paige chuckles, leaning back against the couch. “She’s mad at me,” she muttered, though her hand stayed firmly on Azzi’s leg.

“Can’t blame her,” Azzi said softly, her eyes locking with Paige’s again. “I’d be mad too if I had to watch this.”

Paige’s breath caught, her fingers flexing against Azzi’s skin before she forced herself to look away, her jaw clenching so tightly it ached.

Jana raised her eyebrows, fully catching the moment and glancing toward KK and Ice like, Are we really going to pretend we didn’t hear that? But Ice just shook her head, mouthing, Let it go.

Paige finally exhaled, her voice low as she tried to steer the conversation back. “So…whose room is it gonna be?”

Azzi’s grin returned. “Yours,” she said. “But only because you’re such a baby about my blinds and I’m being nice.”

Paige huffed out a laugh, holding out her hand to Azzi. “Let’s go before you say something else that gets me in trouble.”

Azzi took her hand, standing up and leaning just close enough to murmur, “Maybe I can do something this time instead.”

…

The glow of the TV screen cast a faint light across Paige's room, illuminating the two of them as they lay side by side on her bed. The random movie playing in the background barely registered to either of them, its plotline easily forgotten beneath the quiet hum of tension that seemed to follow them everywhere.

Paige had ditched her hoodie the moment they got comfortable, leaving her in a fitted black tank top that clung to her toned frame and a pair of loose gray sweats that hung on her hips. Azzi, meanwhile, had claimed one of Paige’s XL hoodies she stole from the storage closet—navy blue with "UConn" printed across the chest—and it practically swallowed her, the hoodie just long enough to hide her pajama shorts underneath.

For a while, they sat in relative silence, their occasional comments about the movie mixed in with quiet chuckles.

Paige adjusted her position, shifting slightly to lean back against her headboard. Her hands slid behind her head, fingers lacing together as she let out a content sigh. The movement caused the hem of her tank top to ride up, revealing a strip of skin just above the waistband of her sweats.

Azzi’s gaze flicked downward, the motion unintentional at first—but once her eyes landed on the exposed skin, they lingered. The way Paige’s muscles shifted with each breath was almost hypnotic.

Without fully thinking about it, Azzi reached out, her fingers brushing lightly over the bare skin.

Paige’s head tilted down, her brow lifting as her eyes met Azzi’s. “What are you doing?” she asked softly, her tone somewhere between amused and curious.

Azzi didn’t stop, her fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns along the line of Paige’s stomach. Her touch was featherlight, sending a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “What does it look like I’m doing?” she replied.

Paige shifted slightly, her stomach tensing under Azzi’s touch. “Looks like you’re trying to distract me.”

“Distract you from what?” Azzi asked, a smile forming on her face. Her eyes flicked up to Paige’s, the challenge clear in them.

Paige exhaled, a small, breathy laugh escaping her lips. “From this terrible movie you picked.”

Azzi snorted softly, her fingers still moving in slow circles. “You picked the movie,” she corrected.

“Well, you didn’t stop me,” Paige countered, her voice soft but strained as she shifted again, her arms dropping to her sides. Her hand moved instinctively, fingers lightly wrapping around Azzi’s wrist to still her movements.

Azzi’s smile deepened, her thumb now brushing deliberately against Paige’s skin. “You gonna stop me?” she asked, her voice dipping lower, the question feeling heavier than it should have.

Paige stared at her, the air between them growing impossibly thick. “Should I?” she asked back, her voice quiet, almost a whisper.

For a moment, neither of them moved, the only sound in the room being the faint dialogue from the forgotten movie. Azzi’s fingers stilled against Paige’s stomach, but she didn’t pull away, her gaze locked on Paige’s like she was daring her to make the next move.

Paige’s jaw tightened slightly. “You’re gonna start something we can’t finish,” she murmured.

Azzi didn’t respond right away, but the glint in her eyes said more than words ever could. Instead, she moved, her weight shifting as she climbed on top of Paige, settling herself comfortably in her lap. She straddled Paige’s waist effortlessly, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of her.

Paige didn't even react. So used to having Azzi on her like this but this time her eyes narrowed slightly in curiosity when Azzi grabbed the loose string of Paige’s sweatpants.

Azzi’s fingers toyed with the string lazily, looping it around her finger as if she had all the time in the world. Her expression was calm but her eyes burned with unspoken intent. “Who says we can’t finish it?” she finally said, her voice low, almost a purr.

Paige let out a breathless laugh, her gaze locked on Azzi’s. “You’re bold tonight,” she said, though the small smile tugging at her lips betrayed any attempt at sounding unaffected.

Azzi just smirked, her head tilting slightly. “I’ve always been bold,” she said, her hands still playing with the string.

Before she could push it further, Paige’s hands came up, wrapping around Azzi’s wrists firmly but gently to get her to stop. Her fingers slipped between Azzi’s, interlacing them as she guided their hands away from her waist. Paige looked up at her, the smile on her face soft but her grip strong.

“You’re gonna get us in trouble,” Paige murmured, her voice strained. She didn’t look away, her thumbs absentmindedly brushing against Azzi’s knuckles.

Azzi leaned in closer, their faces now only inches apart. “Trouble?” she repeated, her breath warm against Paige’s skin. “I think you like trouble.”

Paige’s smile widened slightly, her eyes dropping to Azzi’s lips for the briefest of moments before flicking back up. “Maybe,” she admitted, her voice low. “But not when it comes to you.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow, her smirk growing. “Especially when it comes to me.” she challenged back, her fingers tightening around Paige’s in response.

Paige didn’t answer immediately, her gaze searching Azzi’s face like she was trying to decide how far to let this go. Eventually, she exhaled sharply, shaking her head with a laugh. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” she said softly.

Azzi smiled, leaning back slightly but not moving from her spot. “Good thing I’ll make it worth it,” she replied.

Paige’s brow lifted at that, her lips curling into a grin. “Oh yeah? How you gonna make it worth it?”

Azzi leaned forward again, closing the gap between them just enough for her voice to drop. “That depends,” she said, her gaze locked on Paige’s. “What do you like?”

Paige blinked slowly, her smirk fading as her expression grew more serious. Her eyes searched Azzi’s, studying her, trying to gauge just how far Azzi was willing to take this tonight. The air between them was too thick, and for a moment, Paige almost didn’t answer. But then she sat up slightly, her confidence returning as she spoke.

“I like being in control,” she said simply.

Azzi’s head tilted at this, her lips curving into an intrigued smile. “Yeah?” she asked, her voice soft, almost coaxing.

Paige just nodded, her jaw tightening at Azzi’s tone as she kept her eyes on the curly haired girl, daring her to react.

Azzi hummed thoughtfully, her smile growing as she shifted her weight, pressing down just slightly to remind Paige of the position she was in. “What kind of control?” Azzi asked, her tone full of curiosity.

Paige let her head fall back slightly, her tongue running across her bottom lip before she looked up at Azzi through her lashes. “All of it,” she replied.

Azzi exhaled a short laugh, her eyes flickering with interest. “All of it,” she repeated, as if testing the words on her tongue. She leaned in closer, her lips just barely brushing the shell of Paige’s ear as she spoke. “What if I told you I like being submissive P?”

Paige’s brows raised slightly in surprise, her hands instinctively tightening their grip on Azzi’s. “Do you now?” she asked, her voice filled with curiosity but tinged with amusement.

Azzi pulled back just enough to look Paige in the eyes, her gaze steady. “I do,” she admitted, her voice softer now but still filled with confidence. “But no one’s ever been able to make me submit before.”

Paige’s fingers twitched where they were still holding Azzi’s hands, the slight movement enough to catch Azzi’s attention. Azzi glanced down at their joined hands, a small smile playing on her lips as she lifted them and guided Paige’s hands under her hoodie, placing them firmly on her waist.

The warmth of Azzi’s skin under her palms sent a jolt through Paige, her jaw tightening almost involuntarily. She shifted her hips beneath Azzi, trying to find some semblance of restraint, but the pressure between them only heightened the tension in the room. Their eyes locked, the silence between them speaking volumes as neither of them looked away.

