#she opens the door. diary in hand. and she's too late

[enhaflixer]

pjs - The Prince's Diaries - full fic

💌 Synopsis: Jongseong is a prince—refined, disciplined, and expected to marry a woman of his father’s choosing. You, on the other hand, are just a college student struggling to keep up with rent—until a team of royal advisors shows up on your doorstep and tells you that you’re the lost princess of Genovia. But royal life isn’t a fairytale, and duty doesn’t care about love. Because when the clock strikes midnight on the constitutional deadline, you’ll have to choose: your country or your heart. “If I were just Jay, not a prince, would you still choose me?”

cw: SMUT but lots of fluff, smut on a piano, smut in a library, smut on a chaise, lots of fluff barely any angst the reader is in distress cuz of this whole princess thing.

-

Your alarm blares for the third time, and you finally surrender to consciousness, throwing your arm out to silence the offending device. Another Monday. Another week of classes, part-time work, and trying to stretch your student budget until the next paycheck. Nothing special.

The apartment you share with your roommate isn't much—a cramped two-bedroom with perpetually spotty WiFi and a temperamental shower—but it's home. At least for now.

"Late night?" Your roommate smirks over her coffee mug as you stumble into the kitchen, hair still wrapped in a towel.

"Research paper," you groan, reaching for the coffee pot. "Professor Kim is trying to kill us all before midterms."

You're pouring cereal when a sharp knock at the door makes you jump, spilling Cheerios across the counter.

"You expecting someone?" your roommate asks, already heading to answer it.

You aren't. It's 8:37 AM on a Monday. Nobody visits at 8:37 AM on a Monday.

When your roommate opens the door, the hallway seems suddenly filled with people. Men in dark suits. A woman with an impossibly tight bun. All of them standing with perfect posture, like they've collectively swallowed broomsticks.

"May we come in?" It's not really a question. The woman steps forward, eyes scanning your apartment with barely concealed judgment. "We're looking for Y/N L/N."

Your roommate points at you wordlessly, backing away as the entourage enters.

"Ms. L/N," the woman says, her accent crisp and foreign. "I am Charlotte Martell, private secretary to Her Majesty Queen Clarisse Renaldi of Genovia."

You nearly choke on your coffee. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Genovia," she repeats, as if that clarifies everything. "A small sovereign principality between France and Spain."

"I know what Genovia is," you lie. You absolutely do not know what Genovia is. "But what does that have to do with me?"

The woman—Charlotte—gestures to one of the men, who produces an official-looking folder stamped with a crest you don't recognize.

"Queen Clarisse is your grandmother," Charlotte states, watching your face for a reaction. "And following the tragic death of your father, Crown Prince Philippe, you are now the sole heir to the Genovian throne."

Your roommate gasps dramatically. You burst out laughing.

"Okay, who put you up to this? Was it Kyle? This has his film project written all over it." You look around for hidden cameras.

Charlotte's expression doesn't change. "This is not a prank, Ms. L/N."

"Right. Sure. I'm secretly a princess." You roll your eyes. "And I suppose I've got a glass slipper and fairy godmother too?"

"Your Highness—"

"Nope. Stop right there." You hold up your hand. "I don't know who you people are, but my dad's name was Michael. He was an artist from Cleveland. He died when I was six. My mom raised me alone."

Charlotte and her companions exchange glances.

"Perhaps we should speak with your mother," Charlotte suggests delicately.

"Great idea," you agree, reaching for your phone. "She'll clear this right up."

But when your mom answers, her voice sounds strange. Strained.

"Mom, there are people here saying I'm some kind of princess and you've been hiding it from me my whole life. Tell them they've got the wrong apartment."

The silence on the other end stretches too long.

"Mom?"

"Honey," she finally says, her voice small. "Maybe you should sit down."

Your stomach drops. "No. No way."

"I never thought this would happen," she continues, words rushing now. "The agreement was that they'd never contact you. That you could live a normal life."

The room starts to spin. You grip the counter for support.

"This isn't funny anymore."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. So sorry. Philippe—your father—wanted to acknowledge you, but I couldn't bear the thought of raising you in that world."

"Philippe?" Your voice sounds distant to your own ears. "My father's name was Michael."

Your mother's sigh crackles through the phone. "Michael was my brother. After Philippe died, Michael helped us... create a story that would protect you."

"Protect me from what? The truth?" The betrayal cuts deep, making your voice sharp.

"From a life that would never be your own," your mother says softly. "I wanted you to have choices."

You look at Charlotte and her entourage, still standing stiffly in your kitchen. This can't be happening.

"I think I'm hallucinating," you announce to no one in particular. "I haven't slept in thirty-six hours. This is just sleep deprivation."

Your roommate pinches your arm. Hard.

"Ow! What the hell?"

"Not dreaming," she says helpfully.

Your mother is still speaking through the phone. "These people—the Genovian royal staff—they'll bring you to the consulate. I'll meet you there, and we can talk properly."

"Mom, I can't just—"

"Please, sweetheart. Let me explain in person."

The phone call ends, and you stare at the device in your hand like it's suddenly turned into a live snake.

"This isn't real," you mutter. "This can't be real."

But three hours later, you're sitting in the Genovian consulate—a building you've passed a hundred times without noticing—watching your mother cry as she explains how she met the Crown Prince of Genovia during a semester abroad, how they fell in love, how she discovered she was pregnant after he returned home, how he died in a car accident before they could marry.

"The Queen wanted to acknowledge you officially," your mother explains, wiping her eyes. "But I refused. I didn't want that life for you."

"That life being...?"

"Being royal," she says, as if it's a disease. "Living in a gilded cage. Every move scrutinized. Never making your own choices."

Charlotte, who has been standing silently against the wall, clears her throat. "If I may, the situation has changed substantially. Without a direct heir, Genovia faces a constitutional crisis. Parliament may vote to dissolve the monarchy entirely."

"And that's... bad?" you ask, still struggling to process any of this.

"The monarchy has protected Genovia's independence for centuries," Charlotte explains. "Without it, larger neighboring countries would likely absorb our territory."

Your mother squeezes your hand. "I never wanted this burden for you. But it's your decision now."

"What decision? I don't even know what's happening!"

"The Queen requests that you come to Genovia," Charlotte says. "Learn about your heritage. Meet your grandmother. After that, you're free to make your choice."

"My choice to... what? Become a princess?"

Charlotte nods solemnly. "To accept your birthright, yes."

You look at your mother, this woman you've trusted your entire life, who has apparently been lying about your identity since before you could speak.

"I have exams next week," you say weakly. It sounds ridiculous even to your own ears.

"All arrangements have been made with your university," Charlotte assures you. "This is, after all, a diplomatic matter."

You laugh, a slightly hysterical sound. "Right. Diplomatic."

Your mother takes your face in her hands, forcing you to look at her. "You don't have to do this. You can walk away right now, and we'll figure something out."

But you can see in her eyes what she's not saying—that this moment was always coming, that the lie was never sustainable, that a door has opened that can't be closed again.

"I just want to know the truth," you tell her. "All of it."

She nods, tears streaming now. "Then you should go. Meet her. Learn who you are."

-

Twenty-four hours later, you're on a private jet somewhere over the Atlantic, still half-convinced you're having an elaborate mental breakdown. Your mother came home with you to help pack, both of you moving through the motions like sleepwalkers.

"The Queen is eager to meet you," Charlotte says from across the aisle, breaking the silence that's stretched between you since takeoff.

"My grandmother," you say, testing the word. "My grandmother the Queen."

Charlotte's expression softens slightly. "This must be overwhelming."

You laugh, the sound hollow. "I keep thinking I'll wake up."

"I assure you, this is quite real," Charlotte says, missing the point entirely.

You stare out the window at endless darkness, trying to reconcile the person you were yesterday with whoever you're supposed to be now.

"What's she like?" you ask suddenly. "The Queen."

Charlotte considers this carefully. "Her Majesty is... formidable. Dignified. Dedicated to Genovia above all else."

"Sounds warm and fuzzy," you mutter.

"The Queen has experienced great loss," Charlotte adds quietly. "Her husband. Her son—your father. She has sacrificed personal happiness for duty."

That silences you. What do you say to a grandmother who's spent decades thinking her bloodline ended with her son, only to discover an heir she never knew existed?

"I don't know how to be a princess," you admit after another long silence.

"No one expects you to know already," Charlotte replies. "There will be extensive training, of course."

"Of course," you echo faintly. "Princess training."

The palace is like something from a fairy tale—all soaring spires and perfect gardens. Dawn is breaking as your motorcade passes through massive iron gates, and you catch your first glimpse of your apparent new home.

"This is insane," you whisper, pressing your face to the window like a child. "People actually live here?"

"The palace has been the royal residence for over three centuries," Charlotte informs you. "The east wing houses government offices, while the royal family occupies the north wing."

Your suite is bigger than your entire apartment. The bathroom alone is the size of your bedroom at home. You're staring at the claw-foot tub, wondering if you're allowed to actually use it or if it's just for show, when there's a knock at the door.

A young woman in a uniform curtsies—actually curtsies—when you open it.

"Your Highness," she says, eyes downcast. "I'm Olivia, your lady's maid."

"My... what now?"

"I'm here to help you prepare to meet Her Majesty."

Your laugh has a slightly manic edge. "I've been wearing the same clothes for twenty-four hours and haven't slept. I don't think 'preparation' is going to help much."

Olivia smiles sympathetically. "Perhaps a bath first?"

You pace back and forth in your suite after your mother's confession at the consulate, hands pressed against your temples. The weight of everything—your father's true identity, your grandmother the Queen, this entire hidden heritage—crashes over you in waves.

"This can't be happening," you mutter. "This doesn't happen to normal people."

Olivia, your newly assigned lady's maid, watches anxiously from the doorway. "Your Highness, perhaps some tea would help calm your nerves?"

"Stop calling me that!" you snap, whirling around. "I'm not a 'Highness.' I'm just—" You break off, unable to even finish the sentence. Who are you now?

Charlotte enters with a stack of leather-bound books. "These are Genovian history texts. Your lessons begin tomorrow. Also, the royal portrait artist would like to schedule a sitting, and we'll need to discuss your public introduction to the Genovian people."

Something inside you finally snaps.

"EVERYBODY JUST STOP!" you shout, throwing your hands up. Charlotte freezes mid-sentence, Olivia nearly drops the tea tray, and even the security guard outside your door peeks in with alarm.

"I need—" your voice cracks, "I need everyone to just stop for a second. Twenty-four hours ago, I was worried about my student loans and my biology midterm. And now you're talking about royal portraits and—and—"

You grab the nearest pillow from a velvet settee and scream into it, a muffled sound of pure frustration. When you pull it away, you're laughing hysterically.

"Holy shit," you gasp through semi-maniacal laughter, "I'm a princess. I'm actually a princess!"

You collapse onto the nearest chair, still clutching the pillow to your chest. Your laughter shifts to something closer to hyperventilation.

"This is completely insane," you continue, gesturing wildly. "I've never even been to Europe before, and suddenly I'm supposed to rule a country? I don't even know where Genovia is on a map! I can barely keep my succulents alive!"

Charlotte approaches cautiously, as though you might explode again. "Perhaps a moment alone would be beneficial—"

"No!" You jump to your feet again, pacing frenetically. "No more alone time to 'process.' I need answers. Real answers. Like, what happens if I just walk out right now? Get on a plane and go home? Will there be, I don't know, international incidents? Diplomatic immunity revoked? Does Genovia have an extradition treaty with the United States?"

Charlotte and Olivia exchange alarmed glances.

"I mean, what's stopping me from just saying 'thanks but no thanks' to this whole princess gig? I didn't sign up for this! My mother lied to me my entire life, and now I'm supposed to just—what? Put on a tiara and wave to crowds? Marry some prince I just met? Rule a country I know nothing about?"

You stop suddenly, a thought occurring to you. You turn to Charlotte, eyes wide.

"Wait. Do I get a tiara?"

Charlotte blinks, thrown by the sudden shift. "Several, actually. The Genovian royal collection includes—"

"Several tiaras," you repeat, dazed. "I get several tiaras."

You start laughing again, but this time with a hint of wonder breaking through the hysteria.

"I have a grandmother who's a Queen," you say, testing the words. "My father was a Crown Prince. I live in a palace now." You spin in a slow circle, taking in the ornate room with new eyes. "I'm a princess."

The reality of it finally, truly hits you—not as an abstract concept but as your new life. Your knees go weak, and you sink back onto the settee.

"I'm Princess Y/N Renaldi of Genovia," you whisper, the name strange on your tongue. "Holy shit."

The bath, it turns out, is heavenly. The exhaustion and tension of the past day seep out of your muscles as you soak in water scattered with actual rose petals. It's so ridiculous that you find yourself laughing alone in the massive bathroom.

"Is everything alright, Your Highness?" Olivia calls through the door.

"Fine! Just having an existential crisis in a bathtub fit for Marie Antoinette!"

After the bath comes what can only be described as a full-scale makeover. Olivia is joined by a team that includes a hairstylist, makeup artist, and someone called a "royal wardrobe consultant" who tuts disapprovingly at the clothes you packed.

"These won't do at all," she announces, holding up your favorite jeans like they're contaminated.

"What's wrong with them?" you demand.

"Her Majesty has certain... expectations regarding royal appearance," the woman explains delicately.

"I'm not actually a princess yet," you point out. "Technically, I haven't agreed to anything."

But your protests fall on deaf ears. Two hours later, you're staring at a stranger in the mirror. Your hair has been styled into something elegant and smooth. Your face has been transformed with makeup that somehow looks natural despite taking forty-five minutes to apply. And you're wearing a dress that probably costs more than your entire wardrobe at home.

"There," the hairstylist says proudly. "Now you look like a princess."

You don't feel like a princess. You feel like a fraud in costume.

The "Blue Salon" turns out to be a formal sitting room where an elegant older woman waits, standing by a window. She turns as you enter, and you see your own eyes staring back at you from her face.

"Your Majesty," Charlotte announces, "Her Royal Highness, Princess Y/N Renaldi."

The Queen—your grandmother—studies you silently for a long moment. You resist the urge to fidget under her gaze.

"The resemblance is remarkable," she says finally, her voice steady but with an undercurrent of emotion. "You have his eyes. My son's eyes."

You don't know what to say. This woman is a stranger who is somehow your closest living relative.

"You must have questions," she continues when you remain silent.

"About a million," you admit. "Starting with why my entire life has been a lie."

If your directness offends her, she doesn't show it. "Your mother made her choice. I respected it, though I disagreed with it. But circumstances have changed."

"So I've heard. Constitutional crisis. End of the monarchy. Very dramatic."

A hint of a smile touches her lips. "You have spirit. Good. You'll need it." She gestures to a chair. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss."

The next hour is a crash course in your own heritage. The Queen—your grandmother—explains the history of Genovia, the role of the monarchy, and the crisis created by the King's death without a recognized heir.

"Parliament has granted a grace period of three months," she explains. "In that time, you must decide whether to accept your title and begin preparation for eventual rule, or to renounce your claim permanently."

"And if I renounce?"

"Then the monarchy ends with me," she says simply. "And Genovia's future becomes uncertain."

No pressure or anything.