Paige, unable to hold back any longer, tugged Azzi closer by the front of her hoodie, the sudden movement leaving no space between them. Azzi’s lips parted slightly, her eyes flickering with something playful as she whispered, “You want me.”

It wasn’t a question—it was a fact, delivered in that same confident tone Azzi always carried.

Paige chuckled softly, the sound low and rough, her grip tightening on Azzi’s waist. “No, I don’t,” she replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Azzi raised a brow at her, the corners of her lips curling into a smirk. “Right,” she said. “And the sky isn’t blue.”

Paige’s smirk widened as she tilted her head, leaning in slightly, their faces barely inches apart. “You want me,” she countered, her eyes boring into Azzi’s.

Azzi let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “I don’t,” she denied, though her voice betrayed her, softer and less certain than it should’ve been if there was any truth to the words.

Paige’s gaze dropped to Azzi’s lips for a fleeting second before returning to her eyes. “Liar,” she murmured, her hands sliding ever so slightly higher under Azzi’s hoodie, her fingers pressing gently against her ribs.

Azzi swallowed, her breath getting stuck for a moment before she forced herself to smirk again. “Prove it,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, the challenge clear in her tone.

Paige considered Azzi’s words for a moment, her eyes flicking between Azzi’s lips and the playful glint in her eyes. “We’ll get in trouble if I do,” Paige said.

Azzi tilted her head, her smile never falling as she leaned down. She stretched out over Paige’s chest, her weight settling comfortably as if she belonged there. Her lips hovered near Paige’s neck now, close enough that Paige could feel the faint brush of her breath.

Azzi didn’t say anything. She just lingered there, her nose grazing the edge of Paige’s jaw as she breathed her in, taking her time like she had all the patience in the world. The warmth of her closeness, the soft scent of her, was enough to send Paige’s pulse racing, her heart pounding so loudly she knew Azzi could feel it.

Neither of them spoke. The silence between them was heavy, but not uncomfortable—an unspoken understanding settling in the air that they went far enough today. Paige’s hands, still resting under Azzi’s hoodie, started to move, her fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns along the curve of Azzi’s ribs. The light pressure of her touch seemed to ground them both, though Paige’s own heart was far from calm.

Azzi sighed softly, her breath warm against Paige’s neck as she nestled closer, her face burying deeper into the curve of Paige’s neck. Her weight was warm and familiar, her presence something that felt so natural.

The movie played on in the background, long forgotten. The screen’s flickering light painted their quiet moment in soft, shifting shadows, but neither of them noticed. Azzi’s breathing began to slow, her body relaxing fully against Paige’s.

Paige, too, felt herself drifting, the tension she always carried melting away as Azzi pressed into her. Her fingers still moved lightly against Azzi’s ribs, though her motions became lazier, slower, until they stopped altogether.

And just like that, they fell asleep.

…

The sharp flick of the light switch broke the quiet of the morning, alternating between brightness and darkness like a strobe. Paige groaned in protest, her face scrunching up against the sudden intrusion. With a low grumble, she shifted, her arms wrapping tighter around Azzi, who was still lying across her.

Without fully opening her eyes, Paige let out a frustrated huff and shifted their positions, rolling them over so that she was sprawled on top of Azzi. She buried her face in Azzi’s neck now, trying to shield herself from the offensive light.

“Seriously, Isuneh?” Paige muttered, her voice muffled and rough with sleep.

Azzi stirred beneath her, blinking awake slowly at the movement and the flickering light. She shifted, her hands lightly resting on Paige’s back. “What’s going on?” Azzi mumbled, her voice groggy.

Ice leaned casually against the doorframe, a smirk on her face as she flipped the light switch again. “Paige, Kehlani’s here,” she said. “Figured I’d spare you the argument today and come wake you up before I let her in.”

Paige groaned louder at this, her forehead pressing deeper into Azzi’s shoulder. “Turn it off. I don’t care,” she grumbled, her words barely audible.

Azzi’s lips quirked into a sleepy smile, her hand brushing lightly against Paige’s side. “Paige…” she said softly, trying to coax her.

When Ice flicked the light switch one more time for good measure, Paige let out another groan of annoyance, her fingers digging lightly into Azzi’s waist. “You’re dead to me,” she muttered toward Ice, though her face remained firmly hidden.

Azzi chuckled, now fully awake, her hand lazily tracing patterns along Paige’s back. She lifted her head slightly to glance at Ice. “I got it,” she said, her voice still soft and groggy. “Just give me five minutes.”

Ice raised a brow at the scene, the sight of Paige practically plastered to Azzi’s chest. But she said nothing, instead letting out a small laugh as she locked the door before shutting it behind her.

Azzi sighed, leaning her head back against the pillow. She reached for her phone on the nightstand, squinting at the screen. It was still early—way too early for any of this.

“Paige,” Azzi murmured, glancing down at the girl now sprawled across her. Paige didn’t respond, her body still dead weight against Azzi’s as if she had every intention of going back to sleep.

“We’ve got time,” Azzi said gently, her hand sliding up and down Paige’s spine. “Practice isn’t for another hour and a half.”

Paige shifted slightly, her arm tightening around Azzi’s waist as she mumbled something incoherent.

Azzi smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair from Paige’s face. “Go back to sleep grumpy,” she murmured, her voice calm.

Paige grumbled again, adjusting herself one last time, her breath evening out as she settled back into Azzi.

Azzi let her head fall back against the pillow, her fingers continuing to trace lazy patterns along Paige’s back. The warmth of their closeness and the quiet rhythm of Paige’s breathing lulled them both into an easy calm. Just as Azzi predicted, after about five minutes, Paige’s breathing evened out, signaling she’d fallen asleep again.

Azzi sighed softly, glancing down at the girl draped across her. Moving from under Paige without waking her was easier said than done. Every time Azzi shifted even slightly, Paige’s fingers instinctively grabbed at her, like she was tethered to her.

“Of course,” Azzi muttered under her breath, stifling a small laugh.

Finally, with painstaking slowness, Azzi managed to slide from under Paige and get up without disturbing her. She lingered for a moment, her gaze softening as she adjusted the blanket over Paige before grabbing her phone off the desk. Moving quietly, she slipped out of the room and shut the door gently behind her.

The sight in the living room made her stifle a laugh. Ice was leaning over the kitchen counter, her chin propped on her hand, clearly half-asleep. It didn’t take a genius to figure out she was only still awake to keep Kehlani from trying to go in the room.

Azzi chuckled, padding over to the counter. “Ice, go back to bed,” she said softly, her tone more amused than anything.

Ice blinked up at her, barely awake. “Oh my god I love you,” she mumbled before trudging off to her room, shutting the door behind her with a lazy swing.

Azzi turned toward the couch, where Kehlani was sitting, her arms crossed as she glanced up at Azzi. Her eyes flickered over Azzi’s frame—the oversized hoodie clearly belonging to Paige, paired with her pajama shorts just barely visible underneath.

Azzi walked toward the door, her steps casual. “You should let her sleep,” she said simply. “We’ve got practice later, and we’re traveling for a game tomorrow. She needs the extra rest.”

Her comment was purely practical, as always—Azzi thinking about Paige’s well-being like she always did. But Kehlani’s expression shifted, the neutrality of her gaze hardening slightly.

“I think I know what my girlfriend needs,” Kehlani said, her tone sharp.

Azzi stopped mid-step, turning slowly to face her. She didn’t say anything at first, just blinked at Kehlani blankly, her expression unreadable.

Kehlani’s posture stiffened, and the silence between them stretched for a moment too long.

Azzi tilted her head slightly, her calm demeanor never faltering. “If you say so,” she finally said, her voice almost dismissive. Then, without waiting for a response, she turned back toward the door.

The tension in the air was unmistakable, but Azzi had no intention of indulging Kehlani’s obvious irritation. Instead, she opened the door quietly and stepped into the hallway, leaving Kehlani sitting there, stewing in her own thoughts.

Azzi sighed as she opened the door to her room, only to freeze when she saw Kali sitting on the edge of her bed, arms crossed and her expression carefully neutral. It wasn’t unusual for Kali to speak her mind, but this was unexpected. Kali wasn’t like Kehlani—clingy and almost possessive. She had her own life and usually didn’t hover. So to find her waiting here now surprised Azzi.

“Hey,” Azzi greeted casually, recovering quickly as she walked toward the bed. She was determined to get at least 30 more minutes of sleep before practice.

Kali didn’t respond right away, just followed Azzi with her eyes as she flopped face-first onto the bed, mumbling into the sheets, “What’s up?”

“Where were you?” Kali asked, her voice calm.

“Fell asleep in Paige’s room watching a movie,” Azzi mumbled, barely lifting her head.

Kali’s tone didn’t change, but her next words were deliberate. “Kehlani texted me at a god forsaken hour. Said I should come ask you about it. Any idea why?”

Azzi let out a short laugh, turning her head just enough to glance at Kali. “I have no idea why that girl does anything she does.”

Kali tilted her head slightly, her expression sharp but not angry. “She thinks there’s something going on between you and Paige. And you know I agree with her.”

Azzi groaned, burying her face back into the pillow. So much for sleep. She pushed herself up on one elbow, her eyes meeting Kali’s. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you—me and Paige aren’t fucking.”

Technically, Azzi wasn’t lying. She and Paige had never had sex. Sure, there was that one truth-or-dare kiss her freshman year, followed by a couple of hazy, alcohol-fueled kisses later that night. But that was years ago, and nothing had happened since then. So when she said it, she meant it.

Kali, however, didn’t seem convinced. “Then why can’t you two back off each other a little? Ease our minds.”

Azzi sighed, sitting up fully now, as she regarded Kali with a steady gaze. “I’m not going to stop being close with Paige,” she said, her tone softening slightly. “Because that’s part of who I am. If that’s a problem, I get it. But I’m not changing that.”

Kali’s expression hardened slightly, her arms crossing over her chest. “How are you ever going to have anything serious with someone if you refuse to change the way you two are together?”

Azzi shrugged. “I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.”

What Azzi didn’t say, though, was the truth buried deep in her chest—the truth she never admitted to anyone. She already knew where she’d end up. She knew Paige was the one she’d eventually take seriously. They both knew it, even if they didn’t say it out loud. That was the plan: give themselves time. Time to be young, to experience other people, to live a little before stepping into something that would consume them both.

But Azzi was certain. It would always be Paige.

Kali sighed. “When you said casual girlfriends, you meant it, huh?”

Azzi leaned back against the headboard, her lips quirking up slightly as she hummed in response, offering no further explanation.

Kali got the hint. She stood, smoothing her shirt and offering Azzi a small smile. “Alright. Well, I’ll let you get some sleep.”

“Thanks,” Azzi murmured, already sliding back down under the covers. “I’ll text you later.”

Kali nodded and let herself out, the door clicking shut softly behind her.

Azzi exhaled deeply, staring up at the ceiling for a moment before letting her eyes drift shut.

…

Things like that continued for a while—Paige and Azzi, stuck in each other’s orbit, getting closer with every passing day. Each interaction carried a little more weight, a little more intensity, and each time, it was harder for one of them to back away. Their words were more suggestive now, even in front of others. The team had noticed too, making bets on when the two would finally stop dancing around each other. They’d dubbed it “the finish line,” one night and no one believed it was far off.

Right now, though, Paige, Ice, KK, and Kehlani were crammed in Paige’s car, parked in the lot outside of Crumbl. The car smelled like cookies and laughter filled the small space as they did a “review” of the new flavors on Ice’s TikTok Live.

Ice sat up front next to Paige, her sore knee propped up as she balanced a cookie box on her lap. Kehlani and KK shared the backseat, KK practically bouncing with excitement as she waved around a piece of the new S’mores flavor.

“Ya’ll, this one is insane,” KK yelled, breaking off a piece and leaning forward to shove it toward Paige’s face. “P boogers you gotta try this!”

Paige chuckled, keeping one hand on the wheel even though the car wasn’t moving. “KK, I’m driving. Can you not?”

Ice glanced at her and snorted. “First of all, you’re parked. Plus, the comments are saying you need to give your official take.”

Paige groaned, finally turning toward KK and taking the piece of cookie with an exaggerated eye roll. “Fine. Gimme.”

KK grinned victoriously and leaned forward, scrolling through the TikTok comments. “They’re saying the S’mores one is the best so far, but someone just called the Churro flavor a ‘sleeper hit.’ Thoughts?”

Paige chewed thoughtfully before swallowing. “Okay, yeah, S’mores is cool, but I’m team Churro on this one.”

As Paige finished her sentence, KK’s eyes widened as she leaned toward Ice’s phone. “Azzi’s in the chat!”

Ice immediately perked up, glancing at her phone screen and smirking. “Azzi! Boo! Why didn’t you come with us?” she said, dragging out the words in mock disappointment.

“Lame,” KK added, her voice loud and dramatic. “BOOOOO!”

Paige chuckled, shaking her head. “Yeah, you’re boring, Az. Can’t even show up for cookies?”

Kehlani stayed quiet in the backseat, but her eyes flicked toward Paige, noting the way her tone softened just slightly when she said Azzi’s name.

A moment later, a new comment popped up on the live. Azzi’s verification checkmark made her words stand out, and Ice read them out loud: “I’m not boring, Paige.”

Paige laughed, her eyes lighting up as she leaned closer to Ice’s phone. “Sure you’re not. What’re you doing right now, then?”

KK nudged Ice whispering. “She really out here having a one-on-one convo like the rest of us don’t exist.”

Ice snorted, but Paige ignored them, waiting for Azzi’s next reply. It didn’t take long.

“Just laying down,” Azzi wrote in the chat.

Paige grinned, shaking her head. “See? BORING. What’d I say?”

Another comment quickly popped up: “I’m recovering from practice, Paige. Some of us are human and don’t have unlimited energy.”

“Excuses,” Paige shot back, laughing. “I think you just wanted to miss out on all the good cookies. KK, pass me the Snickerdoodle.”

KK handed Paige the cookie but pointed dramatically at the screen. “Azzi, if you’re seeing this, they’re roasting you in the comments, too. One of them just said, ‘Azzi’s too cool to eat cookies with them.”

Paige tilted her head, reading another comment that Azzi wrote. “I’m not too cool for cookies. But Paige never saves me any, so why bother?”

The live erupted in “oohs” from the chat, and Paige’s jaw dropped. “First of all, I always save you something.”

Azzi’s response popped up almost immediately. “Lies. Where’s my cookie, then?”

Paige rolled her eyes, smirking. “I’ll bring you a cookie later. You’re lucky I’m nice.”

“Only to me,” Azzi wrote.

Ice and KK exchanged a knowing look, both laughing under their breath. Ice leaned forward, resting her elbow on the center console. “Yo, she’s bold for that one.”

KK smirked. “I think they forget this isn’t a private conversation.”

Meanwhile, Kehlani had fully reclined in her seat, scrolling through her phone and making no attempt to engage.

Paige read the comment aloud, her smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “That’s ‘cause you are my favorite person, Az.” Her voice carried that teasing, flirty tone she didn’t bother hiding anymore.

The live chat immediately blew up:

“PAIGE WHAT?!”

“She really said it!”

“This is the content we needed!”

Azzi’s response came almost instantly. “Your favorite person? Then why am I at home while you’re out eating cookies without me?”

Paige laughed, breaking off a piece of the S’mores cookie. “This is for you, Azzi. See?” She held it up to Ice’s phone, angling the camera toward it. “Consider yourself taken care of now.”

KK leaned in dramatically, her mouth hovering near the cookie. “I’m about to eat this for her since she didn’t show up.”

Azzi’s reply was short and direct: “KK, touch it and see what happens.”

Ice practically wheezed, clutching her chest. “Not her threatening people in the live chat.”

Paige tilted her head at the camera, grinning as she scrolled to Azzi’s next message before responding out loud. “Then what do you call this?”