"There's another complication," your grandmother adds, and something in her tone makes you brace yourself. "The Genovian constitution requires the heir to be married before taking the throne."

You choke on the tea you've been sipping. "Married? I'm twenty-one!"

"Which is why, should you accept your title, suitable candidates would be presented immediately."

"Suitable candidates," you repeat incredulously. "You mean arranged marriage?"

"Think of it as... pre-screened dating," your grandmother suggests with a straight face.

"This is insane," you mutter, setting down your cup before you drop it. "Twenty-four hours ago, I was worried about my midterms. Now I'm discussing arranged marriages and constitutional crises."

Your grandmother regards you thoughtfully. "I understand this is overwhelming. You need not decide everything today. Take time to adjust. Learn about Genovia. Meet some of the young men Parliament considers suitable."

"And if I hate them all?"

"Then we face that challenge when it arises," she says diplomatically. "For now, perhaps we can start with dinner. I've invited one potential candidate to join us this evening."

"Seriously? I just got here!"

"Time is a luxury we don't have," your grandmother reminds you. "Prince Jongseong of Astoria is already in Genovia for diplomatic meetings. It's an opportunity that shouldn't be wasted."

Your head is spinning. "Prince who of where now?"

Your grandmother hands you a folder. "Astoria is a key ally. A marriage alliance would be most beneficial."

You flip open the folder to find a dossier—an actual dossier—on someone named Prince Jongseong of Astoria. The photograph shows a young man about your age with perfect features and an expression of cool dignity. He's handsome in an intimidating way, like a sculpture you're not allowed to touch.

"Great," you say weakly. "Blind date with a prince. No problem."

The day passes in a blur of instructions, protocol lessons, and people telling you how to walk, talk, sit, and breathe like a princess. By evening, your exhaustion has been replaced by a surreal, floating feeling, as if none of this is actually happening to you.

"Remember," Charlotte reminds you for the hundredth time as you're escorted to the State Dining Room, "curtsy when he's introduced, address him as 'Your Highness' initially, then 'Prince Jongseong' after that. The Queen will lead the conversation."

"What if I just hide under the table?" you suggest. "Blame it on jet lag?"

Charlotte doesn't even acknowledge your joke. "The Prince is known for his diplomatic skill and decorum. Please try to match his level of dignity."

"No pressure there."

The dining room is intimidating—all crystal chandeliers and gold trim. Footmen stand at attention along the walls. Your grandmother already waits at the head of a table that could seat thirty, though only four places are set.

"You look lovely," she tells you, and you resist the urge to tug at the formal dress that feels like a costume.

"I look like someone else," you reply honestly.

"Sometimes appearing royal is the first step to feeling royal," she says, which doesn't make you feel any better.

The doors open, and a court official announces: "His Royal Highness, Prince Jongseong of the House of Park, Crown Prince of Astoria, and Lord High Commissioner of the Eastern Provinces."

Your first thought as he enters: people shouldn't be that perfect-looking in real life. It seems unfair somehow.

Prince Jongseong is tall and moves with unconscious grace. His formal attire—some kind of military dress uniform with medals and sashes—accentuates broad shoulders. His features are even more striking in person—sharp jawline, intense eyes that miss nothing.

You remember to curtsy, wobbling slightly in your heels. When you straighten, his eyes meet yours directly. No smile, just assessment.

"Wait," you blurt out before anyone can speak. "Are we related?"

The room goes absolutely still. Charlotte makes a small choking sound behind you. Your grandmother's expression doesn't change, but her eyes widen slightly.

Prince Jongseong blinks, the only indication that your question has caught him off guard.

"I beg your pardon?" he asks, his voice deeper than you expected, his accent subtle but distinctive.

"Sorry, I just—I'm new to this whole royal thing, and apparently everyone's connected somehow, so I wanted to check if we're like, third cousins or something before this gets weird."

Your grandmother clears her throat. "Prince Jongseong's lineage and the Renaldi family have no direct connection for at least seven generations."

"Oh. Good." You feel your face heating up. "That's... good to know."

Prince Jongseong's expression remains absolutely neutral, but something that might be amusement flickers in his eyes briefly.

"Your Majesty," he addresses your grandmother first, bowing formally. "Thank you for your invitation."

When he turns back to you, you feel suddenly, intensely scrutinized.

"Your Highness," he says, bowing again. "It is an honor to meet the Princess of Genovia."

You're supposed to say something regal in response, but what comes out is: "I only found out I was a princess yesterday, so we're kind of in the same boat there."

Prince Jongseong does something unexpected. The corner of his mouth twitches—almost, but not quite, a smile.

"An unusual circumstance," he acknowledges, his tone carefully neutral but his eyes suddenly more interested. "Though I assure you, the honor remains."

Dinner is a masterclass in awkwardness. Your grandmother and an Astorian diplomat discuss trade agreements while you try to remember which fork to use for each course. Prince Jongseong watches you with those observant eyes but says little.

It's during dessert that he finally addresses you directly.

"I understand you were a university student before this... revelation."

You look up, surprised he's bothered to learn anything about you. "Yes. Political science, ironically enough."

"A useful background for your new role," he comments.

"I was planning to work for a non-profit," you admit. "Not rule a country."

"Few of us choose our destinies," he says, and something in his tone makes you wonder if he's speaking from experience.

After dinner, your grandmother suggests a "stroll through the East Garden" which is apparently royal code for "leaving you alone with your potential suitor while still maintaining proper supervision," as Charlotte and two guards follow at a discreet distance.

The garden is beautiful under the moonlight, with flowering trees and perfectly manicured hedges. You walk in uncomfortable silence until Prince Jongseong speaks.

"You seem overwhelmed."

You laugh, the sound sharper than intended. "What gave it away? The identity crisis or the third cousin question?"

"Both were... illuminating," he replies, and you think you detect a hint of humor beneath his formal tone.

"Sorry about that," you sigh. "This is all just... a lot."

"I can imagine," he says, though you doubt he can. He's probably been a prince his whole life, never wondering who he really is or where he belongs.

"No offense, but this isn't exactly how I planned to spend my week," you tell him honestly. "Twenty-four hours ago, I was a normal college student with student loans and a part-time job. Now I'm having dinner with princes and learning how to curtsy."

"It's a significant adjustment," he acknowledges, which feels like the understatement of the century.

"Can I ask you something?" you say suddenly.

He inclines his head slightly. "Of course."

"Is it always this weird? Being royal, I mean. Does it ever feel... normal?"

The question seems to surprise him. He considers it seriously before answering.

"I cannot speak to your experience," he says carefully. "I was born into my role, prepared for it from childhood. But even so, there are moments when the weight of responsibility feels... alienating."

It's the most human thing he's said all evening.

"What do you do in those moments?" you ask, genuinely curious.

Something shifts in his expression—a momentary glimpse of a different person behind the perfect princely mask.

"I remember that even a gilded cage is still a cage," he says quietly. "But with the right mindset, it can also be a platform for meaningful change."

You study him more carefully. Maybe there's more to Prince Perfect than you initially thought.

"That's... surprisingly profound," you admit.

The hint of a smile touches his lips again. "You expected shallow platitudes?"

"I don't know what I expected," you say honestly. "Everything about today has been surreal."

"Including meeting a potential husband selected by parliament?" he suggests, and there's definitely a note of dry humor in his voice now.

You can't help but laugh. "Yeah, that's pretty high on the surreal list."

"If it helps," he offers, "I find the situation equally unusual, though perhaps less distressing as I've had longer to adjust to the concept."

"How generous of you," you say sarcastically before you can stop yourself.

To your surprise, a genuine smile briefly transforms his face, making him look younger, more approachable.

"You're very direct," he observes.

"Sorry. New to the royal filter thing."

"It's... refreshing," he admits. "Most people I meet have agendas carefully hidden beneath pleasantries."

"My only agenda is surviving this day without having a complete breakdown," you tell him truthfully.

He stops walking, turning to face you. The moonlight catches the sharp angles of his face, and for a moment, he looks like a real person rather than a perfect royal specimen.

"You're doing better than you think," he says, and it feels like the first completely genuine thing he's said all evening.

The moment stretches between you—something unnamed passing in the silence—before Charlotte clears her throat, reminding you of her presence.

"The Queen will be expecting us to return," she prompts.

Prince Jongseong straightens immediately, mask back in place. "Of course."

As you walk back toward the palace, your hand accidentally brushes his. A small touch, barely nothing, but something unexpected flutters in your stomach. His eyes meet yours briefly, and you wonder if he felt it too.

Back in the formal reception room, he bows over your hand. "It has been a pleasure, Your Highness."

"Likewise, Prince Jongseong," you manage, this time remembering the proper response.

As he prepares to leave, he hesitates, then adds quietly, "Perhaps when we meet again, you might be more accustomed to your title."

-

You wake to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains, momentarily disoriented. The canopied bed, the ornate furniture, the distant sound of voices speaking a language you don't understand—where are you?

Then it hits you like a freight train. Genovia. Palace. Princess.

You groan and pull a pillow over your face. Maybe if you smother yourself with Egyptian cotton, you'll wake up in your cramped apartment with your psychology paper still due and your normal life intact.

A gentle knock at the door shatters that fantasy.

"Your Highness?" Olivia's voice calls. "Her Majesty requests your presence for breakfast in thirty minutes."

You remove the pillow with another groan. "Tell her I've fled the country."

There's a pause. "I... don't think I can say that to the Queen, Your Highness."

Despite everything, you laugh. Poor Olivia, stuck with an unwilling princess who doesn't know the first thing about royal protocol.

"I'll be ready," you call back, dragging yourself out of bed.

The "breakfast room" (because apparently regular dining rooms are insufficient for morning meals) is sunshine-bright and intimidatingly elegant. Your grandmother already sits at the table, reading documents while sipping tea.

"Good morning," she says without looking up. "I trust you slept well?"

"Not really," you admit, slouching into a chair before remembering Charlotte's lecture about posture. You straighten awkwardly, feeling like you're balancing a book on your head.

Your grandmother finally looks at you, one eyebrow arched. "Honesty before coffee. How refreshing."

A servant appears instantly with a cup of steaming coffee prepared exactly how you like it. You stare at it suspiciously.

"How did they know...?"

"Part of the job," your grandmother answers simply. "Knowing what people need before they ask for it."

You take a grateful sip. "At least that's one perk of this princess gig."

Your grandmother sets down her papers. "Your schedule today is quite full. We have much work to do."

"Schedule?" You didn't know you had a schedule.

"Charlotte will brief you after breakfast. But first," she slides a leather portfolio across the table, "Your Genovian citizenship papers, passport, and diplomatic credentials. You'll need to sign where indicated."

You flip open the folder. The first document declares you Princess Y/N Mignonette Renaldi of Genovia, Crown Princess and Royal Heir.

"Mignonette?" You look up, confused. "That's not my middle name."

"It is now," your grandmother says with finality. "A royal name."

You sign where indicated, feeling like you're signing away your old identity with each stroke of the pen.

"There's something else we need to discuss," your grandmother says once you've finished. "Your... public introduction."

"My what now?"

"The people of Genovia must meet their princess. There will be a press conference tomorrow, followed by a formal ball next week."

You choke on your coffee. "Tomorrow? A press conference? I can't—I don't—I'm not ready for that!"

"Which is why today is devoted to preparation," she says calmly. "Diplomatic protocol, Genovian history, public speaking..."

Your appetite vanishes. People—actual citizens of an actual country—are going to be judging whether you're fit to rule them. The thought is paralyzing.

"What if I mess up?" you ask quietly. "What if I embarrass Genovia? Or you?"

Something softens in your grandmother's expression. "You are more capable than you realize." She hesitates, then adds, "Your father was much the same way. Doubting himself, yet exceeding every expectation."

It's the first time she's voluntarily mentioned your father, and the comparison catches you off guard.

"I wish I'd known him," you say before you can stop yourself.

"As do I," she replies softly. "As do I."

The moment of vulnerability passes as quickly as it appeared. She's all business again, consulting her watch.

"Charlotte will meet you in the library in fifteen minutes. And this evening, Prince Jongseong will be joining us for the diplomatic reception."

Your stomach does a weird flip at the mention of his name. "Already? I just met him yesterday."

"He's requested to assist with certain aspects of your diplomatic training," your grandmother explains, a hint of something—amusement? satisfaction?—in her eyes. "The prince has excellent connections throughout Europe. His guidance will be valuable."

"I'm sure," you mutter, wondering what his real agenda is. Nobody volunteers for tutoring duty without an ulterior motive.

-

The dress fitting is endless torture. The royal stylist, Madame Aubert, fusses over fabrics and colors while treating you like a mannequin rather than a person.

"Perhaps the blue? It brings out Her Highness's eyes," she suggests to Charlotte, who nods seriously.

"I like the green one," you interject.

Both women look at you with surprise, as if they'd forgotten you could speak.

"The green is... less traditional," Madame Aubert says diplomatically.

"I'm not exactly a traditional princess," you point out. "Raised in America. Didn't know I was royal until two days ago. Let's embrace the unconventional, shall we?"

Charlotte's lips thin with disapproval, but she doesn't argue. "The green then. With appropriate accessories."

The "appropriate accessories" turn out to be your first tiara—a delicate silver creation with small diamonds that makes your heart skip despite your determination to remain unimpressed by royal trappings.

"This is from the royal collection," Charlotte explains as Madame Aubert carefully places it on your styled hair. "Traditionally worn by princesses at their first official appearance."

You stare at your reflection, this stranger with perfect hair and makeup wearing a genuine tiara. The disconnect between who you were days ago and who you're supposed to be now has never felt more stark.

"What if I can't do this?" you whisper, fear finally breaking through the sarcasm you've been hiding behind.

Charlotte's expression softens slightly. "Everyone feels unprepared for significant change, Your Highness. Even those born to royal life."

"Even Prince Perfect?" you ask before you can stop yourself.

"Prince Jongseong?" Charlotte raises an eyebrow. "Especially him, I suspect. The burdens of Astoria's crown prince are considerable."

You turn to her, surprised by this insight. "What do you mean?"

"Astoria has undergone significant modernization in recent years," Charlotte explains. "Prince Jongseong has been at the forefront of many reforms, often against traditional factions. His reputation for perfectionism is... protective."

This new perspective on the prince is unexpected. You think back to his comment about gilded cages during your garden conversation.

"I misjudged him," you realize aloud.

"First impressions in royal circles are rarely accurate," Charlotte says with surprising gentleness. "We all wear masks of one kind or another."

The conversation is interrupted when your grandmother sweeps in to inspect the dress selection. She surveys you critically, then nods approval.

"The green is unexpected," she notes. "But it suits you. Bold without being inappropriate."

"Thank you," you say, genuinely pleased by her approval.

"Now," she continues briskly, "for this evening's diplomatic reception. There will be approximately fifty guests, primarily ambassadors and foreign dignitaries. You will be introduced formally, then circulate with me for the first hour."

Your momentary confidence evaporates. "Fifty people? Tonight? I barely know how to address half the titles Charlotte's been drilling me on!"

"Consider it practice for tomorrow's press conference," your grandmother replies calmly. "Prince Jongseong has offered to assist you. He knows most of the attendees personally."

Of course he does. Prince Perfect probably emerged from the womb networking with international dignitaries.