Azzi popped back into the chat: “It’s called keeping people in line for you. You’re welcome.”

Paige shook her head, laughing softly. “See, that’s why you’re my favorite.” Her voice dipped slightly, playful but with an undertone that made KK and Ice share another quick glance.

Azzi replied almost immediately: “Say it louder for the people in the back.” The double not lost on Paige.

Paige leaned a little closer to the camera, her grin widening. “Azzi’s my favorite,” she said, dragging out the words in a teasing tone. “Happy now?”

KK threw her hands up. “Alright, we get it! Paige is Azzi’s biggest fan. Moving on…”

But Paige wasn’t done, and neither was Azzi. The next message from Azzi caught Paige off guard: “You should tell me how much you like me later. Maybe in detail.”

Paige’s eyes flicked down at the screen, her lips twitching as she fought back a smile. “Oh, you want details now?” she said, leaning into the moment. “Like what? Should I write it all down for you?”

Ice and KK immediately burst into laughter, KK pointing at the screen. “Bro, Azzi’s got you blushing on live. This going to be everywhere.”

Paige ignored them, her attention locked on the next comment Azzi sent: “I don’t need it written down. You can just show me.”

Her breath hitched for a moment, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from fully smiling. “Az, we’re on live. Not FaceTime. Chill.”

The chat went into full chaos mode:

“SHOW HER WHAT???”

“Azzi please, we can’t take this!”

“Paige is GONE.”

KK was practically in tears now.

Paige groaned dramatically, finally tearing her eyes away from the screen. “Azzi, I swear. You’re banned from the next live. You’re worse than Ice.”

Azzi’s last comment appeared on the screen: “You love it.”

Paige chuckled, running a hand through her hair. “Alright, next cookie,” she announced, trying to change the subject. But her cheeks were still tinged pink, and the chat wasn’t letting it go anytime soon.

Paige chuckled, running a hand through her hair. “Alright, next cookie,” she announced, trying to change the subject. But her cheeks were still tinged pink, and it didn’t go unnoticed.

Azzi popped back up in the chat: “You’re cute when you blush, P.”

Paige immediately groaned, her face heating up even more. “Azzi, pleaseee,” she said, unable to hide her smile as she glanced at the screen again.

The chat exploded with chaos:

“AZZI STOP, YOU’RE KILLING US.”

“Ole girl in the back is mad.”

“Just kiss already.”

Azzi wasn’t about to let up as another comment popped up. “Only if you come over later,” she wrote.

Paige shook her head, biting her lip to keep from smiling too much. “Azzi, you’re actually the worst,” she replied, but her tone betrayed how much she was enjoying it.

KK chimed in, pointing at the screen. “I don’t know if you're seeing it but they saying you’re on a leash, P boogers.”

Azzi replied: “You don’t seem to mind when I’m ‘the worst.’”

Paige blinked at the screen not even addressing KK, her laugh low. “Azzi…” she warned, but there was no real threat behind it.

Azzi replied back: “What? Just telling the truth. You like me this way.”

Paige leaned back in her seat, covering her face with one hand, fully laughing now. “You’re unbelievable,” she said through her laughter.

Ice, who had been watching this unfold with growing amusement, nudged Paige’s arm. “You gotta fight back, you’re looking weak on live.”

Paige glanced at Ice, shaking her head, but her smile stayed. She turned back to the camera. “I’m not even entertaining her anymore,” she said, though her blushing cheeks said otherwise.

Azzi’s next message popped up: “Yeah, you will. Later.”

Paige pressed her lips together, struggling not to laugh again, but her blush deepened. Before she could respond, Kehlani, sitting quietly in the back, spoke up, her tone dry and serious. “Oh, why stop now? You might as well just FaceTime her at this point. We’re all here for the show anyway.”

The air in the car shifted. Ice and KK exchanged glances, but the laughter that had been flowing just moments ago came to a halt. Kehlani’s words hung in the air, her eyes fixed on her phone as she spoke.

Paige’s smile faltered slightly, sensing the tension in Kehlani’s voice. She quickly shifted in her seat, her fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “Kehlani, relax,” Paige said softly, but the underlying unease in her voice didn’t go unnoticed.

Azzi’s final comment popped up in the chat: “Just don’t forget my cookie please.”

The chat exploded again, but the playful vibe was gone now. Paige let out a soft laugh at Azzi’s humor, her blush still lingering, but the mood had shifted. “Alright, new flavor, let’s go,” she announced loudly, trying to shift the focus as the car fell into a quieter tension.

…

When the live ended, Kehlani didn’t hold back. She leaned forward in her seat, her eyes narrowing as she stared at Paige through the rearview mirror. “So you’re just openly flirting with her now?”

Paige’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, her knuckles white as she kept her eyes on the road. KK and Ice sat frozen in their seats struggling not to laugh knowing how this was going to end. Paige didn’t want to have this conversation—not here, not now, and definitely not with an audience.

Taking a steadying breath, Paige glanced at the mirror, careful not to meet Kehlani’s gaze. “We can talk about this when we get back,” she said calmly.

Kehlani scoffed, throwing herself back against the seat and crossing her arms tightly over her chest like a child. “Oh, it'll be a lot more yelling than fucking talking,” she muttered, her voice sharp.

Paige’s jaw tightened, the muscle ticking as she clenched her teeth. She didn’t take her eyes off the road but finally responded, her voice laced with warning. “What did I tell you about doing this in front of people?”

Kehlani let out a bitter laugh, her head tilting slightly as she gestured vaguely toward the car. “Oh, but you can flirt with Azzi in front of three thousand people, huh? That’s perfectly fine?”

Paige’s gaze snapped up to meet Kehlani’s through the rearview mirror, her expression hard. “Stop,” she said simply.

For a moment, Kehlani opened her mouth like she was going to say something else, but the sharp look Paige gave her was enough to make her think twice. She pressed her lips together, the silence in the car growing even more as they continued the drive.

When they returned to campus, Paige immediately headed to her room, hoping to avoid any more conflict. Kehlani followed, slamming the door behind her as she stormed in. The tension between them was thick, the unspoken frustration that had been building for days now ready to spill over.

Kehlani didn't waste any time. “If you want to fuck her, just get it over with so you can get it out of your system,” she snapped, her voice filled with bitterness. Paige’s expression immediately hardened. She had been holding her tongue but had so much pent up frustration she didn’t care anymore.

Paige turned to face her, her eyes narrowing. “Watch your fucking mouth Kehlani,” she said, her voice low and full of warning.

Kehlani sneered, crossing her arms. “Oh, so you have a reaction now? I just have to say something about Azzi to get you to finally react, huh?”

Paige rolled her eyes, exasperated. “You’re being ridiculous. I’m not doing this with you.”

Kehlani scoffed, pacing in frustration. “You’re seriously just gonna keep playing it off? Like nothing’s happening between you two? How long do you think you can keep this up before it blows up in your face?”

Paige stayed leaned against her desk, arms crossed over her chest. Her voice was calm when she replied, “Look, I’ve been upfront with you from the beginning. If you want to walk away, do it. I’m not forcing you to stay. I told you from the start this was casual.”

Kehlani whipped around to face her, her tone sharp. “It’s not even casual anymore, Paige. At least back then we’d fuck or something after we argued!”

Paige let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “Is that what this is about? We don’t fuck anymore?”

Kehlani's jaw tightened, her voice rising with indignation. “Do you even know when the last time we were together was?”

Paige shrugged nonchalantly, unfazed by the question. “Nope. But I’m sure you're going to enlighten me.”

Kehlani stepped closer, her eyes flashing with irritation. “It was after the team went out drinking,” she snapped. “You and Azzi were all over each other all night because you were drunk. And you didn’t even care who saw.”

Paige raised her brows slightly, but she didn’t interrupt.

Kehlani stepped closer, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and frustration. “We argued about it when we got back, and you wanted to shut me up, so you fucked me. That’s the last time, Paige. Do you even care?”

Paige groaned, rubbing her temples. “Lani, I don’t even know what you want me to say right now.”