-

The diplomatic reception is held in yet another ornate room you haven't seen before. You're beginning to wonder just how many formal spaces one palace needs.

You stand beside your grandmother as Charlotte announces each arrival, desperately trying to remember their titles and countries while maintaining what you hope is a regal posture.

"His Excellency Antoine Dubois, Ambassador of France," Charlotte intones.

A distinguished older man approaches, bowing over your grandmother's hand. "Your Majesty, always a pleasure."

He turns to you with obvious curiosity. "And Your Highness, welcome to Genovia. France looks forward to a long and prosperous relationship with the future Queen."

You manage a decent curtsy. "Thank you, Your Excellency. I look forward to learning more about the historic ties between our nations."

The diplomatic phrase Charlotte drilled into you comes out smoothly, and you feel a small surge of triumph. Maybe you can do this after all.

As more guests arrive, you fall into a rhythm of greetings and basic pleasantries. Your nerves gradually settle—until Charlotte announces, "His Royal Highness, Prince Jongseong of Astoria."

He enters looking even more striking than yesterday, dressed in formal evening attire with a subtle military influence. A row of medals decorates his chest, and a blue sash crosses his torso. The effect is both regal and undeniably attractive.

He bows to your grandmother first, then to you, eyes meeting yours with unexpected warmth.

"Your Highness," he says, and there's something almost like approval in his gaze. "You look magnificent."

The compliment catches you off guard. "Thank you. You look... very princelike yourself."

A hint of amusement flickers in his eyes. "I try my best."

Your grandmother watches this exchange with interest. "Prince Jongseong, perhaps you would be kind enough to introduce Princess Y/N to some of our Eastern European allies? I believe the Latvian ambassador was hoping to meet her."

"It would be my honor," he replies smoothly.

Your grandmother leans closer to you. "Remember, diplomatic relations are built on personal connections as much as formal agreements," she murmurs. "Use this opportunity to establish yourself."

Great. More pressure.

Prince Jongseong offers his arm, and you take it, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickens at the contact.

"Nervous?" he asks quietly as he leads you through the crowd.

"Terrified," you admit. "I keep waiting for someone to realize I have no idea what I'm doing."

"A secret of royal life," he replies, his voice low near your ear. "Most of us feel that way. We're just better at hiding it."

You look at him in surprise. "Even you?"

"Especially me," he says, and for a brief moment, his perfect façade slips, revealing something vulnerable beneath. Then it's gone, replaced by his usual composed expression as you approach a group of diplomats.

"Ambassador Petrov," Prince Jongseong greets an imposing man with a silver beard. "May I present Her Royal Highness, Princess Y/N of Genovia?"

The next hour passes in a blur of introductions and carefully navigated conversations. Prince Jongseong remains at your side, smoothly guiding interactions and occasionally rescuing you with well-timed interventions when you falter.

During a brief moment alone while getting drinks, you turn to him. "Thank you. For... all this." You gesture vaguely at the room.

"You're doing remarkably well," he says. "Most people would have fled the country by now."

"Don't think I haven't considered it," you mutter, making him smile.

"What's stopping you?"

You consider the question seriously. "I don't know. Maybe... responsibility? My grandmother needs me. Genovia needs me. Running away seems selfish."

He studies you thoughtfully. "That sense of duty will make you an excellent ruler someday."

"If I survive princess lessons," you joke weakly.

"You will," he says with surprising conviction. "And perhaps along the way, you might even find aspects of royal life to enjoy."

"Like what? The constant scrutiny? The lack of privacy? The arranged marriages?"

His expression shifts at that last point. "Not all royal marriages are purely political these days. There can be... compatibility considerations."

"Is that what this is?" you ask boldly, gesturing between you. "A 'compatibility assessment'?"

He doesn't answer immediately, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I would prefer to think of it as... getting to know each other without predetermined expectations."

"Except for the fact that my grandmother and your government clearly have expectations," you point out.

"True," he acknowledges. "But perhaps we could set those aside, temporarily. See if there's more between us than diplomatic advantage."

Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "And if there isn't?"

"Then we remain allies with mutual respect," he says simply. "No one can force a marriage in the modern era, regardless of constitutional requirements."

Before you can respond, Charlotte approaches. "Your Highness, the Prime Minister has arrived and wishes to pay his respects."

Prince Jongseong steps back slightly. "We should continue this conversation another time."

"I'd like that," you admit, surprised by your own honesty.

He bows formally, but his eyes hold something warmer. "Until tomorrow, Princess Y/N."

-

The press conference is a blur of flashing cameras and shouted questions. Despite your fears of public humiliation, you somehow manage to survive it—stumbling only twice over Genovian pronunciations and making just one awkward joke that, thankfully, the press seems to find charming rather than offensive.

"You were marvelous," your grandmother tells you afterward, her approval warming you despite your exhaustion.

"Really? Because I think I just agreed to visit a children's hospital tomorrow and I have no idea what a royal visit actually entails."

"Charlotte will brief you," she says dismissively. "The important thing is that you appeared genuine. The people responded to that."

You think back to Prince Jongseong's advice about authenticity over perfection. Maybe he was right after all.

"Speaking of Prince Jongseong," your grandmother continues, with that same hint of calculation in her eyes, "he's arranged for a tour of Genovia's historical districts tomorrow evening. The royal council believes it would be beneficial for you to be seen engaging with our cultural heritage."

"The royal council believes," you repeat skeptically. "Or you believe?"

Your grandmother's lips twitch. "Let's say our interests align in this particular matter."

You roll your eyes. "You're not exactly subtle about this matchmaking attempt."

"Subtlety is a luxury afforded to those with time," she replies. "We have precious little of that."

She's not wrong. The constitutional deadline looms over every decision, every interaction. Sometimes you forget that your grandmother faces the end of her life's work—the dissolution of a monarchy that has stood for centuries—if you don't step up to the challenge.

"Fine," you concede. "I'll go on the royal field trip. But don't expect me to fall madly in love just because he knows his way around old buildings."

"I expect nothing," your grandmother says innocently. "Though I would point out that an appreciation for history is an admirable quality in a potential consort."

That night, sleep remains elusive despite your exhaustion. Your mind keeps cycling through the day's events, replaying moments of triumph and embarrassment in equal measure. After tossing and turning for hours, you finally give up and slip out of bed.

The palace is different at night—quieter, less intimidating without the constant hustle of staff and royal obligations. You wrap a robe around your pajamas and venture into the hallway, nodding to the security guard who pretends not to notice your disheveled state.

Without any real destination in mind, you wander through dimly lit corridors, enjoying the rare moment of solitude. Somehow, you find yourself at a set of glass doors leading to the garden where you walked with Prince Jongseong that first night.

The garden is silvered with moonlight, the formal hedges casting complex shadows across manicured lawns. You step outside, breathing in the scent of night-blooming flowers, and follow a stone path deeper into the grounds.

You've just discovered a charming fountain featuring a mermaid when a voice behind you says, "You couldn't sleep either?"

You whirl around, startled, to find Prince Jongseong standing a few feet away. He's dressed casually—at least by his standards—in dark pants and a simple white shirt, open at the collar. With his hair slightly mussed and his perfect posture somewhat relaxed, he looks younger, more approachable.

"You scared me," you accuse, pressing a hand to your racing heart.

"My apologies," he says, taking a step closer. "I didn't expect anyone else to be out here at this hour."

"That makes two of us," you reply, suddenly conscious of your own appearance—hair hastily tied back, face bare of makeup, wearing palace-issued silk pajamas under a matching robe. Not exactly how you'd choose to encounter the frustratingly perfect prince.

"I watched the press conference," he says, changing the subject. "You did well."

"I stumbled over 'agricultural initiatives' and called the Finance Minister 'sir' instead of 'minister,'" you point out.

His mouth quirks in that almost-smile that's becoming familiar. "And yet, you were authentic. The people responded to that."

"That's almost exactly what my grandmother said."

"The Queen is a perceptive woman."

You study him in the moonlight, curious about this less formal version of the prince. "Do you always wander palace gardens at midnight?"

"Only when sleep proves elusive," he admits. He hesitates, then adds, "The demands of royal life can be... difficult to quiet."

"Tell me about it," you sigh, sitting on the edge of the fountain. After a moment's hesitation, he joins you, maintaining a respectful distance. "Two days ago, my biggest worry was my political theory midterm. Now I'm worried about constitutional crises and diplomatic incidents."

"It's a significant adjustment," he acknowledges.

"That's the understatement of the century," you laugh, but there's no real humor in it. "Everyone keeps acting like I should just accept all this—the title, the responsibility, the arranged marriage—like it's perfectly normal."

He's quiet for a moment, then asks, "May I speak candidly, Your Highness?"

"Please. And maybe drop the 'Your Highness' when we're alone? It's weird enough without the constant reminders."

He nods, then says, "Y/N, then." Your name in his voice, without the royal title, sends an unexpected shiver down your spine. "The truth is, none of this is normal. Not even for those of us raised in it. We're just better at pretending."

"You're saying you hate it too?" you ask skeptically.

"Not hate," he corrects. "But there are... challenges. Expectations. Sacrifices."

"Like what?"

He stares at the fountain, watching moonlight play across the water. "Privacy. Freedom to choose one's own path. The luxury of mistakes."

You study his profile, seeing something vulnerable in his expression that's never visible during daylight hours. "So why do it?"

"Duty," he says simply. "Family. The knowledge that privilege comes with responsibility."

"That sounds rehearsed," you observe.

To your surprise, he laughs—a genuine sound that transforms his face. "Perhaps because I've been repeating it to myself since childhood."

Your curiosity grows. "What would you have chosen? If you weren't born a prince?"

The question seems to catch him off guard. He considers it seriously. "I've never allowed myself to think about it. But perhaps... music."

"Music?" That wasn't what you expected.

"I play piano," he admits, sounding almost embarrassed. "Classically trained, of course, as all proper princes must be. But I find myself drawn to composing. It's... freeing."

You try to imagine Prince Perfect hunched over a piano, lost in music of his own creation, and the image is strangely compelling.

"Will you play for me sometime?" you ask impulsively.

Something shifts in his expression—surprise, certainly, but something else too. Something warmer. "If you wish."

"I do," you say, surprised by your own sincerity.

A comfortable silence falls between you, broken only by the gentle splashing of the fountain. Without the pressure of formal events and watchful eyes, you find yourself relaxing in his presence.

"What about you?" he asks eventually. "If you weren't suddenly thrust into royal life, what would you have chosen?"

"I was studying political science," you remind him. "I wanted to work in international development. Help people who are overlooked by traditional power structures."

"Noble aims," he observes.

"Now I sound like the one with rehearsed answers," you laugh.

"No," he says softly. "You sound like someone with genuine conviction." He pauses, then adds, "Someone who would make an excellent queen."

The compliment catches you off guard. "You barely know me."

"I'm a good judge of character," he replies. "It's a necessary skill in diplomatic circles."

"Is that what this is?" you ask boldly. "Diplomacy?"

His eyes meet yours, and something electric passes between you. "Not entirely," he admits.

"This is something unexpected," he says finally, his voice lower than before.

The air between you feels charged with possibility. You're acutely aware of his proximity, of the slight gap in his collar revealing a glimpse of collarbone, of the way moonlight catches in his eyes.

"Jongseong," you say, testing his name without the princely title. It feels intimate somehow, crossing an invisible boundary. "Why did you volunteer to help with my training?"

He doesn't answer immediately. When he does, his honesty surprises you. "Initially, for diplomatic reasons. An alliance between Genovia and Astoria would benefit both nations." He hesitates, then adds, "But after meeting you... my motivations became more personal."

"How personal?" you press, heart racing.

Instead of answering, he reaches out slowly, giving you time to pull away, and brushes a strand of hair from your face. His fingertips graze your cheek, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.

"Personal enough that I find myself in gardens at midnight, hoping for a chance encounter," he admits quietly.

You don't realize you've been holding your breath until you exhale shakily. "That's... quite personal."

His gaze drops to your lips briefly before returning to your eyes. "May I..." he begins, then hesitates.

"Yes," you whisper, not needing him to finish the question.

He leans in slowly, deliberately, one hand coming up to cup your cheek. When his lips finally meet yours, the kiss is gentle, questioning, giving you every opportunity to pull away.

You don't. Instead, you find yourself leaning into him, one hand coming to rest on his chest where you can feel his heart beating as rapidly as your own. The kiss deepens, becoming something more urgent, more honest than any interaction you've had since arriving in Genovia.

When you finally break apart, you're both breathing unevenly. Jongseong rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed as if savoring the moment.

"That was..." he begins.

"Unexpected?" you suggest, echoing his earlier word.

He laughs softly. "Yes. Though perhaps inevitable."

"Is this going to cause an international incident?" you ask, only half-joking.

"Only if we let it," he replies, drawing back slightly to meet your eyes. "This... whatever is developing between us... it needs to be separate from politics. At least for now."

"Can it be?" you wonder aloud. "Everything about our lives is political."

"Not everything," he says firmly. "Not this." He takes your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. "When we're alone, I'd like to just be Jongseong. Not Prince Jongseong of Astoria with all its attendant expectations."

The vulnerability in his request touches something in you. "I'd like that."

"My friends at school used to call me Jay," he admits, sounding almost shy. "No one here uses that name."

The nickname humanizes him instantly, creating a contrast with the formal prince everyone else sees.

"Jay," you repeat, testing it on your tongue. His eyes darken at the sound of his nickname in your voice. "I like it."

"May I kiss you again... Y/N?" he asks, your name without titles sounding intimate in his accented voice.

In answer, you close the distance between you, kissing him with more confidence this time. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens. One of your hands finds its way into his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands that are usually so perfectly styled.

You lose track of time, lost in the sensation of his mouth against yours, his hands tracing patterns on your back through the thin silk of your robe. There's an urgency building between you, a heat that makes you forget your surroundings, your circumstances, everything but the feeling of being in his arms.

It's the distant sound of a guard's footsteps that finally brings you back to reality. You pull apart quickly, both breathing heavily. Jongseong's hair is mussed from your fingers, his lips slightly swollen, and there's a flush across his cheekbones that you've never seen before.

"We should probably go back inside," you say reluctantly, glancing toward the sound. "Before someone finds us."

He nods, though he looks as unwilling as you feel. "You're right." He stands, offering you his hand to help you up. "Though I find myself wishing for more midnight encounters."

"Is that a royal request?" you tease, accepting his help.

"A personal one," he corrects, bringing your joined hands to his lips for a brief kiss that sends warmth flooding through you.

-

The historical districts of Genovia are charming beyond your expectations—cobblestone streets, centuries-old architecture, and views of both mountains and sea that take your breath away. But if you're being honest, you're far more aware of your tour guide than the sights.

Jongseong—or Jay, as you've begun to think of him in your private thoughts—appears perfectly princely today, back in formal attire with his public mask firmly in place. If not for the occasional heated glance when no one is watching, you might think you dreamed last night's encounter.

"This cathedral dates back to the 14th century," he explains as you enter a soaring space of stained glass and ancient stone. "The Renaldi family has traditionally been crowned here since 1523."

"Where I'll be crowned," you murmur, the reality of your future suddenly pressing in.

His expression softens briefly. "Yes. Though not for many years, one hopes."

The palace security detail keeps a discreet distance, but they're ever-present, along with several photographers approved to document your cultural education for the Genovian press. Every movement, every interaction is observed, recorded, analyzed.

"How do you stand it?" you ask quietly as you move between exhibits in a historical museum. "The constant scrutiny."

"You develop a public self," he explains, maintaining a proper distance as he guides you through a display of royal artifacts. "A version that can withstand examination."

"And the real self?"

His eyes meet yours briefly, intensely. "That remains private. Shared only with those who have earned trust."

The implication isn't lost on you. Last night, he showed you something real—something beyond the perfect prince facade. The knowledge feels like a precious secret.

The tour concludes with dinner at a historical restaurant overlooking the harbor. Security has cleared the establishment of other patrons, creating an illusion of privacy that you both know is false. Still, sitting across from him as sunset paints the water gold, you find moments of genuine connection between the formal conversation about Genovian history and culture.

"You've memorized a remarkable amount about Genovia," you observe as he explains the significance of an ancient trading route.

"I studied your country extensively after learning of your existence," he admits. "I wanted to be prepared."

"For what?"

"To meet you," he says simply.

Something warm unfurls in your chest. "That's... thorough."

"I prefer to be informed," he replies, but there's a hint of self-deprecating humor in his tone. "Though I confess, no amount of research prepared me for the reality."

"Disappointed?" you ask, only half-joking.

"Quite the opposite." His gaze is steady, sincere. "You continually surprise me, Y/N. It's... refreshing."

The way he says your name, without titles or pretense, sends a thrill through you despite the public setting.

After dinner, as you're escorted back to the palace, the car's privacy partition offers a brief moment of seclusion from watchful eyes. Jongseong's hand finds yours in the darkness, fingers intertwining.

"I wish we could have a normal evening," he says quietly. "Without guards and photographers. Just the two of us."

"Is anything about our lives ever going to be normal?" you wonder aloud.

He squeezes your hand gently. "Probably not. But we might find moments of normalcy in the chaos."

The car slows as you approach the palace gates, and reluctantly, he releases your hand. The mask of royal propriety falls back into place with practiced ease.

"Thank you for the tour, Prince Jongseong," you say formally as the car stops at the palace entrance. "It was most educational."

"The pleasure was mine, Your Highness," he replies with equal formality, though his eyes convey a very different message.

Later that night, you find yourself drawn once again to the garden, hoping for a repeat of the previous evening's encounter. The fountain beckons with memories of his kiss, but the garden remains empty save for the ever-present palace guards.

Disappointed, you turn to head back inside when you notice something on the bench by the fountain—a folded piece of paper tucked partially beneath a small stone. Looking around to ensure no one is watching, you retrieve it, unfolding it quickly.

Inside, in elegant handwriting: Piano room, east wing, midnight. —J

Your pulse quickens. The east wing houses several music rooms, according to Charlotte's exhaustive palace tour. It would be simple enough to find your way there.

It would also be reckless, improper, and potentially scandalous if discovered.

You fold the note carefully, tucking it into your pocket, and head back inside, decision already made.

The palace at midnight is a labyrinth of shadows and silence. You've changed from your formal evening attire into something more comfortable—dark jeans and a simple blouse that feels like armor after days of princess couture. With your hair loose and face scrubbed of makeup, you almost recognize yourself again.

You navigate the corridors carefully, grateful for Charlotte's detailed palace tour. The east wing is older, with fewer guards patrolling its halls. The music room isn't difficult to find—soft piano notes guide you to a partially open door.

Inside, lit only by a single lamp, Jongseong sits at a grand piano. He's shed his formal attire for dark pants and a simple button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair falls loose across his forehead as he plays, eyes closed in concentration.

The melody is hauntingly beautiful—melancholy yet hopeful, complex yet accessible. You stand in the doorway, transfixed by this version of him you've never seen before—completely unguarded, lost in his music.

When the piece ends, his eyes open and find you immediately, as if he sensed your presence all along.

"You came," he says simply.

"I came," you confirm, stepping fully into the room and closing the door quietly behind you.

He remains seated at the piano, watching as you approach. "Did anyone see you?"

"Just the guard outside my room. I told him I was going to the library."

He nods, satisfied. "That was beautiful," you add, gesturing to the piano. "What was it?"

"Something I've been working on," he admits, looking almost shy. "It's not finished yet."

"You composed that?" You're genuinely impressed.

"Music has always been... an escape," he explains. "Somewhere I can express things I can't say aloud."

"What was that piece saying?" you ask, perching on the edge of the piano bench beside him.

He considers this, fingers ghosting over the keys without pressing them. "It's about living between worlds. Belonging fully to neither." His eyes meet yours. "I started it the night we met."

The admission sends warmth flooding through you. "Play more?" you request softly.

Instead, he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. "I'd rather talk. Without titles or expectations or diplomatic considerations."

"What should we talk about... Jay?" His nickname feels intimate on your tongue.

His eyes darken at your use of the name. "Anything. Everything. Who you were before Genovia. Who you hope to become."

So you talk—really talk—in a way you haven't been able to since arriving in Genovia. You tell him about college, your friends, your dreams of working in international development. He shares stories of his childhood in Astoria, the weight of expectation, the moments of rebellion carefully hidden from public view.

"I crashed a motorcycle when I was seventeen," he admits, and you try to reconcile this image with the perfect prince you first met. "Snuck out of the palace, borrowed a security guard's bike, ended up with three broken ribs and a lecture from my father I still haven't forgotten."

"I can't imagine you being that reckless," you laugh.

"I'm not, usually," he acknowledges. "But sometimes the pressure builds until something has to give."

You understand that feeling all too well. "What happened after?"

"I was sent to military academy to 'channel my energies appropriately,'" he says with a wry smile. "It actually helped. Gave me structure, purpose beyond simply being the crown prince."

As you talk, the distance between you gradually diminishes. His hand finds yours again, thumb tracing patterns on your palm that send shivers up your arm. Your shoulders touch, then your knees. The air between you grows charged with possibility.

"I haven't stopped thinking about last night," he admits, voice dropping lower. "About kissing you."

"Neither have I," you confess.

This time, there's no hesitation. He leans in, capturing your lips with his, one hand coming up to cup your face. The kiss deepens immediately, as if you're both making up for lost time. You shift closer on the bench, your hand finding its way to his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath your palm.

His kisses are more confident than the night before, exploring rather than questioning. Your fingers thread through his hair, marveling at its softness. When his tongue traces the seam of your lips, you open to him without hesitation, a small sound of pleasure escaping you.

The bench is awkward, limiting movement, so when he pulls back slightly, breathing heavily, you stand, tugging him with you. He follows willingly, but instead of returning to your kiss, he guides you to a small sofa in the corner of the room.

"More comfortable," he explains, settling beside you.

This new position allows for closer contact. When his lips find yours again, his arm wraps around your waist, drawing you against him. Your bodies align perfectly, and heat builds between you with each passing moment. His kisses move from your lips to your jaw, then your neck, discovering sensitive spots that make you gasp.

"Is this okay?" he murmurs against your skin.

"More than okay," you assure him, tilting your head to give him better access.

Your hands explore hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence—the broad expanse of his shoulders, the firm muscles of his chest, the surprising warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. His own explorations become bolder, one hand sliding up your side, thumb brushing the outer curve of your breast.

Even this innocent touch sends electricity through you. You arch into his hand, silently encouraging more. He obeys your wordless request, cupping you fully through your blouse, thumb circling in a way that makes you bite your lip to stay quiet.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, eyes dark with desire. "From the moment I saw you..."

You silence him with another kiss, not trusting yourself with words. Your body is taking control, wants overwhelming rational thought. When his hand slips beneath the hem of your blouse, warm against your bare skin, you shiver with anticipation.

His fingers trace patterns up your ribcage, hesitating at the edge of your bra. "May I?" he asks, ever the gentleman even in this moment.

"Yes," you breathe, beyond caring about propriety or consequences.

The first touch of his hand against your bare breast draws a soft moan from you that he captures with his mouth. His thumb circles your nipple through the thin lace, sending waves of pleasure through your body. You press closer, wanting more, needing more.

Your own hands grow bolder, tugging his shirt from his waistband, slipping beneath to explore the warm skin of his back. You feel the subtle ridge of a scar near his shoulder blade, a humanizing imperfection that makes him even more attractive somehow.

"What's this from?" you ask, fingertips tracing the mark.

"Fencing accident," he murmurs against your neck. "Age twelve. Opponent didn't pull his strike."

You press your lips to his jaw, then his neck, enjoying the way his breath catches. "Any other scars I should know about?"

His laugh is low, slightly uneven. "Several. But discovering them might require more privacy than a music room allows."

The reminder of your surroundings is like a splash of cold water. Anyone could walk in—a guard, a staff member, your grandmother. The scandal would be immediate and irreparable.

Reluctantly, you pull back slightly, though your body protests the loss of contact. "You're right. This isn't the place."

His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing heavily. "I got carried away," he admits. "You have a... significant effect on me."

"Likewise," you assure him, pressing one more quick kiss to his lips before putting slight distance between you. "But you're right. We should be careful."

He helps you straighten your clothes, then adjusts his own, running a hand through his disheveled hair in a futile attempt to tame it. The sight of him—rumpled, flushed, looking nothing like the perfect prince the world knows—fills you with a secret satisfaction.

"When can I see you again?" he asks, taking your hand. "Like this, I mean. Just us."

"I don't know," you admit. "My schedule is packed for the next few days. Royal duties and all that."

"I have to return to Astoria briefly," he tells you, disappointment evident in his voice. "Diplomatic matters requiring the crown prince's attention. But I'll be back for the royal ball."

The royal ball—your official introduction to Genovian society. The thought fills you with anxiety, but now also anticipation at the prospect of seeing him again.

"Dance with me at the ball?" you request.

"Every dance they'll allow," he promises. He hesitates, then adds, "Though propriety will demand you dance with other suitable candidates as well."

"Other suitors, you mean," you clarify, the political reality of your situation reasserting itself.

His expression tightens slightly, but he nods. "Yes. The royal council will expect you to consider all options."

"And what do you expect?" you challenge softly.

His answer is immediate and sincere. "Only that you follow your heart, wherever it leads." He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "Even if it's not to me."

The selflessness of this statement catches you off guard. "That's... not what I expected you to say."

"What did you expect?"

"Something more possessive, maybe," you admit. "More princelike."

He smiles, that real smile that transforms his face. "I'm trying very hard not to be the prince with you, remember? Just Jay."

"Well, Just Jay," you say, returning his smile, "I can't make any promises about where my heart will lead. But right now, it seems rather fixated on a certain piano-playing prince with surprisingly skilled hands."

-

The next few days pass in a blur of preparations. There are fittings for your ball gown (a process that involves no fewer than seven people and countless discussions of hemlines and necklines and something called "appropriate royal décolletage"). There are dance lessons with Monsieur Laurent, who seems personally offended that Prince Jongseong isn't there to partner you. There are briefings about every guest who will attend, complete with flash cards for memorizing names and titles.

"The Duchess of Wellington prefers to discuss her charitable foundation, not her recent divorce," Charlotte instructs as you review the guest list. "And under no circumstances ask the Spanish ambassador about Gibraltar."

"This is worse than finals week," you grumble, flipping through the stack of cards. "At least then I was only tested on one subject at a time."

"Society is judging you on everything simultaneously," Charlotte confirms cheerfully. "Appearance, knowledge, grace, diplomacy..."

"Thanks. That's very reassuring."

The night before the ball, you find yourself restless, missing both Jay's presence and the calming effect of your midnight conversations. Over the past month, you've grown accustomed to his company, to having someone who understands both your old world and your new one. This week without him has left you feeling strangely adrift.

You wander down to the music room, hoping to recapture some of that peace, but the room feels empty without him. You sit at the piano, pressing random keys, creating nothing like the beautiful melodies he coaxed from the instrument. On impulse, you check under the bench, then inside the piano itself, hoping for another note, but find nothing.

It's silly to feel disappointed. He's a crown prince with actual responsibilities, not a lovestruck teenager leaving notes for his crush. Still, you can't help wishing for some connection, some indication that he's thinking of you too.

Back in your room, you're about to climb into bed when there's a soft knock at your door. Olivia enters with a small silver tray.

"This just arrived for you, Your Highness," she says, presenting what appears to be a letter sealed with dark blue wax.

Your heart skips as you recognize the crest pressed into the seal—the royal emblem of Astoria. You wait until Olivia leaves before breaking it open with trembling fingers.

Inside, written in that now-familiar elegant handwriting:

Y/N, Diplomatic obligations keep me in Astoria longer than anticipated, but I'll return tomorrow in time for the ball. Save a dance for me—preferably more than one. This week has felt like an eternity. I've missed our conversations, our moments away from public scrutiny. I find myself at my piano each night, working on the piece I started after we met. It's nearly complete now. Perhaps I'll play it for you soon. The past month has been unexpected in every way. When I first agreed to my father's request to help with your royal transition, I never imagined... Some things are better said in person. Until tomorrow, J P.S. I still feel your touch on my skin.

-

The day of the royal ball arrives with military precision. Your schedule is planned down to the minute—when you'll bathe (9:15 AM), when your hair will be styled (11:30 AM), when makeup will be applied (2:45 PM). It's as if you're a product being assembled rather than a person preparing for an event.

"I can bathe myself, you know," you inform Charlotte when she reviews the schedule over breakfast. "I've been doing it successfully for two decades."

"Today is not about efficiency, Your Highness," Charlotte replies. "It's about tradition. The royal ball has marked the formal introduction of new members of the royal family for generations."

You think about Jay's letter, tucked safely under your pillow. Tonight isn't just about tradition for you. After a month in the palace, you've reached a turning point—not just in your royal journey, but in whatever is developing between you and Jay.

The day progresses according to schedule, each hour bringing you closer to the evening's festivities. By the time you're finally dressed, you hardly recognize yourself in the mirror.

Your ball gown is a masterpiece of midnight blue silk that seems to change colors as you move—now sapphire, now indigo, now almost black. The bodice is fitted, adorned with subtle crystal beading that catches the light like stars, while the skirt flows outward in graceful folds. Your hair has been swept up in an elegant style that manages to look both regal and youthful, and atop it all sits a delicate tiara—platinum vines intertwined with small diamonds.

"You look every inch a princess," your grandmother declares when she sees you, genuine approval warming her voice.

"I feel like I'm wearing someone else's life," you admit.

She approaches, adjusting your tiara slightly. "It is your life now. You've taken to it more naturally than anyone expected—including yourself, I suspect."

There's a knowing look in her eyes that makes you wonder how much she's guessed about your feelings for Jay. Your grandmother misses little, and your increasingly frequent "diplomatic discussions" with Prince Jongseong over the past month have hardly been subtle.

"Remember," she continues, "tonight you represent not just yourself, but Genovia. Every interaction matters."

"No pressure," you mutter.

"Considerable pressure," she corrects, but with a hint of a smile. "That's the nature of our position."

The ball is being held in the palace's Grand Ballroom, a space so opulent it makes even the other royal rooms seem understated in comparison. Crystal chandeliers hang from vaulted ceilings painted with mythological scenes. Massive floral arrangements perfume the air. A full orchestra plays softly as guests begin to arrive.