Kehlani's voice sharpened. “Are you getting it from her now? Is that why?”

Paige let out a long, exasperated sigh. “I’m not fucking Azzi! Jesus Christ!”

Kehlani let out a bitter laugh. “Stop being a coward and admit you want to at least. Just say it.”

Paige froze for a moment, her patience finally snapping. She straightened up, her eyes locking with Kehlani’s. “Alright. Fine. I wanna fuck Azzi. Is that what you wanna hear?”

Kehlani blinked, momentarily stunned but unwilling to back down. “Say it again, Paige. Say it like you fucking mean it.”

Paige scoffed, shaking her head. “You’re fucking crashing right now bro.”

But Kehlani stood firm like she always does, crossing her arms. “No, Paige. Say it. Don’t half-ass it. I want to hear you say it.”

Paige’s frustration boiled over, and her voice rose as she snapped. “Yes, I want to fuck Azzi! I want to fuck her every time I look at her!”

Kehlani raised an eyebrow, unmoved. “Keep going.”

“What?” Paige snapped, incredulous.

“You’ve been a coward this whole time. You finally grew a spine—don’t stop now. Keep going. What else?” Kehlani’s voice dripped with venom.

Paige leaned forward, her voice escalating, almost shouting now as she spoke her mind but wanted to shut Kehlani up in the process. “I think about doing the nastiest shit you can imagine to her, okay? Is that what you’re deranged ass wanted to hear? Is that good enough for you now?”

Kehlani smirked, clapping her hands together slowly, the sound cutting through the tension. “Fucking finally. There it is. At least now we’re finally being honest.”

Paige glared at her. “Fuck you, Kehlani,” she spat.

Kehlani snorted, shaking her head as she turned toward the door. “Nah, Paige. You’re saving that for Azzi, right?”

Ironically, as the words left her mouth, the door swung open, and Azzi walked in, her eyebrows furrowing at the scene in front of her.

Kehlani chuckled darkly, shaking her head as if the situation was some cruel joke she was in on.

Azzi’s gaze bounced between the two of them, her tone cautious as she took in Paige’s demeanor. “Uh... should I go P?”

Paige’s entire demeanor shifted the second she saw Azzi, the hard edges of her anger softening, though her tension was still noticeable. “No, Az,” she said quietly, her voice noticeably softer. “It’s fine. We’re done.”

Kehlani scoffed, her laugh sharp and bitter. “Oh no we’re not done, but you should stay,” she said, gesturing to the room. “Come enjoy the show. Paige was just telling me all about how much she thinks about fucking you. Weren’t you, Paige?”

Azzi didn’t flinch. Her expression tightened as she looked at Kehlani, but there was no shock in her eyes.

Paige didn’t say anything, her jaw tightening.

Kehlani wasn’t done, stepping closer, her arms crossed as her voice dripped with sarcasm. “What? Too shy to say it now? You weren’t shy five minutes ago. Go ahead, Paige. Tell her.”

Paige’s eyes darkened as her patience snapped. “Kehlani, shut the fuck up.”

Kehlani laughed coldly, tilting her head. “What, you can’t tell her? Can’t tell her how you were just talking about all the nasty shit you want to do to her? Go on, Paige. Please don’t stop now.”

Paige took a step forward, her voice low. “We’re done, Kehlani. Get the hell out.”

Kehlani stared at her for a moment, a cruel smirk tugging at her lips before she turned to Azzi. “Just a warning,” she said, her voice light but toxic. “She gets a little rough when she’s upset.”

With that, she walked out, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving an almost deafening silence in her wake.

Azzi stayed rooted in place, her eyes locked on Paige, who was visibly trying to hold herself together, her shoulders tense and her jaw clenched. Azzi’s brow furrowed in concern as she cautiously stepped closer. She reached out, her fingers brushing against Paige’s hand as if to ground her. “Paige,” she said gently, “Talk to me. What’s going on in your head right now?”

Paige took a deep breath, the sound shaky as she stared at the floor for a moment. Then she met Azzi’s gaze, her eyes were dark with a look Azzi hadn’t seen before. “Az, you need to leave,” Paige said, her voice low and rough. “If you don’t, I’m going to do something we’ll regret.”

It wasn’t a plea; it was a warning.

The air between them grew heavier, the tension almost suffocating. Paige’s frustration and anger were palpable—every argument with Kehlani, every unresolved feeling about Azzi, every ounce of sexual tension she’d been bottling up for weeks—it all felt like it was seconds away from exploding. She couldn’t think straight, couldn’t breathe.

But Azzi didn’t step back. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, her lips curling into the faintest hint of a smile. “Do it then,” she said softly, her voice carrying a challenge she hadn’t fully thought through.

The second the words left her mouth, Azzi realized she should’ve thought about it a little more.

But Paige’s reaction was immediate, almost primal. Her hand shot up, wrapping firmly around Azzi’s neck as she pushed her back against the wall with a force that sent a picture frame rattling. Azzi gasped softly, her wide eyes searching Paige’s for a split second before Paige leaned in, her lips crashing against hers in a kiss that was rough, hungry, and completely consuming.

Azzi’s initial surprise melted into something deeper, her body responding instinctively as her hands grabbed at Paige’s waist, pulling her closer. Paige’s grip on Azzi’s neck tightened as she deepened the kiss, her desire building as she couldn’t get enough of Azzi. Each brush of their lips, each shift in their embrace sent a pulse of heat through Paige’s body. She was losing herself in the moment, in the touch, in the taste of Azzi.

The kiss wasn’t gentle or careful—it was unapologetically passionate. It was everything they had been holding back for years, all the longing, all the frustration, all the stolen moments finally manifesting. Azzi could feel Paige’s hunger, the intensity in every movement. She could feel Paige’s breath against her skin, could feel the heat in her hand as it gripped her neck, holding her in place with a possessive energy that sent shivers down Azzi’s spine.

Azzi’s hands squeezed Paige’s hips, urging her closer, pulling her against the heat of her body. She loved the way Paige’s fingers tightened around her neck, the way Paige’s body moved against hers with a sense of urgency, as though they were both starving. The aggression, the way Paige was pushing her into the wall—it felt exhilarating, freeing. Azzi had always known Paige had it in her, but now that it was happening, she could hardly believe it.

The world outside the room, outside this moment, ceased to exist. It was just them. Paige’s hand, warm and possessive around her neck, the way she kissed Azzi like she was afraid she might disappear if she didn’t hold on tight enough—Azzi was completely intoxicated by it. She wanted more, needed more, and with every passing second she was reminded that this was everything they’d been denying for so long.

Paige’s breath hitched as she pulled Azzi’s hair roughly, exposing more of her neck. Azzi gasped at the feeling, a mix of surprise and excitement flashing in her eyes. Paige’s grip tightened on Azzi’s hair, pushing her head back more as she traced her lips down the sensitive skin of Azzi’s neck.

Paige's lips were messy, marking every inch of her neck. She could feel the heat radiating off Azzi’s body as she kissed her harder, deeper, moving against her with an intensity neither of them had expected for their first time. When she pulled back for a moment, her voice was rough, the question slipping out without a second thought.

“You aren’t cheating, right?” Paige asked.

Azzi nodded quickly, her hands grabbing at Paige’s, urging her back to her neck. “No," she whispered, "I’m not.”

Azzi’s words were barely heard before Paige tugged harder on her hair, guiding her back, her lips attacking Azzi’s neck again. Paige’s hands gripped Azzi’s body tighter, not letting go, as if marking every inch of her skin as her own.

Azzi melted into it, her body arching toward Paige’s, having craved the roughness for so long, the need that was building between them.

Before Azzi could even process what was happening, Paige’s hands were at the back of her thighs, lifting her effortlessly off the ground. The strength in Paige’s grip made Azzi's heart race, and she couldn’t help but feel a rush of pride that Paige’s athleticism was coming into play at the moment. She wrapped her legs around Paige’s waist instinctively, pulling her closer, the kiss deepening as Paige’s hands roamed over her butt with desperation.