You stand with your grandmother at the entrance, greeting each person as Charlotte announces them. Your hand is kissed so many times it begins to feel like a separate entity from your body. You cycle through the diplomatic phrases you've memorized, trying to match names to faces to countries to appropriate topics of conversation.

You continue greeting guests, anxiety gradually giving way to a strange confidence. After a month of intensive training, you're actually doing this—being a princess, representing Genovia, handling diplomatic small talk without major incident. The realization is both surprising and empowering.

And then finally, after what feels like hours, Charlotte announces, "His Royal Highness, Prince Jongseong of Astoria."

Your heart stutters as he appears, resplendent in formal attire—a midnight blue military-style jacket with silver accents that perfectly complements your gown, as if coordinated. (Knowing your grandmother's attention to detail, it probably was.) He looks every inch the crown prince, and yet all you can see is Jay—your Jay—hidden beneath the formal facade.

His eyes find yours immediately, warming in a way that feels intimate despite the crowded room. He bows formally to your grandmother, exchanging pleasantries, before turning to you.

"Your Highness," he says, taking your hand. Instead of the customary kiss to your knuckles, he turns your hand gently and presses his lips to the inside of your wrist, just above your pulse point.

The gesture is technically within the bounds of protocol but charged with meaning only you understand. You feel your heartbeat quicken beneath his lips, and know he can feel it too.

"Prince Jongseong," you manage, your voice steadier than you expected. "Welcome back to Genovia."

"I understand congratulations are in order," he says smoothly. "The press has been most favorable regarding your public appearances this week."

"The princess has exceeded expectations," your grandmother agrees, watching this interaction with interest.

His eyes never leave yours. "I'm not surprised."

The moment stretches between you, full of unspoken feelings built over these past weeks, before Charlotte's announcement of the next guest breaks the spell. Jay bows again and moves into the ballroom, but not before one last glance that promises more to come.

Once all guests have arrived, the formal dancing begins. Your grandmother opens the ball with the Prime Minister, and then it's your turn. Tradition dictates that your first dance be with the highest-ranking unmarried nobleman present—which happens to be Jay.

He approaches as the orchestra begins a stately waltz, extending his hand. "May I have this dance, Your Highness?"

You place your hand in his, grateful for all those practice sessions over the past month. "You may."

His hand settles at your waist, familiar yet different in this public setting. You move together perfectly, your earlier clumsiness long gone, replaced by a confidence born of compatibility and practice.

"You look breathtaking," he says quietly as he guides you through a turn. "That color suits you."

"Thank you. You look..." You search for a word that encompasses how he affects you without being inappropriate for public consumption. "Regal."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Is that a compliment or a complaint?"

"Both," you admit. "I miss Jay. Prince Jongseong is very impressive, but..."

"But not who you want to be with," he finishes, understanding immediately. His hand tightens slightly at your waist. "He's still here. Just... constrained by circumstance."

"Can he break free later?" you ask boldly. "Perhaps after the ball?"

His eyes darken. "He'll find a way."

The orchestra's final notes signal the end of your dance, forcing you to separate. Jay bows formally, though his eyes convey much more intimate thoughts.

"Until later, Princess," he says, voice low with promise.

The rest of the evening becomes an exercise in diplomatic multitasking. You dance with Prince Nikolai, finding his conversation refreshingly direct. You dance with the French ambassador's son, the Duke of Wellington, and several other names from your grandmother's list of suitable candidates.

Each dance, each conversation, feels like a performance—you playing the role of princess, potential bride, future queen. Only your brief interactions with Jay feel real, though these are limited to passing glances and the occasional comment as you move in the same diplomatic circles.

During a momentary respite, you find yourself near a set of French doors leading to a terrace. Needing air and solitude, you slip outside, grateful for the cool night breeze after the stuffiness of the ballroom.

You've only enjoyed the peace for a moment when a familiar voice says, "Escaping your own ball?"

You turn to find Jay stepping through the doors, looking concerned.

"Just taking a short break," you assure him. "It's a lot to process."

He glances back at the ballroom, then joins you at the stone balustrade. "We shouldn't be alone together," he says, though he makes no move to leave. "Not where anyone might see."

"Yet here you are," you point out.

"Here I am," he agrees. "Unable to stay away despite knowing better."

You study his profile in the moonlight, drinking in the details you've missed during his week away. The strong line of his jaw, the perfect posture that somehow looks less rigid tonight, the subtle way his eyes soften when they meet yours.

"I missed you," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

His expression gentles. "And I you. Far more than I anticipated."

You glance back at the ballroom, where hundreds of guests dance and mingle, all potential witnesses to this private moment. "A week felt longer than I expected."

"I composed three new pieces," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Music seems to flow more easily when I'm... feeling something intensely."

"Is that your princely way of saying you thought about me?" you tease.

He turns to face you fully, close enough that you can see the subtle variations of color in his eyes, even in the dim light. "I thought about little else."

Your heart skips at the naked honesty in his voice. Over the past month, you've learned to read the subtle shifts in his expression, to understand what lies beneath his carefully controlled exterior. Tonight, he's making no effort to hide his feelings.

"The ball is beautiful," you say, changing the subject before you do something reckless like kiss him where anyone might see. "I'm surprised I haven't completely embarrassed Genovia yet."

"You could never," he assures you. "You've taken to royal life with remarkable grace."

"I've had a good teacher," you reply, holding his gaze meaningfully.

He steps closer, close enough that the skirt of your gown brushes against his legs. "There's a small courtyard beyond this terrace," he says, his voice low. "More private than here. Would you walk with me? Just for a moment?"

You know you shouldn't. You're the guest of honor at a ball being held in your honor. People will notice your absence. And yet...

"Lead the way," you decide, throwing caution aside.

He offers his arm with perfect formal correctness, as if you're simply taking a proper turn around the terrace. But once you're beyond the sight of the French doors, his hand covers yours where it rests on his arm, a much more intimate touch.

The courtyard is small and enclosed, lit only by the moonlight and a few distant lanterns. A fountain burbles quietly at its center, surrounded by hedges that provide welcome privacy. The music from the ballroom is muffled here, creating the illusion that you've stepped into another world.

The moment you're properly hidden from view, Jay turns to you, one hand coming up to cup your cheek.

"I've been waiting to do this all evening," he murmurs, before his lips find yours.

The kiss is gentle at first, a reacquaintance after a week apart. But it quickly deepens, a month of growing desire making you both less cautious than you should be. Your arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer. His hands settle at your waist, respectful even in passion.

"I missed this," you breathe against his mouth. "Missed you. The real you."

"I'm most real when I'm with you," he confesses, forehead resting against yours. "Everywhere else, I'm playing a role."

"Even in Astoria?"

"Especially there," he sighs. "My father has... specific expectations about how the crown prince should behave."

You pull back slightly to study his face. "You never talk about your father."

A shadow crosses his expression. "There's little to say. He is a traditional ruler with traditional views."

"About Astoria? Or about who you should marry?" you ask, cutting to what you suspect is the heart of the matter.

Jay's silence answers your question.

"He doesn't approve of me," you realize. "Of us."

"He doesn't know you," Jay corrects gently. "He sees only the diplomatic equation—a princess with an uncertain claim versus more established alliances."

The reality of your situation crashes back. No matter how genuine your feelings, how perfect this stolen moment, politics surrounds you both like the walls of this courtyard.

"And what do you see?" you ask, steeling yourself for his answer.

His hands frame your face, his gaze unwavering. "I see you. Not the princess, not the diplomatic opportunity. Just you—stubborn, honest, intelligent, beautiful you."

The sincerity in his voice melts your defenses. You reach up to touch his face, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone with your fingertips.

"When did this happen?" you wonder aloud. "When did you become so important to me?"

He turns his head to kiss your palm. "I don't know. Somewhere between your first disastrous curtsy and the moment you called me Jay instead of Prince Jongseong."

"It was the piano playing," you decide with a small smile. "I'm a sucker for musicians."

He laughs softly, the sound warming you from within. "I'll compose symphonies for you, if that's what it takes."

"Takes for what?" you challenge gently.

His expression grows serious. "To convince you that what's between us is worth fighting for, regardless of politics or convenience or royal expectations."

The weight of his words settles over you. A month ago, you were a college student worrying about midterms. Now you're a princess with constitutional responsibilities, standing in a moonlit courtyard with a prince who's looking at you like you're the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life.

"Jay," you start, not sure what you're going to say.

"Don't answer now," he interrupts softly. "There's still time. Still much we both need to consider."

He's right, of course. The constitutional deadline looms, but it's still weeks away. Tonight isn't the time for final decisions.

"We should return," he says reluctantly. "Your absence will be noticed."

"Yours too," you point out. "The dashing Crown Prince of Astoria is quite popular, I've noticed."

A hint of a smile touches his lips. "Jealous?"

"Should I be?"

His answer is another kiss, deeper than before, his arms pulling you flush against him. When he finally releases you, you're both breathing heavily.

His eyes darken. "Meet me in the music room. One hour after the ball ends."

Your breath catches. "That's... quite direct."

"You asked," he reminds you, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "Will you come?"

The music is drawing to a close, your time together nearly over. "Yes,"

-

Once alone, you change from your nightgown into something less formal but still respectable—dark pants and a simple blouse. You check the clock. Forty minutes until you're supposed to meet Jay in the music room. Enough time to let the palace settle, for guards to assume their night positions, for suspicion to fade.

The music room is dark when you arrive, only a single lamp burning low near the piano. For a moment, you think you've arrived first—then you spot him, standing by the window, looking out at the gardens below.

"Jay," you say softly.

He turns, and the expression on his face makes your heart skip. He crosses the room in a few long strides, and then his arms are around you, his lips on yours, and all pretense of formality evaporates.

This kiss is different from those that came before—less hesitant, more certain. A month of growing feelings, a week of separation, an evening of pretending indifference—all of it culminates in this moment of honesty between you.

When you finally part, both breathing heavily, he rests his forehead against yours. "I've been wanting to do that all night."

"Even during our dances?" you tease.

"Especially then," he admits. "Having you so close, yet having to maintain proper distance... it was excruciating."

You laugh softly. "Poor prince. Such diplomatic hardship."

"You have no idea," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "The things I wanted to say to you..."

"Say them now," you encourage, pulling back slightly to see his face.

He studies you in the dim light, his expression serious. "I don't want to overwhelm you."

"Try me," you challenge.

He takes a breath, then leads you to the small sofa where you've sat during previous late-night conversations. Once you're settled side by side, he takes your hand, his thumb tracing patterns on your palm.

"When my father first suggested I assist with your royal transition, I saw it as a diplomatic assignment," he begins. "Astoria helping Genovia, building goodwill, assessing a potential alliance. Very... political."

You nod, encouraging him to continue.

"Then I met you," he says with a small smile. "This defiant, overwhelmed, utterly genuine person who didn't fit any diplomatic template I'd prepared for."

"I was a mess," you remind him.

"You were authentic," he corrects. "Do you know how rare that is in royal circles? How precious?"

His sincerity catches you off guard. "I just didn't know how to be anything else."

"Exactly," he says, squeezing your hand. "And over these past weeks, watching you navigate this new world while somehow maintaining that authenticity... it's been remarkable."

"I find myself thinking about you constantly," he continues. "Looking forward to our conversations. Composing music inspired by your laugh. Wondering what you're doing when we're apart."

"I know it's fast," he acknowledges. "Barely a month since we met. But I also know that when I'm with you, I feel more myself than I ever have. Like I don't have to choose between the crown prince and the person beneath it."

He brings your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "I'm falling in love with you, Y/N. Not the princess. You."

The confession hangs in the air between you, honest and terrifying and beautiful all at once.

"Say something," he urges when you remain silent, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.

Instead of answering with words, you lean forward and kiss him, trying to convey through touch what you're not sure how to express aloud. Your feelings for him have grown so gradually yet so intensely that putting them into language feels impossible.

When you finally break the kiss, you keep your face close to his. "I don't know what this is," you admit. "Everything in my life has changed so completely in the past month. But the one thing that feels real, that feels right, is you."

His eyes search yours. "But?"

"But I'm scared," you confess. "Of feeling this much. Of making decisions based on emotions when the stakes are so high. Of disappointing my grandmother, Genovia, everyone counting on me to make the right choice."

"What if the right diplomatic choice and the right personal choice are the same?" he asks quietly.

"Are they?" you challenge. "Your father doesn't seem to think so."

His expression tightens slightly. "My father sees alliances in terms of historical connections and military strategy. But a union between Astoria and Genovia makes sense on multiple levels—economic, cultural, geographic."

"Very romantic," you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

He smiles, recognizing your deflection. "I'm trying to address your concerns about duty. The personal reasons are..." His voice drops lower. "Well, I think I've made those clear."

Heat blooms in your cheeks at his implication. "Crystal clear."

"We don't have to decide anything tonight," he assures you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "The constitutional deadline is still weeks away."

"And until then?" you ask.

"Until then," he says, shifting closer, "we continue getting to know each other. Without pressure from our families or royal councils or diplomatic expectations."

"Can we really separate those things from who we are?"

"Perhaps not entirely," he admits. "But we can try. Starting with this."

He kisses you again, and for a while, the complications of royal life fade into the background. There's only this moment, this connection, this growing certainty that whatever path you choose, you want him beside you.

Much later, as you reluctantly prepare to return to your separate rooms before the palace awakens, Jay pulls you into one last embrace.

"We should go," he murmurs against your hair, though his arms tighten around you instead of letting go.

"Not yet," you whisper, unwilling to break the spell between you.

Jay studies your face in the dim light, something shifting in his expression. "Come with me," he says suddenly, taking your hand.

"Where?"

"Somewhere more private," he answers, leading you toward the door. "The guards change rotation in five minutes. We'll have a window."

Heart racing with equal parts excitement and nervousness, you follow him through the shadowed corridors. He moves with practiced ease, clearly familiar with the palace's nocturnal rhythms. After several turns, he stops before an ornate door you don't recognize.

"The royal library," he explains, producing a small key. "It's never guarded at night. No one will look for us here."

The library is vast and silent, moonlight streaming through tall windows, illuminating shelves that stretch toward the ceiling. A small fireplace holds the remnants of embers, casting a faint glow across a single chaise longue and a smaller, more intimate piano than the grand one in the music room.

Jay locks the door behind you, then crosses to stoke the dying fire. The flames leap higher, casting dancing shadows across the room. When he turns to face you, something has changed in his expression—something darker, hungrier.

He approaches slowly, giving you every chance to step away, to maintain the careful boundaries you've observed until now. But you don't move, don't want to move, transfixed by the intensity in his gaze.

Now, his breath is warm against your lips, fingers brushing your cheek with a reverence that makes your chest ache. The only light comes from the dying fire in the hearth, flickering shadows across the lone chaise and the grand piano beside it. The rest of the palace sleeps, unaware of the two figures standing too close in the quiet of the library, the air between them thick with something forbidden.

"Tell me to leave," he murmurs, voice wrecked with restraint.

"I won't," you whisper.

And then he kisses you.

It's slow at first, a gentle press of lips meant to savor, to test, to give you one last chance to stop this before it spirals beyond control. But when your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away, something breaks.

Jay groans softly, deepening the kiss, his hands sliding to your waist, gripping you like he's afraid you'll disappear. He backs you up until you collide with the piano, your hips pressing against the polished wood, a soft creak echoing through the empty library.

"God," he breathes against your lips, his forehead resting against yours. "You have no idea what you do to me."

"Then show me," you whisper, tilting your chin up to capture his lips again.

That's all it takes.

Jay's hands slip beneath the fabric of your blouse, fingers finding bare skin, warm and wanting. He lifts you onto the edge of the piano in one smooth motion, the wood cool against your thighs as he steps between them, fitting his body between yours like you were carved for each other.

His lips move from your mouth to your jaw, trailing down your throat, slow, deliberate. Your breath hitches when he reaches the curve of your collarbone, teeth grazing, tongue soothing, leaving heat in his wake.

He pulls back slightly, dark eyes locking with yours as his fingers skim higher up your thigh. "Tell me to stop," he murmurs, voice strained.

Instead, your fingers tangle in his hair, your breath unsteady as you part your legs just a little wider, inviting him in.

His chest rises and falls sharply as his hand slides higher, fingertips brushing over the heat of your core, teasing through the thin lace.

"Fuck," he exhales, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as his fingers press against you, feeling just how wet you already are.

You tremble beneath his touch, hips shifting forward, seeking more friction, more of him.

Jay lets out a soft, desperate laugh against your skin. "So eager," he teases, his breath sending shivers down your spine. "Do you even realize what you do to me?"

"Shut up and do something about it," you whisper, voice wrecked.

His control snaps.

His fingers slide beneath the lace, parting you with a slow, torturous stroke that has your head falling back, mouth parting on a silent gasp.

"Jay," you whimper, your hands clenching his shoulders as his fingers dip lower, circling, teasing, never quite giving you enough.

"Patience," he breathes, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. He's just as wrecked as you are.

Then, finally, he sinks a finger inside you.

Your body clenches around him, a sharp inhale breaking the silence of the library.

"That's it," Jay murmurs, lips brushing your temple, his free hand gripping your thigh to keep you open for him. "Let me hear you, my love."

His fingers work you open slowly, curling, pressing, stroking in time with the shallow thrusts of his hips against your thigh. His mouth never stops—kissing, biting, sucking at your skin, leaving marks that will be hidden beneath your clothes come morning but burn with the memory of him.

Your nails dig into his shoulders as he adds a second finger, stretching you, filling you, his thumb circling exactly where you need him most.

"Fuck," he groans when you roll your hips into his touch, chasing the friction. "You're so wet for me. Do you have any idea what that does to me?"

"Jay—" Your voice catches as he strokes deeper, his fingers curling just right, white-hot pleasure spreading from your core outward.

He presses a soft kiss to your parted lips, swallowing every moan, every gasp, his pace slow and purposeful, like he wants to memorize the way you fall apart beneath him.

"Say my name," he whispers against your mouth, his voice shaking.

"Jay—"

"Louder."

"Jay," you gasp, body trembling as the pleasure coils tighter, too much and not enough all at once.

"Good girl," he breathes, curling his fingers one last time, pressing his lips against yours just as you shatter around him, your back arching against the piano, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer.

He keeps working you through it, slow, lazy strokes that make you shudder, pressing kisses to your throat, your jaw, everywhere he can reach.

And when your breathing slows, his forehead rests against yours, his fingers still buried inside you, the taste of your pleasure still on his lips.

"I should let you go," he murmurs, but his hands don't move, his body still pressed against yours, hard and wanting.

You cup his face, pulling him back down for another kiss, deep and slow and full of everything you can't say.

"Not yet," you whisper.

And just like that, Jay groans, dragging you down from the piano and onto the chaise, his mouth and hands promising you're nowhere near done.

-

The palace is quiet as you slip through the corridors, heart still racing from the evening's events. You pause at a window overlooking the gardens, watching moonlight silver the paths where you first kissed Jay weeks ago. How much has changed since then—how much you have changed.

You're so lost in thought that you don't hear the approaching footsteps until it's too late.

"Your Highness?"

You turn, startled, to find your grandmother standing a few feet away, wrapped in a dressing gown that somehow manages to look regal despite the hour.

"Grandmother," you manage, hoping the dim lighting hides your flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips. "I was just... getting some air."

Her expression remains neutral, but her eyes miss nothing. "A common need after such an eventful evening."

You wait for questions or accusations, but instead, she joins you at the window, both of you staring out at the moonlit garden.

"I couldn't sleep on the night of my first royal ball either," she says unexpectedly. "Too much excitement. Too many decisions looming."

You glance at her, surprised by this rare personal revelation. "Was your ball also for... matchmaking purposes?"

A small smile touches her lips. "Of course. Royal balls have rarely been simply for dancing."

"Did it work?" you ask, genuinely curious. "Did you find someone suitable?"

"I did." Her voice softens with memory. "Though not whom my parents expected."

"Grandfather?"

She nods. "He was considered politically inconvenient. The third son of a minor royal house with more titles than fortune. My parents had their sights set on a neighbor with stronger military forces."

You absorb this information, struggling to reconcile it with the pragmatic queen you've come to know. "But you chose him anyway."

"Love is not a luxury afforded to royalty," she says, her tone measured. "But sometimes, if one is very fortunate, duty and affection may align."

The implication hangs between you. She knows. Perhaps not the details, but enough.

"Is that what happened with you and Grandfather?" you ask.

Her smile deepens. "We built something real from an arrangement that began as political. Not love at first sight, perhaps, but a deep and abiding partnership that grew into something... essential."

You think of Jay—of the way he looks at you when no one else is watching, of his hands on your skin just hours ago, of his confession in the music room.

"I'm not sure what to do," you admit quietly.

Your grandmother turns to face you fully. "You've grown quite... fond of Prince Jongseong."

It's not a question, but you answer anyway. "Yes."

"And he of you," she observes. "That much has been evident for weeks."

Your head snaps up. "You've known?"

"I have eyes, my dear. And considerably more experience with clandestine palace romances than you might imagine."

For a moment, you glimpse a different woman beneath the queenly facade—younger, perhaps, with her own secrets and desires.

"I don't want to choose wrong," you confess. "For myself or for Genovia."

"The choice is rarely wrong or right," she replies. "Merely different paths, each with its own challenges and rewards."

"That's not very helpful," you point out.

To your surprise, she laughs—a genuine sound rarely heard in palace corridors. "I'm afraid that's the most honest counsel I can offer. But I will add this: I have been watching you these past weeks, Y/N. You have taken to royal life with remarkable adaptability. You have won the respect of the council, the diplomatic corps, and, most importantly, the people of Genovia."

"Have I?" You find this hard to believe.

"Indeed. Which means you have earned the right to make this choice for yourself, with Genovia's interests in mind but not at the expense of your own happiness."

Her hand touches your cheek briefly—a rare gesture of affection. "Besides, I have not spent thirty years preserving this monarchy only to see its next ruler miserable in a politically expedient marriage."

With that cryptic statement, she turns to leave. At the end of the corridor, she pauses.

"One more thing, Y/N."

"Yes, Grandmother?"

"The southeast wing has far fewer night patrols than the east wing." Her eyes twinkle momentarily. "For future reference."

She disappears around the corner, leaving you speechless in the moonlight.

The next morning, a note arrives with your breakfast tray.

Meet me in the rose garden at noon. There are matters we must discuss before the council meeting tomorrow. —J

The formality of the message concerns you, so different from his usual warmth. You spend the morning distracted during your language lesson, earning several pointed looks from your Genovian tutor as you massacre conjugations.

By noon, you're a bundle of nerves as you make your way to the garden. You find Jay seated on a stone bench, his posture rigid, his expression guarded. He stands when he sees you, bowing formally.

"Your Highness."

The title and distance hurt more than you expected. "Are we back to that now?"

His expression softens momentarily before the mask returns. "I've received a summons from my father. I'm to return to Astoria immediately."

Your stomach drops. "For how long?"

"That's what we need to discuss." He gestures to the bench, and you sit, carefully maintaining space between you. "My father has learned of... our connection."

"How?" You've been so careful.

"It seems Prince Nikolai mentioned to his father how taken you and I seemed with each other. The Danish king mentioned it to the Austrian ambassador, who informed my father's adviser."

"That's..."

"Royal gossip," Jay supplies with a grim smile. "It travels faster than light."

You process this information, anxiety building. "What does your father want?"

"He believes our association has progressed beyond diplomatic utility," Jay says carefully, clearly choosing each word. "He reminds me that Astoria's interests lie in stronger alliances with certain Eastern European powers, not with a... 'newly discovered princess of questionable legitimacy.'"

The words sting, though you know they're not his. "I see."

"No, you don't," he says firmly, his composed facade cracking. "Those are his words, not mine. Never mine."

"But you're still leaving."

He runs a hand through his hair, a rare display of frustration. "He's the king. I cannot simply ignore a direct summons."

"And when you return to Astoria?" you press. "What then?"

Jay's eyes meet yours, conflict evident in their depths. "He expects me to begin formal courtship proceedings with Princess Elena of Belgravia."

The name hits you like a physical blow. Princess Elena—beautiful, accomplished, born and raised royal, and the daughter of one of the wealthiest monarchs in Eastern Europe.

"I see," you say again, because what else is there to say?

"I've requested a private audience with my father before any announcements are made," Jay continues. "I intend to make my case for... an alternative arrangement."

Hope flickers faintly. "What kind of alternative?"

"My own choice," he says simply.

You both know what that means. Who that means.

"When do you leave?" you ask.

"Tomorrow morning."

So soon. Too soon.

"The council meets tomorrow afternoon," you tell him. "To discuss my... suitors. To begin formalizing the process."

"I know." His hand twitches as if to reach for yours, but he restrains himself. You're in plain view of the palace windows. "My timing could not be worse."

You laugh, though there's no humor in it. "When has timing ever been on our side?"

He smiles sadly. "Perhaps just once, when a certain princess couldn't sleep and wandered into a garden at midnight."

The memory warms you despite everything. "What should I do about the council?"

"Stall," he suggests. "Ask for more time to consider. The constitutional deadline is still three weeks away."

"And if you don't return by then? If your father refuses your 'alternative arrangement'?"

The question hangs between you, heavy with implication. Jay's jaw tightens.

"Then you must do what's best for Genovia," he says finally. "As I must do what's best for Astoria."

"Even if that means..."

"Even then," he confirms, though the words clearly pain him.

You sit in silence, the carefully tended roses blooming around you in vibrant contrast to your darkening mood.

"Tonight," Jay says suddenly. "Meet me in the library. Midnight."

Your heartbeat quickens at the memory of your last library encounter. "The guards—"

"Will be occupied with a minor disturbance in the north wing," he finishes. "I've arranged it."

You raise an eyebrow. "How very un-princely of you."

A hint of his real smile appears. "I thought you preferred me un-princely."

"I prefer you," you correct softly.

His eyes darken, and for a moment you think he might forget propriety entirely and kiss you right there in the sunlight. Instead, he stands, straightening his jacket with a deliberate motion that reestablishes distance.

"Until tonight, Your Highness," he says formally, loud enough for any listening ears.

The library is bathed in moonlight when you slip inside at midnight. Jay is already there, pacing between the tall shelves.

The moment the door closes behind you, he crosses the room in swift strides, gathering you into his arms. His mouth finds yours with desperate intensity, and you respond in kind, clutching at his shoulders, his back, anywhere you can reach.

"I can't bear the thought of leaving you," he murmurs against your lips.

"Then don't," you reply, knowing it's impossible even as you say it.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his hands framing your face. "If there was any other way..."

"I know," you assure him. "I understand duty. Better than I did a month ago, anyway."

He smiles at that, though sadness lingers in his eyes. "You've become quite the princess."

"A reluctant one," you remind him.

"The best kind," he counters, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "The kind who questions, who challenges, who sees beyond tradition to possibility."

His faith in you is staggering. "What if I can't do this without you?"

"You can," he says with certainty. "You already have been. I've just been fortunate enough to witness it."

He leads you to the chaise where you lost yourself in him just nights ago. This time, though, he simply sits, pulling you close against his side.

"I've been thinking," he begins, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm. "About us. About what happens after I speak with my father."

"And?"

"There are several possibilities," he says, the diplomat in him emerging. "He may agree to consider an alliance with Genovia through... us. It's not without precedent or merit, despite his current reservations."

"But you don't think he will," you observe.

Jay sighs. "He is... traditional. Set in his views. Convinced of certain alliances' superiority."

"So what happens if he refuses?"

He's quiet for a long moment. "Then I have a decision to make. One I've been contemplating for some time."

Your heart quickens. "What decision?"

"Whether my duty to Astoria's future must follow the exact path my father envisions," he says carefully. "Or whether I might serve my country better by following my own judgment."

The implications of this statement hang between you.

"You would defy him?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

"I would reason with him first," Jay clarifies. "With every diplomatic skill I possess. But if he remains unmoved..." He takes a deep breath. "Then yes, I would consider... alternatives."

"What kind of alternatives?"

He turns to face you fully. "I will be king one day, regardless of whom I marry. My father's insistence on certain alliances reflects old thinking—military might and territorial advantage. But Astoria's future lies in economic partnership, cultural exchange, technological advancement. Areas where Genovia has much to offer."

"That sounds very rational," you observe. "Very diplomatic."

A smile touches his lips. "I'm trying to frame my personal desires in terms my father might respect."

"And what are your personal desires?" you ask boldly.

His eyes darken. "I think I've made those quite clear." His hand comes up to cup your cheek. "But if you need me to be more explicit..."

His kiss leaves no doubt, deep and claiming and full of promise. When he finally pulls away, you're both breathing heavily.

"I love you," he says simply. "I want a future with you. As Prince of Astoria, as future king, but most importantly, as Jay—the man I can only truly be when I'm with you."

Tears spring to your eyes at the raw honesty in his voice. "I love you too," you whisper, the words feel both terrifying and inevitable. "I don't want to lose this. Lose you."

"Then trust me," he urges. "Trust that I will find a way back to you. Trust that what we've found is worth fighting for."

"What should I tell the council tomorrow?"

"The truth," he says. "That you're still considering your options. That you need the full three weeks to make your decision."

"And if they press me?"

"Then you might mention that one option includes a harmonious union between Genovia and Astoria that would benefit both nations for generations to come." A hint of mischief enters his expression. "Be vague on the details."

You laugh despite the heaviness in your chest. "Very diplomatic."

"I've had excellent training," he reminds you.

You lean your head against his shoulder, savoring the solid warmth of him. "How long will you be gone?"

"A week. Perhaps two. I'll send word when I can, but communications may be... monitored."

The reminder of your precarious situation sobers you. "And if you don't return before the deadline?"

He's quiet for a moment. "Then you must do what you believe is right. For yourself and for Genovia."

"That's not the answer I wanted," you admit.

"It's the honest one," he replies. "I will do everything in my power to return to you with a path forward for us. But I would never ask you to risk Genovia's stability on my promise alone."

It's painful, but you understand. The weight of nations rests on both your shoulders. Your wants cannot be the only consideration.

"How did we get here?" you wonder aloud. "Two months ago I was worried about midterms and student loans."