Azzi could feel everything building, the need between them undeniable. Paige didn’t pause, didn't even hesitate, as she walked them over to the desk. Azzi’s breath hitched when she felt the edge of the desk press against the backs of her thighs, and Paige, without breaking the kiss, placed her gently yet firmly on top of it knocking a few things over as she did so.

Azzi gasped, her hands grabbing at Paige’s shoulders to steady herself. She didn’t know what was more exciting—the feeling of Paige’s body pressed against hers, the heat radiating between them, or the way she was being handled.

Paige pulled back slightly, her gaze dark, filled with an intensity Azzi had never witnessed before. Azzi was breathless, her body humming, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she looked up at Paige, waiting for whatever came next.

Paige’s eyes never left Azzi’s as she spoke. “Take off your shirt.”

There was something in the way Paige said it—something possessive and undeniably intense—that made Azzi swallow hard. She felt the weight of the command settle into her chest, her heart hammering in her ears as her breath caught.

Without hesitation, Azzi pulled her shirt over her head, feeling a shiver run through her as she caught Paige’s gaze, the hunger in her usual soft blue eyes making her pulse quicken. Azzi knew it was different now. This wasn’t the teasing, the slow build-up. This was something primal and she was willingly volunteering herself for it.

She let the fabric fall to the floor, her hands shaking slightly but not from fear—more from the anticipation. Every muscle in her body was tuned to Paige, waiting for her next move, her next command. In that moment, she didn’t want anything more than to be exactly what Paige wanted.

Paige's hands moved quickly, pulling Azzi's hips forward just enough so she could stand between her legs, their bodies barely apart but still aching for more.

Without warning, Paige grabbed Azzi by the neck, her grip firm, pulling her into another kiss that was desperate and unrestrained. The urgency in the kiss was undeniable, a silent plea for release as Paige's body pressed into Azzi's. Paige was fighting to control herself, to not be aggressive as she could be, but the tension inside her was too much-every muscle, every nerve, was on fire with the need to close the gap between them.

Her lips moved hungrily against Azzi's, breathing in the taste of her like it was the only thing that could calm the desperate ache inside. Paige's hands gripped Azzi's sides, her fingers digging in as if she might never let go, as if this moment was the only thing that mattered. Their breaths mingled, heavy and fast, as Paige pressed closer, her chest brushing against Azzi's, the heat between them only amplifying the intensity of the kiss.

Azzi's hands slid to the back of Paige's neck, pulling her deeper, her body arching toward Paige's.

Paige yanked Azzi's head back again, her grip tight as she started to assault Azzi’s neck again. The raw tension between them was undeniable. But then, Azzi let out a soft moan at the feeling, a sound that was so sudden, so unfiltered, that it stopped Paige in her tracks.

It wasn't just a sound. It was a plea, a release that vibrated through the space between them, and when it escaped Azzi's lips, it shattered Paige's control. The way it rang in the air, the desperate vulnerability in it. Paige's jaw tightened, her whole body going rigid.

She pulled back quickly, struggling to catch her breath. Paige clenched her jaw desperately trying to hold on to whatever semblance of self control she had left. But she was failing. Without a word, she turned away, her steps almost urgent as she walked toward the closet.

"Take everything off," Paige's voice was rough.

Paige reached into the closet, her fingers brushing over a few bags, before pulling out a sealed box that she began taking to plastic off of.

Azzi didn't hesitate. She undressed quickly, following Paige's command without a second thought. Every movement was fluid, driven by a mix of anticipation and the sharp heat that still pulsed between them.

As soon as she was bare, she walked over to the desk, sitting back on it, the cool surface pressing against her skin, contrasting with the heat radiating off of her.

She watched Paige intently, her eyes tracing every movement as Paige got completely undressed before stepping into a harness and adjusting it.

Paige's every action was deliberate, her fingers brushing against the fabric, pulling at it slowly to make sure everything was in place as her eyes raked over Azzi’s body as she did it.

Something about the sight has more pooling between Azzi’s legs. Paige is scarily calm right now which terrifies and excites Azzi at the same time.

As Paige walked toward Azzi slowly, her gaze never left brown eyes. When she reached her, she leaned in just enough to let her voice drop low. "You wanna feel me, Az?" Her words were a tease, full of promise, and the way they hung in the air made Azzi's heart skip.

Azzi nodded, almost too quickly, her throat suddenly dry. She didn't trust herself to speak—her body ached with a need for Paige and Paige only.

Paige's lips curved into a smile as she reached up, brushing her thumb across Azzi's lip. The touch was soft and gentle, yet somehow possessive, and without thinking, Azzi parted her lips and took it into her mouth.

She sucked it in slowly, her eyes never leaving Paige's as she swirled her tongue, feeling the heat of Paige's gaze searing her skin.

Paige watched her intently, savoring the sight, before sliding her thumb out of Azzi's mouth. She dragged it slowly down her jaw, the pads of her fingers tracing lightly across her skin before finally resting at Azzis center where she began to trace small agonizingly slow circles against Azzi.

Azzi's breath hitched, her jaw tightening as the circles only further deepened the ache in her stomach. Each movement, each second that passed, stretched the tension unbearably, the pressure building in her chest. The way Paige took her time, making every second feel like an eternity, had Azzi biting down on her lip to keep from reacting too loudly.

Paige's thumb circled lazily along Azzi's center, her touch soft. She was watching closely for every little reaction: the sharp, ragged inhale, the subtle tremor in Azzi's body, the way her lips would part as she tried to hold in the sounds threatening to slip out. Each moment, each subtle movement, felt like an eternity as she pieced together what Azzi loved like it was the easiest puzzle in the world.

Azzi's breath caught as Paige pushed against her a little harder, her eyes fluttering closed involuntarily. Paige's eyes darkened as she saw the way Azzi tried to bite down harder, a silent battle the girl was having to remain quiet for some reason. Paige couldn't help but chuckle a little at this.

"You know it's not going to matter in a few minutes, right?" Paige's voice was calm as she said it, but there was a bit of an edge to it, a silent promise to Azzi that she wouldn’t be able to stay quiet even if she tried. Still, she continued her slow, torturous circles, watching for the breaking point.

Azzi opened her glossed over eyes, meeting Paige's gaze. Her voice was barely a whisper, but there was a challenge to it. "You like to hear it?"

Paige nodded, her breath shallow. "Of course." The simple words hung in the air, full of desire.

It was as if Azzi had been holding her breath, saving it for this exact moment. Not two seconds later, the sound escaped her lips-a soft, almost angelic moan. The sound was almost too beautiful for how quiet it was.

It was enough for Paige to not want to wait anymore wanting to hear so much more spill from Azzi’s lips.

So she swipes the top of the strap against Azzi a few times to make sure she’s ready for it before she’s pressing forward, sliding in halfway before pausing to make sure she’s ok and giving her some time to adjust.

“Oh fuck-“ Azzi immediately gasps at the feeling pulling Paige’s closer to her by her shoulders.

Leaning over her a little now Paige begins slowly rolling her hips careful not to go in all the way yet.

Paige mumbles against Azzi’s neck where she’s planting kisses and sucking on the already marked skin. “Does that feel good pretty?” As Paige says this her fingers tangle in Azzi’s hair tugging at it to expose more of her neck as she continues working in and out of her.

“Mhmm yes—feels…feels so fucking good. Oh fuck.” Azzi’s face twists slightly as Paige pushes all the way in hitting somewhere deep in her stomach.

Paige reaches down with her free hand to rub circles against Azzi again as she picks up the pace of her hips.

With every movement, Azzi whimpers. The breathy noises music to Paige’s ears, urging her on. Paige pushes Azzi’s legs further apart, eventually making her wrap her legs around her waist as the new position allows her to work deeper into Azzi.

Azzi who’s never felt anything like this whimpers out “Fuck yes…gimme more Paige…harder please baby” her moans getting louder as she grasps at the shelf behind her trying to find anything to anchor herself.

Paige immediately obliges to the request grabbing Azzi’s waist pulling her into her more as she works in and out of her at a faster pace.

Azzi smiles at this for a second before her jaw drops as she fights to keep her eyes locked on Paige.