"And I was dutifully attending diplomatic functions, playing the perfect prince," he adds. "Never imagining that a reluctant American princess would upend everything I thought I knew about duty and desire."

You smile at his characterization. "We're quite the pair, aren't we?"

"Indeed we are," he agrees, pressing a kiss to your temple. "And I intend to keep it that way, regardless of what my father or your council might prefer."

The conviction in his voice bolsters your courage. "So what now?"

"Now," he says, pulling you closer, "we have approximately five hours before dawn. I can think of several ways to spend them that don't involve diplomatic strategy."

"How scandalous, Your Highness," you tease, though heat pools in your core at his implication.

"You bring out my rebellious side," he murmurs, lips finding the sensitive spot below your ear that makes you shiver. "Among other things."

Words give way to touch as you lose yourselves in each other one last time before duty calls you back to separate worlds. Every kiss, every caress feels weighted with significance—a promise, a memory to sustain you through the uncertainty ahead.

Hours later, as dawn threatens the eastern sky, you lie tangled together on the chaise, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

"I should go," he whispers, though his arms tighten around you. "I'm expected at the airfield in three hours."

"Five more minutes," you plead, not ready to relinquish this moment.

He presses a kiss to your hair. "Five more minutes," he agrees.

-

The council chamber feels cavernous and oppressive as thirteen pairs of eyes study you with varying degrees of interest, skepticism, and calculation. Your grandmother sits at the head of the long table, her expression carefully neutral as the Prime Minister outlines the constitutional requirements yet again.

"The deadline approaches, Your Highness," he concludes, peering at you over his spectacles. "The council requires your decision regarding a suitable match so that proper arrangements can be made within the constitutional timeframe."

You take a deep breath, remembering Jay's advice and your grandmother's unexpected counsel.

"I understand the urgency," you begin, your voice steadier than you expected. "And I appreciate the council's diligence in presenting suitable candidates for consideration. However, I believe the constitution allows me the full three weeks to make my decision, and I intend to use that time."

Murmurs circulate around the table. The Minister of State leans forward, his bushy eyebrows drawing together.

"Your Highness, while technically correct, it would be prudent to announce your intentions sooner. Diplomatic arrangements require time, wedding preparations must be made, public announcements coordinated..."

"And all of that will happen," you assure him, "once my decision is final. But this is not merely a diplomatic arrangement—it is a marriage. One that will affect not only my life but the future of Genovia. I believe such a decision deserves careful consideration."

Your grandmother's lips twitch—almost a smile—before her expression returns to regal impassivity.

"Perhaps," offers Lady Rothschild, the only female council member besides your grandmother, "Her Highness might share which candidates she is most seriously considering? To allow for preliminary preparations?"

All eyes return to you, expectant. You think of Jay, likely in the air now, flying back to face his father and an uncertain future.

"I am considering several options," you say carefully. "Including the possibility of a union that would align Genovia's interests with Astoria, combining our complementary strengths in trade, technology, and cultural influence."

The Foreign Minister straightens in his chair. "Astoria? Has Prince Jongseong made an official overture?"

"Prince Jongseong and I have discussed the potential benefits of such an alliance," you reply, technically truthful while omitting the nature of those discussions. "While nothing is formalized, I believe the possibility warrants serious consideration."

This sets off another round of murmurs, more animated than before. You catch your grandmother watching you with something like approval in her eyes.

"Astoria has historically sought alliances eastward," the Defense Minister points out. "King Min-hyuk is known for his traditional leanings."

"Traditions evolve," you counter. "And wise rulers adapt to changing circumstances."

The Prime Minister clears his throat. "While an Astorian alliance would indeed offer significant advantages, we must be prepared for all outcomes. I suggest the council continue preparation for multiple possibilities while Her Highness completes her... deliberations."

It's a reasonable compromise, and you nod agreement. "I appreciate the council's patience and wisdom in this matter. I assure you that my decision will prioritize Genovia's interests while honoring the constitutional requirements."

The meeting concludes with formal pleasantries, though you feel the weight of speculation following you as you exit the chamber. Your grandmother falls into step beside you in the corridor.

"Well played," she murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. "Though I believe you've given Lord Pallimore indigestion with the suggestion of Astorian negotiations he knew nothing about."

You can't help but smile. "I merely stated facts. Prince Jongseong and I have indeed discussed the potential benefits of such an arrangement."

"I imagine you have," she replies dryly. "Quite thoroughly."

Heat rises to your cheeks. "Grandmother!"

"I may be old, my dear, but I'm not oblivious." She pats your arm. "Now we wait. And prepare for all possible outcomes, as the Prime Minister so diplomatically suggested."

"Do you think there's a chance?" you ask, unable to keep the vulnerability from your voice. "For Jay and me?"

Your grandmother considers this carefully. "I think Prince Jongseong is more resourceful than his father realizes. And I think King Min-hyuk, for all his traditional bluster, is a pragmatist at heart." She glances at you with unexpected gentleness. "But most importantly, I think you have discovered something genuine in each other. Such connections are rare in royal circles, and not easily broken—even by kings."

Her words offer comfort as the days stretch into a week, then ten days, with no word from Jay. You go through the motions of royal duties—charity visits, diplomatic receptions, cultural events—while your thoughts remain fixed on Astoria and the man fighting for your shared future.

On the eleventh day, when hope begins to falter, a small package arrives. No return address, no accompanying note, just a small box wrapped in simple brown paper.

Inside, nestled in velvet, lies an antique key on a delicate silver chain. You recognize it immediately—the library key Jay used on your last night together. Attached is a small card bearing only a date: three days hence, exactly one day before the constitutional deadline.

The message is clear: He's coming back. He's found a way.

For the first time in eleven days, you breathe fully.

-

The palace gardens are awash in golden late afternoon light as you pace the gravel path. You've changed outfits three times, settled on a simple blue dress that Jay once said brought out your eyes, then second-guessed that choice a dozen times since.

The sound of approaching footsteps has you turning, heart in your throat.

Jay stands at the garden entrance, still in traveling clothes, his hair slightly tousled from the journey. He looks exhausted but determined, his eyes finding yours with an intensity that steals your breath.

For a moment, neither of you moves, the weight of eleven days' separation and uncertainty holding you in place. Then you're running, propriety forgotten, and he meets you halfway, catching you in an embrace that lifts you off your feet.

"You're here," you breathe against his neck, inhaling his familiar scent. "You came back."

"I promised I would," he reminds you, setting you down but keeping you close. "Nothing could have prevented it."

You pull back just far enough to see his face, searching for clues about his meeting with his father. "What happened? What did he say?"

Jay glances around—you're in plain view of several palace windows. "Not here. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?"

You think for a moment, then smile. "Follow me."

You lead him through the palace to a small sitting room in the southeast wing—the area your grandmother so casually mentioned has fewer night patrols. It's a cozy space with comfortable furnishings and, most importantly, a lock on the door.

Once inside, Jay pulls you into his arms again, his kiss desperate and relieved and full of eleven days' worth of longing. You respond with equal fervor, hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, reassuring yourself that he's really here.

When you finally separate, both breathing heavily, he presses his forehead to yours. "I missed you. Every minute of every day."

"I missed you too," you whisper. "The waiting was... unbearable."

He leads you to a small sofa, sitting close, your hands still intertwined. "I have much to tell you."

"Your father?" you prompt.

Jay takes a deep breath. "It was... complicated. Initially, he was immovable. He had already drafted an announcement of intentions between Astoria and Belgravia."

Your heart sinks. "Oh."

"However," he continues, "I convinced him to hear me out before making anything official. I presented a detailed analysis of Genovia's strategic value as an ally—our complementary economies, technological innovations, cultural significance."

"Very diplomatic," you observe with a small smile.

"I was extraordinarily diplomatic," he agrees, a hint of humor in his eyes. "For five days straight. I enlisted support from progressive council members, provided economic projections, cultural impact studies..."

"And he remained unmoved," Jay admits. "Until I played my final card."

"Which was?"

His eyes lock with yours, unwavering. "I informed him that I would pursue this alliance with or without his blessing. That while I respect his wisdom and experience, my future reign would be guided by my own judgment. And that judgment sees clearly that you—both as princess and as yourself—represent the future Astoria needs."

You absorb this, staggered by the implied defiance. "You threatened to go against his wishes?"

"I made clear that my commitment to Astoria's prosperity is unwavering, but my choice of partner is non-negotiable." His fingers tighten around yours. "I also reminded him that he married for love, against his own father's wishes, and that Astoria has thrived under his reign nonetheless."

"And?" you press, heart pounding.

A smile breaks across Jay's face, transforming his features. "And three days of hostile silence later, he conceded that perhaps Genovia deserves 'further consideration' as a potential ally."

"That's... good?"

"From my father, it's the equivalent of enthusiastic approval," Jay assures you. "Especially with this."

He reaches into his jacket, withdrawing a small velvet box. Your breath catches.

"My grandmother's ring," he explains, opening it to reveal an exquisite sapphire surrounded by diamonds. "Given to her by my grandfather when they formalized their engagement after months of diplomatic negotiation. My father presented it to me this morning before I left."

"Jay," you whisper, staring at the ring. "Does this mean...?"

"It means that I have my father's grudging consent to pursue an alliance with Genovia through marriage," he confirms. "Assuming, of course, that Genovia's princess finds such an arrangement acceptable."

Despite the formal wording, the vulnerability in his eyes is unmistakable. This is not merely a diplomatic proposition.

"The council meets tomorrow for my final decision," you tell him. "The constitutional deadline is the day after."

"Convenient timing," he observes with a small smile.

"Almost as if someone planned it that way," you agree, returning his smile.

He shifts from the sofa to one knee before you, the ring box open in his palm. All traces of the diplomatic prince fade away, leaving only Jay—your Jay—looking up at you with naked hope and love.

"Y/N," he begins, his voice steady despite the emotion in his eyes. "These past weeks have transformed my understanding of duty, of purpose, of love. You've challenged me, surprised me, and shown me a version of myself I never knew existed. I cannot imagine a future—royal or otherwise—without you in it."

Tears blur your vision as he continues.

"I know our beginning was unconventional. I know our path forward will have challenges. But I also know, with absolute certainty, that what we've found together is worth fighting for—worth building a life, a partnership, and two kingdoms around."

He takes your hand, his touch steadying your trembling fingers.

"Will you marry me? Not just as princes and princesses fulfilling constitutional requirements, but as Jay and Y/N, building something real within the framework of our royal duties?"

The question hangs in the air, though your heart already knows the answer. You think of your journey—from reluctant princess to woman standing in her power, from diplomatic arrangement to genuine love, from fear of losing yourself to finding a partner who sees and values all of you.

"Yes," you say simply, your voice thick with emotion. "Yes to all of it—the duty, the challenge, the love. Everything."

He rises, pulling you to your feet and into his arms. "I love you," he murmurs against your lips. "The princess, the diplomat, the woman who still occasionally trips over her formal gowns... all of you."

You laugh through your tears. "And I love you—the perfect prince, the midnight pianist, the man who sees me clearly when I'm still learning to see myself."

His kiss is a pledge, a promise of the future you'll build together—one that honors duty while making space for love.

Tomorrow will bring announcements and celebrations, diplomatic strategies and constitutional requirements fulfilled. But tonight belongs to the two people who found each other beneath the crowns and titles—a connection neither of you expected but both now recognize as the most precious of diplomatic achievements.

A love powerful enough to bridge kingdoms while remaining, at its heart, deeply, uniquely your own.

and they lived happily ever after 

the end.

fin.

-

TL: @naurwayyyyy @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @somuchdard @ddolleri @zzhengyu @annybah @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltiloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @m3wkledreamy @inlovewithningning @vveebee @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3 @jakewonist @azzy02 @addictedtohobi @fancypeacepersona @yunjiiin @adoredbyjay @wheretheheckis-ssaki @flawlessapollo6 @stwrlightt @jaeyunsbimbo @fateismoonstruck @kiikiisblog @bbsantc @xeee334 @cherrybeomm @merwdusa @urmomdotcom5678

[ghouldump]

hi your fics are so amazing!!

if you’re open to requests, i was wondering if you could write a lestat x louis x reader fic that takes place during their huge fight in the townhouse? i can imagine the reader being a mother figure to claudia and trying to protect her during it and getting hurt in the process of trying to break up louis and lestat. i’d love to see how the reader deals with the aftermath of her and louis’ injuries as well as claudia taking care of the two of them.

sorry if its confusing😭 i thought of this while rewatching s1

For The Love Of A Daughter | Lestat x Reader x Louis

ෆ out of fear, lestat does the unimaginable and has to try his hardest to win his family's trust back, but it may be too late

the comparison of s1 vs s2 of this scene had me on the edge of my seat 🥺 ⚠️ THIS IS S1 E5 ‼️

How did your once beautiful family go to ruins? When Claudia was created? When she rebelled? Or when she left? Your daughter, you would go to hell and back for her, yet, you couldn't convince her to stay.

Lestat was cruelly strict with her, invading her privacy by reading her diaries, not considering the fact that she was trapped in the early stages of puberty for an eternity. She couldn't help that she was a young girl stuck in this body, and he never let her forget or made it easier on her.

Louis, he'd always been passive, about your companionship, as well as his role as a parent. He wanted to keep the peace and harmony. If that meant allowing Lestat to discipline her, then he’d turn his head to not have to watch out of guilt.

Then you, Lestat often complained that you spoiled her too much. You never raised a finger to her, nor your voice. You hadn't been brought up that way, and so you did the same with her. You still remember the night she left. Packing only a few things, while you and Louis tried convincing her to stay. Standing her ground, she gave you both a hug, letting the wind carry her away.

Seven years flew by, silence made its way into the house that no longer felt like a home. Louis nose-deep in book after book, Lestat leaving going god knows where, while you remained secluded, drawing, reading, and sometimes staring at the wall.

Tonight was a rarity, Lestat wasn't running off, and Louis sat on the sofa, reading, while you sat in a chair, your head lying on your arm, taking in the soft jazz music.

Hearing the door open, Claudia entered, setting her suitcase on the floor. Rushing over, you wrapped your arms around her, rocking back and forth. Pulling away, your heart broke as Louis hugged her tightly. He too had been taking it so hard, since she had been gone. Abruptly, the music stopped, Lestat glaring at her.

“The prodigal daughter”

“I've come to apologize, I put all of you in a bad spot, I wasn't right in my head. I am now,” she said. You couldn't put your finger on it, but there was something different about her, a certain brokenness, she was trying to shut away.

“Apology not accepted,” Lestat said.

“How was college? Magna cum? Summa cum? Phi Beta Kappa?” he continued.

“I've read a lot of books. Started with Persia and Babylon, the old gods who longed for blood. A lot of it was popcorn, but a few old tomes. A Romanian tract on vampirs. A strange old Hungarian text, ‘Masticatione Mortuorum,’ the chewing dead. I plan to leave for that part of the world as soon as I can,” she told him. You and Louis shared a look, sensing that this wasn't headed in a positive direction.

“So, quick stop home to do laundry before you fuck off for good,” Lestat spat.

“A quick stop to pick up my mama and Louis,” she told him. Your hand went to your stomach, trying to control the unsettling nervousness building up. Lestat glanced at the two of you, before glaring at her in disgust.