Paige feels like she can come undone just by the look on Azzi’s face. The way her brown eyes are locked on Paige’s blue ones, struggling to keep her breath makes Paige fall in love with her all over again.

Paige moves herself closer to Azzi so she can whisper in her ear. “Mhm you so fucking pretty taking it like this baby...you like it when I fuck you like this Azzi?”

"Yes- fuck... Yes I love it so much—" Azzi’s arms wrap around Paige’s shoulders, her nails digging into her pale skin as the blonde moves into her at an unreasonable pace making her see stars.

Paige groans at the feeling of Azzi’s nails digging into her as she rests her forehead on her shoulder.

Azzi continues gasping, her breathing sharp as she tightens her hold on Paige anchoring herself to something real. Her chest rising and falling in quick succession, pulse hammering in her ears, drowning out everything but the feeling of Paige inside her.

"Shit…I've wanted this for so long," Azzi whispered, her voice trembling.

Paige pulled back from Azzi’s shoulder to rest their foreheads together. Their breaths mingled, hot and unsteady, as they locked eyes, both panting at Paige’s movements.

Paige's lips curled into a slow smile, her voice low and a little breathy, laced with a possessiveness that makes Azzi weak. "Tell me what you mean, baby."

Azzi's heart fluttered at the sound of Paige’s voice. Her entire body seemed to hum with the weight of the question. She closed her eyes for a moment, gathering the fragments of herself, feeling her body continue to pulse at Paige who hasn’t slowed down for a second. Her hands move to Paige's face, fingers trembling as they cup her jaw, bringing her closer, as if she couldn't get enough of the warmth, of the weight of Paige's presence.

"I've wanted you to fuck me just like this," Azzi panted, the words spilling out in a rush. “Touched myself thinking about how you would feel.” Her grip tightened, nails gently grazing Paige's skin who has slowed her movements easing all of it in and out at a steady pace.

Paige's smile deepened as she looked at Azzi, her voice dripping with something almost dangerous, like she knew exactly what Azzi needed. "It's all mine, baby?" Her lips barely moved as she whispered them.

Azzi's breath hitched, her whole body answering the question before her words could as she felt something pool on the desk under her.

She nodded, forehead pressing against Paige's, her eyes rolling back as she gave in to the overwhelming flood of emotions.

"Use your words for me, baby," Paige murmured, a soft pressure against Azzi's jaw, urging her, coaxing the confession out.

Azzi swallowed hard, her pulse thrumming in her throat, before she finally gave in to the truth of it all, letting it tumble out in a breathless confession. "It's yours, Paige. Fuck yes, it's all yours baby."

Azzi's hands are steady on Paige's face, her fingers tracing the soft line of her jaw. The heat radiating between them is undeniable now, but it's not just physical-it's everything they've been holding back. Azzi’s legs are still wrapped around Paige’s waist, their bodies pressed together, the only space between them the shared breaths that are only becoming more ragged.

The world outside them has faded completely. All that's left is the sound of their hearts racing, the intensity of their eyes locked in a silent battle. But Azzi can feel it. She can feel Paige's jaw tighten under her fingers, feel Paige's slight hesitation to speak.

"Say it, baby," Azzi breathes out, voice rough, pleading. The words hang between them, as she dares Paige to cross the line they've been dancing around for so long. The unspoken truth that neither has allowed themselves to fully acknowledge-until now.

Paige's jaw tightens more, her mind fighting against the pull of the confession. She knows, deep down, that once she says the words, there's no taking them back. No turning away from what it means. Her eyes search Azzi's, a mix of fear, longing, and something else-something so much deeper. Azzi's brown eyes are full of hope, desperation, and a promise.

Azzi leans in closer, her breath catching in her throat. "Please... Paige..." she whimpers, as though the words might shatter if she says them too loud. "Say it. Please. I need to hear it baby.”

For a heartbeat, Paige hesitates. But having Azzi like this completely bare for her taking everything she’s giving her makes something stir in Paige. The fear, the uncertainty, melts away. She licks her lips slowly, never breaking Azzi's gaze, and the words come out like a release, a truth finally allowed to breathe.

"I love you, Azzi," Paige whispers, keeping her voice low. "I fucking love you." Paige says again as she rolls her hips into Azzi perfectly. The words feel almost foreign on her tongue, but they taste right. They feel like everything she's been holding back for so long, all the quiet moments, the stolen glances, the touch that said more than words ever could.

Azzi's breath hitches, her eyes going wide not just from the feeling of Paige hitting deep inside of her but from hearing those words fall from her lips for the first time the combination of them both leaving her breathless.

She can barely hold back the rush of emotion that crashes over her. "I love you so fucking much, Paige," she murmurs, her voice breaking on the edge of the confession. It's everything she's wanted to say to Paige since they were teenagers.

Azzi's fingers trace Paige's face gently, her heart pounding as if it might burst from her chest. "I love you," she whispers again, this time, the words are like a devotion to Paige.

Paige presses her forehead to Azzi's, her lips just inches away, her breath mingling with Azzi's. She could lose herself in this moment forever. "I love you so much Azzi," she breathes, her voice full of everything she's kept locked away.

Paige can feel herself building at Azzi’s words, the weight of the moment, the way the harness was rubbing against her. She doesn’t think she’s ever felt this turned on before, she’s never felt this pull in her stomach from just fucking somebody else.

Before Paige embarrassingly comes undone before Azzi she’s pulling out completely causing Azzi to immediately whine at the feeling as she looks up at Paige with desperation.

Paige didn’t give Azzi a chance to say anything before she was lifting her off the desk.

Without missing a beat, Paige walks over and gently lays Azzi down on her back on the bed hovering over her as she locks eyes with her.

Paige whispers out. “Wanna feel all of you when you finish for me.”

Azzi hums at this, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth as she looks at Paige. Her fingers threading through Paige’s messy hair.

Without saying anything Paige presses back inside of Azzi completely making her arch off of the bed letting out an almost pornographic sound. Paige leans down pressing sloppy kisses to Azzi’s chest leaving new marks further down as she starts rolling her hips into her again.

Azzi’s mouth falls open at the feeling, her body picking up right where it left off a few seconds ago. Paige’s eyes hold Azzi’s as she wraps her hand around her throat again squeezing just tight enough causing a whimper to fall from Azzi as she flutters her eyes closed at the way Paige is controlling the situation.

Not liking that she can’t see Azzi’s eyes anymore Paige whispers out “Look at me Azzi baby.”

Azzi's eyes immediately flutter open, the command in Paige's voice making her head spin. Her gaze locks onto Paige's, but her vision is hazy, her eyes watering at the spot Paige is hitting over and over.

Paige smiles, it’s a knowing grin, as if she knows exactly what she’s doing to Azzi and she shakes her head as if to tell Azzi it's not time to break yet.

"No, not yet sweetheart," Paige murmurs, her fingers tightened against Azzi's throat like a warning.

Azzi's throat tightens as she tries to speak to break the tension, but her voice falters.

She shifts beneath Paige, her head trying to turn to the side, desperate for some escape from the intensity of the moment. But before she can move too far Paige tightens her hold to keep her in place.

"Don’t look away from me when i’m talking to you Azzi” Paige's voice is calm, but there's an edge to it now, making Azzi's breath hitch in her throat as she nods.

At this Paige takes her hand off of Azzi throat and moves it down to her stomach where she presses down slightly feeling every thrust.

Azzi immediately moans at the pressure as she locks her ankles around Paige’s back not allowing any room between them.

"Mm- fuck, Paige. I’m so close. Don’t stop…please, don't stop just like that." Words are just tumbling out of Azzi now as she wraps her arms around Paige’s shoulder holding her against her completely as Paige picks up her pace to something almost ruthless.

Azzi’s hand immediately tangles in her hair trying to pull Paige closer as she sucks on her pressure point.

Paige brings her hand up, carefully interlocking it with one of Azzi's that isn’t tangled in her hair, her breath warm against Azzi's neck as she mumbles, "I'm so close, baby." Azzi nods in response not able to form a words, her legs tightening around Paige's waist, pulling her even closer.

All that leaves Azzi’s lips are whimpers and moans as Paige moves into her. Paige keeps her pace until Azzi’s body starts to tremble under her and she feels the movements get a little harder as Azzi tightens.

“Ohmygodohmygod…fuck..fuck” Azzi screams her fingers tightening in Paige’s hair as she releases all over the sheets. Paige squeezes their interlaced hands as she keeps moving, still chasing her own release, mumbling out, “Hold on baby I’m right there.”

Despite her sensitivity Azzi presses her heels into Paige’s back pulling her closer and not long after Paige is groaning out a “oh shit..fuck Az..fuckfuck” before she’s slumping on top of Azzi.

The room is filled with the sound of their breathing, both of them lying there, skin still warm and sticky, bodies tangled together in the aftermath. For a moment, neither of them moved, as if both of them were trying to process the intensity of what had just happened. It was different, undeniably so. Different than any other time with anyone else. This wasn’t just physical.

After some time of laying there, Paige shifted slightly, her lips brushing against Azzi’s shoulder. “Imma pull out now, okay?” she murmured, her voice soft and low.

Azzi’s hands shot up to grab Paige’s shoulders, halting her immediately. Paige froze, lifting her head to meet Azzi’s gaze. There was something almost pleading in her eyes, a vulnerability Paige hadn’t seen before.

“Not yet,” Azzi whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

Paige smiles as she gazes down at her. “Can you keep going?” she asked, her tone laced with both amusement and awe.

Azzi nodded, her breath catching as her hands slid down Paige’s back. “Yeah,” she admitted, her cheeks flushing. “I just... I don’t want this to end yet.”

Paige chuckled softly, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to Azzi’s lips. “You’re something else, Az,” she said against her mouth, her voice warm.

Azzi smirked faintly, her hands curling into Paige’s skin. “Yeah, and you love it,” she shot back, though her voice trembled slightly when Paige adjusted her hips.

Paige didn’t deny it. Instead, she shifted, one of her hands trailing slowly down Azzi’s side. “Alright,” Paige murmured, her lips grazing Azzi’s jaw before trailing down to her neck again. “Guess I better make it worth your while.”

Azzi’s laugh turned into a quiet gasp as Paige started to move again, her hands gripping Azzi's hips as she eased her back into it. But then Azzi couldn’t help the soft chuckle that escaped her, the sound muffled behind her hand. Paige paused slightly, raising a brow.

“What’s funny?” Paige asked, her voice low, breath still hot against Azzi’s neck.

Azzi shook her head, though the grin on her face betrayed her amusement. “It’s just—” she laughed softly again, tilting her head back slightly to meet Paige’s curious eyes. “Your cross necklace. It’s just... dangling there. Right in my face.”

Paige looked down and noticed the small silver cross swaying between them. She couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of her. “Yeah, that’s probably not the vibe right now,” she muttered.

Azzi smirked, clearly enjoying the irony. “It’s definitely a choice,” she teased, her breath hitching as Paige’s fingers tightened against her skin.

“Alright,” Paige said, grinning as she moved her hand to Azzi’s chin, tilting her head slightly. “How about I fix that for you?”

Before Azzi could respond, Paige pulled out and flipped her over with an effortless motion, Azzi’s stomach now against the bed. Paige hovered over her, her cross now out of Azzi’s sight. Paige leaned down, her lips brushing against Azzi’s ear. “Better?”

Azzi swallowed hard, her smirk faltering as Paige’s hand slid back to her waist. “Yeah,” she breathed, her voice suddenly softer. “Much better.”

Paige chuckled, her lips trailing slowly down Azzi’s jaw. “Good,” she murmured. “Now stop laughing and focus, Az.”

Azzi smiled faintly, but her next laugh dissolved into a sharp inhale as Paige reminded her exactly what kind of focus she meant.

…

Later that night, Paige and Azzi lay side by side, their shoulders brushing, hands intertwined as the quiet of the room settled around them. The adrenaline had long worn off, leaving them in a haze of warmth and exhaustion.

Azzi let out a soft laugh, her thumb brushing over the back of Paige’s hand. “I need a shower,” she murmured, breaking the silence.

Paige’s eyes were half-closed, her voice barely above a mumble as she replied, “Same.”

Azzi turned her head slightly, glancing at Paige with a teasing smile. “You’re actually disgusting,” she joked.

Paige cracked one eye open, the corner of her mouth twitching into a lazy grin. “You loved it,” she fired back, her voice low and raspy but filled with clear amusement.

Azzi laughed again. “Unfortunately,” she said, shaking her head dramatically, “you might be right.”

Paige gave a low chuckle, squeezing Azzi’s hand gently. “Might be? C’mon, Az. Own it.”

Azzi rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at her lips. “Fine. I loved it. Happy?”

“Very,” Paige murmured, her voice already trailing off into something quieter as her head tilted toward Azzi’s.

They stayed like that for a while, the silence between them comfortable, the warmth of their connection lingering in the air. Paige stared up at the ceiling, her breathing finally even as her thumb absently traced circles against the back of Azzi’s hand.

“Wait,” Paige started, her voice soft but curious. “What happened to Kali?”

Azzi, who was half-drifting into sleep, let out a quiet laugh. “She was sitting next to me when you were on live,” she said simply, her tone amused.

Paige chuckled, shaking her head as she glanced over at Azzi. “Yeah, that tracks.”

Azzi gave Paige’s hand another squeeze, her voice softer now, as though she didn’t want to disturb the moment too much. “So?” she asked, her words a quiet nudge, a question hanging between them.

Paige turned her head to look at her, her expression calm. “So,” she echoed, meeting Azzi’s eyes. “I love you, and you love me.” She paused, her lips twitching into a faint smile. “So… we’re going to do this?”

Azzi studied her for a beat, her own smile forming slowly but surely. She nodded, her gaze steady. “Yeah, I think we are.”

Paige’s lips curved fully now, her hand tightening slightly around Azzi’s. “Yeah. I think so too.”

Azzi’s smile grew wider at that, something soft and unspoken passing between them as she shifted a little closer, her shoulder brushing Paige’s. “Good,” she said quietly, her voice almost a whisper.

…

When Paige and Azzi finally mustered the energy to get up and head to the shower, they didn’t expect to be greeted by half the team. Unfortunately for them, the door opened just as KK, Aubrey, and Jana barged in, looking for snacks or whatever excuse they’d come up with to snoop once Paige and Azzi gave signs of life in the team group chat suspiciously at the same time.

The room fell silent for a split second before KK’s jaw dropped dramatically. “Girl, boo! Y’all were supposed to wait one more week!” she yelled, throwing her hands up like they had committed some unforgivable betrayal.

Meanwhile, Aubrey punched the air in celebration. “Let’s gooo! I told y’all!”

Paige groaned, scrubbing her hand down her face. “You bet on us?” she asked, her voice exasperated but not surprised.

Aubrey grinned, shameless. “Of course we did! Do you know how obvious y’all have been? And I knew I’d win..”

Jana, always the blunt one, crossed her arms and looked between Paige and Azzi. “Y’all are gross,” she said, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her words. “Like, really. You couldn’t wait even a little longer?”

Paige rolled her eyes, leaning against the doorframe. “Y’all done?”

Azzi, on the other hand, was struggling to keep her laughter at bay as she wrapped an arm around Paige’s waist. “Alright, out. We have a shower to get to, and unlike y’all, we don’t have bet debts to settle.”

KK smirked, raising a brow. “A shower, huh? Together?”

Paige pointed toward the door, her expression flat. “Goodbye, KK.”

Laughing, the group finally started to file out, with Aubrey grinning at Paige on her way out. “Congrats, by the way. About time y’all stopped torturing yourselves.”

As the door clicked shut behind them, Paige let out a long sigh, her head dropping to Azzi’s shoulder. “I swear, I’m not leaving this room for a week.”

Azzi chuckled, pressing a kiss to the side of Paige’s head. “It’s gonna take more than a week for all this to go away.”