“Oh, Perused a few folklore anthologies, and now you're going to cross the ocean and take on a society of monsters,” he said, slowly making his way towards her.

“If what I've read is lies, then tell me what's true,” she told him, but he only continued to stare at her as if she was beneath him.

“Seven years and what’s changed, other than you need a housekeeper?” she sneered. He slowly approached her, and as you were about to step forward to intervene, Louis grabbed your hand, discreetly shaking his head.

“The vampires out there…are vicious. Oh, but you've learned that already. Who did you meet out there in the American hinterland? Read her,” Lestat looked at the two of you, walking away. Staring at her, you quickly wiped the tear from your eye, you couldn't imagine what she had been through all on her own.

“That’s it, keep 'em scared. That's his way,” she said to you both.

“The vampires in Europe are much, much worse”

“But I think he's scared,” she spoke over him.

“I never asked, how did Charlie taste? Like the love you'll never really know,” he said, trying to get under her skin.

“And when he's scared, he ridicules”

“She was a destitute little girl, destined to live an inconsequential little life,” he said, approaching the both of you.

“And we took it from her, we cursed her,” Louis said, making the smug expression drop from his face. Looking at you, his frown deepened, seeing you gaze at her, the bloody tears moments from seeping out.

“Come with me!” she called out, both of you staring at her.

“Come with me, mama, Louis”

“Louis, Y/n,” Lestat said, becoming angry as neither of you looked at him.

“I thought I could live without either of you, but I was wrong,” Claudia said, her eyes pleading for you to come along.

“Y/n, Louis”

“Louis, Y/n,” Lestat continued, raising his voice.

“His love is a small box he keeps you both in, don't stay in it,” she said, as you glanced at him.

“A thousand nights of sulking, and the first sight of her, you are just gonna up and leave me?!” Lestat yelled.

“Please, come with me! Let’s be vampires worth of your love!” Claudia screamed before Lestat surged, choking her.

“Get off of her,” you said, going to shove him off of her. However, he was much stronger, gaining the upper hand, his fingers wrapping around your throat, he looked unrecognizable.

“You, always choosing her,” he spat, before Louis charged over, tackling him.

As they fought, Claudia screamed, panicking, as you tried to keep up with them. Throwing Louis in the living room. Lestat straddled him, punching him in the face.

“Lestat, stop it,” you cried out, jumping on his back, but he easily slung you across the room, as you smashed into the wall, you could feel your arm already broken.

“Claudia, stay down here,” you told her, rushing to the bedroom.

“Stop fighting,” you screamed, as they continued tackling each other.

“Let him go,” you hear Claudia crying.

“It’s alright, you stay where you're at,” Louis told her, as if he wasn't completely bruised up.

“You're going to choose her too? Leave me for her when she left you both, I’ve been here,” he told you, as you slowly backed away, unsure of what he'd do next.

“Lestat st-

“Do not tell me what to do,” he told you, wrapping his hand around your throat, and pulling you close. His nails were in your skin, with your airway completely blocked.

Dragging both of you downstairs, and outside, you could hear Claudia running.

“I fought myself a million times, fought my nature, controlled my temper. I never once harmed either of you,” he said.

“Let him go,” you cried, hoarsely, trying to claw at his hand, while reaching for Louis.

“Silence,” he told you.

“Uncle Les”

“It's Uncle Les, now suddenly?”

“Let them go, they didn't do nothin’, let them go, it's me you want,” you could hear her steps approaching.

“Listen to me, and listen very carefully my infant death, it was never you. No matter how much your mama made you think otherwise,” he spat, crushing your throat, and dragging you both out into the road.

“I chose you, and you, given you the dark gift and you've betrayed me,” he said, biting into your neck, draining almost every ounce of blood from your body, before throwing you, watching as you flew into the backyard, colliding with bricks, you could feel your rib cage shatter.

However, as you stood up, you quickly fell to your knees in pain and fear for Louis’s life, watching as they flew into the sky to the point where they were no longer seen.

“Mama, are you alright?” Claudia ran to you, reaching for her hand, your other hand on your throat. You couldn't speak, Lestat’s nails had managed to pierce through. Claudia gasped, as you coughed, blood spilling out.

“Are you okay?” you asked.

“I’m okay, we just need to get Louis,” she said, helping you stand, however, just as you stood, Louis fell from the sky, hitting the ground. Limping over, you were afraid to touch him, the slightest touch looked as if it would break him even more.

Crying, you looked up, staring into Lestat’s eyes as he flew over you all, not saying a word. You couldn't say it, but from your expression, there was no way you could easily forgive him after this.

Healing was a struggle, not just from the physical damage, but any previous trust was gone. While you managed to bounce back within a few months, Louis had a long way to go. Lestat skipped town and hadn't bothered to show his face.

You avoided thinking about him, altogether. Dedicating yourself to Claudia and Louis, from coffin-bound to limping, every day was progress. Louis was slowly getting better and you both worked on strengthing your bond with Claudia. Then the calls started coming.

All of this time, you managed to push through the soreness and pain, but the moment he called you hid away, licking your eternal wounds. He was a completely different person that night, the things he said, the things he'd done. After Louis fully healed, you were no longer opposed to the idea of leaving for Europe with Claudia.

Hearing the doorbell ringing, you turned your head, watching as Claudia went outside. You could hear his voice, he had gifts, and he wanted to talk, to apologize. Louis went upstairs, throwing his coffin out of the window, you couldn't help but snicker.

“There’s your answer”

“And where is Y/n? I know she would enjoy these paints, they are rare. I paid quite a price because I knew she would make the most beautiful-

“My mama ain't got nothin’ to say to you, like you said, she betrayed you, choosing me,” she told him, shutting the door, and locking it.

Coming back to the living room, she glanced your way before to Louis, who came from upstairs. As Louis sat next to you, you pulled him close.

“You okay?” you asked him.

“Getting there,” he mumbled, smiling as you kissed his cheek.

Lestat didn't show his face anymore, but the gifts never stopped. Each time more spontaneous than the next, and while you knew, Louis was becoming weaker, you wished you could say the same for yourself.

“Emily Dickinson is not a vampire,” Louis said, as you laughed.

“How do you know?” she asked.

“Because she is dead,” you pointed out.

“How do you know?”

“She got a grave,” Louis said.

“And a tombstone,” you added.

“So do you,” She told Louis, all of you laughing, afterward.

As you crossed the streets, the driver honked their horn, as they slowly came to a stop in front of you. Opening the door, Lestat climbed out, smiling at you all. Rolling your eyes, you simply looked the other way.

“25 horsepower Rolls-Royce six-cylinder engine and a front end they call a coffin nose, is that rich? This one’s yours, mine’s back at home in blue,” he said, showing off the new car, and tossing the keys to Louis.

“I know how much you despise driving, so I got you other things, the finest fabrics, books, art supplies, and music, waiting for you at home, I'm back in town permanently,” he continued, looking your way, but you just stared off to the side, as if you didn't see him.

“Were you gone?” Claudia asked him.

“Across the river, in Algiers,” he said, you could still feel his eyes on the two of you.

“You know who lives in Algiers” Claudia said to you, as you clenched your jaw.

“I don't know what possessed me that night,” he said.

“Three years ago, that night, three years ago, he means,” Claudia corrected him.

“I was someone I don't want to be anymore. I've changed. Let me prove it to you. I’m nothing without you. I’m nothing without any of you”

“If you want me to go away, just say so. I’ll obey you. I’ll leave your lives forever. This silence is cruel, all I ask is that Y/n looks at me. You haven't spared me a glance since I've been here. Neither of you were ever cruel, don't let our situation change you,” he said.

“Just look at him,” Louis pleaded.

Turning to face him, he cleared his throat, straightening his posture. You didn't say anything, emotionlessly staring at him.

“You look stunning as always, ma chérie,” he complimented, his heart breaking as you looked away again.

Taking the keys, Claudia threw them, before scratching the car, reaching for your hand, walking away.

Six years, came and went, and more gifts flooded the house. It was unspoken between you and Louis that you both missed him. Although it looked different, Louis wanted him to come running back, each extravagant, but sentimental gift was tugging more and more at Louis’s heart. You preferred the distance, reminiscing on the past, before that night. You didn't think you could have that back, now, you secretly enjoyed every time he saw you, or wrote to you, begging that you would acknowledge him.

Unexpectedly, it happened, the record came in the mail and was immediately played. The song meant to win you both back while pissing you off, a song sung by his affair partner. Louis was seething, grabbing the record, and ran out of the house.

“You're not going with him?” Claudia asked.

“They will be back,” you mumbled, knowing his plan worked, he got through to Louis and would be coming back.

“Rule number four-

“Kill Antoinette”

“Antoinette is my own private-

“Affair,” Claudia said.

“Said child, interfering in the romantic lives of her parents,” Lestat said, wanting one of you to stop her. She had been sharp with him since the moment he stepped into the house.

“She will be 33 soon, far from a child,” you reminded him, rolling your eyes.

“It’s a lick and a promise in vampire years,” he shrugged.

“Maybe, but I am not your child anymore, that's rule number five,” Claudia said, catching his attention.

His eyes shifted from her to you, your interlocked hands. She had you, wrapped around her fingers, taken from him. Louis was more willing to work on the broken relationship, but you had shut him out, choosing your child.

“I’ll be your companion, your sister,” she told him, as he scoffed.

“It's not as simple as choosing a new family configuration, now I'm your cousin, now I'm your aunt, I am your maker,” he told her rudely.

“I’m going to bed,” you said, standing abruptly, he looked into your cold eyes, searching for any emotion.

“Will you not lay down your rules, as well?” he asked, sarcastically.

“Good night,” was all you said, turning away, going upstairs.

“She needs time,” you could hear Louis say.

Did you need more time? You didn't go through nearly as much as Louis and he managed to forgive him, why couldn't you? You were never maternal until Claudia came along, perhaps it came with being a mother. The way that he treated her, turned you against him. As much as you loved him, thinking back to the times you were spoiled, lavished as if you were royalty, you couldn't bring yourself to open up.

Hunting became insufferable. Louis began drinking human blood, it was supposed to bring everyone closer, hunting as a family, but you kept your distance. He knew he'd wounded you, his choice of words hurting you just as bad, and he'd have to be more persistent to win you back.

“I wished you’d look at me, the simplest glance would help me a great deal,” he said, following you, sighing in relief as you faced him.

“Happy?”

“You have my heart at your will, your precious words command me, and I would do anything you ask of me,” he said, trying to fight the tears, as you slowly approached him.

“Take up your heart, I wouldn't want you to feel betrayed when I don't choose you,” you said, turning around, leaving him to stand there and try to gather his emotions.

“Could you at least try to compromise?” Louis asked you, as you looked through the different fabrics in the store.

“I am-

“No, you're not, you put your coffin in Claudia’s room, and the other night, whatever you said, he cried himself to sleep”

“Aw, poor baby,” you said, placing the fabrics into Louis’ arms.

“You agreed that we would work things out, everybody is compromising trying to work through our problems, we need you too,” he said, pouting, as you approached the cash register.

“Fine, I hate when you give me that look,” you playfully rolled your eyes at him.

“Thank you, I love you,” you grinned.

“I love you,” you laughed, pecking his lips.

Later that night, after putting away your things, and changing into your nightgown, you were about to into Claudia’s room, when you stopped. Huffing, you went to your shared bedroom, opening the door.

“Did she say anything? I left a note, but she never responds,” Lestat grumbled.

“I talked with her, but it is up to her to make a decision,” Louis said.

“I hope you don't expect us to squeeze that coffin,” you said, making both of them face you.

“We could always sleep in the bed,” Louis offered, both of them approaching you.

‘Thank you’ he said, as you faced Lestat.

“Will you keep that stupid look on your face, or will you speak?” you asked.

“I didn't know it was okay for me to do so,” he chuckled.

“Y/n is willing to compromise, she hasn't said it verbally, but she does still love you,” Louis spoke, as you stared at the two of them.

“Ma chérie, if I could take back what I've said, what I’ve done-

“But you can't”

“I can't, and I will have to live with the burden of knowing I hurt you and Louis both, your role in Claudia’s life was never a problem, I am sorry, my love,” he said, walking to you, falling to his knees in front of you. His head laid against your stomach, and he continued to apologize profusely.

“To have you look at me, after months of refusal, even if it is a look of anger, is to see heaven,” he said, looking up at you. Reaching for his hand, you helped him stand, pecking his lips. Holding your hand out for Louis, as soon as he was close enough, your lips were on his soft skin.

Pushing Lestat onto the bed, you straddled his lap, rolling your hips, as Louis stood behind you, kissing your neck. Leaning down, you wrapped your hands around his neck.

“I’ll forgive you, but if you ever do anything remotely similar, I’ll make sure you burn in the sun, and I’ll wear you as makeup,” you said, making him smirk.

“Anything you say, although the thought of me being on your face, arouses me greatly,” he said, watching as you pulled Louis onto the bed, moving over to him.

Your nearly decade-long monogamy had now come to an end, sharing the night with Louis and Lestat. You had forgotten how spontaneous he was, managing to pleasure both of you.

‘Have you taken him back, like Louis?’ Claudia asked.

‘For now’ you thought, as Lestat kissed along your shoulder blade.

‘Do you think Louis will help?’

‘He will’

‘Do you think it will work?’

‘I don't know, my child, but we will try’

‘We can do it, mama, he wants to keep you and Louis for himself, he hates me and would probably kill me if it meant having you both alone’

‘I know’

Now lying in bed, Lestat in between you and Louis, both of you in his arms.

“I hope you will allow me to continue to prove myself to you, and I am lost without either of you, I feel empty without you both here with me, I love you,” he spoke, you couldn't deny the way your heart fluttered.

“Then it is official, we will kill Lestat’

‘And if our plan doesn't work?’

‘Then we escape to Europe, we find other vampires, and we rebuild our lives there, does that sound okay?”

‘It sounds perfect’

‘Great, good night mama’

‘Good night, my child’

Looking up at Lestat’s face, he lay peacefully, his eyes shut, face relaxed. He was incredibly handsome, you didn't dare tell Claudia but coming to this room, you were just as weak as Louis. Would you be able to kill this beautiful man, the love of your life? Or run away and live an eternity with your daughter? You couldn't decide anymore, only time would tell.

brotha eughhh, this was so mid

[heliosunny]

Yandere!Aglaea x Reader

Your first memory was a vision of gold. Golden light, golden hair and eyes that gleamed with unwavering devotion. Aglaea was there when you opened your eyes, her radiant smile the only anchor in a sea of confusion.

“My love” she whispered, her voice soft as the first bloom of spring. “You’re back. I’ve waited so long for this moment.”

Her words felt warm, comforting even, but they slid into the cracks of your fragmented mind like whispers in the dark. Back? From where? Who were you?

You tried to speak, to ask the questions burning in your chest, but she pressed a delicate finger to your lips, shushing you gently. “No need to overthink, darling. You’ve been through so much. Just rest. I’ll take care of everything.”

And she did. Aglaea became your world. Every day, she tended to you with unwavering attention, her affection like a gilded cocoon keeping you safe. You trusted her, clung to her, because there was nothing else to hold on to. Every time you asked about your past, she’d deflect with a tender smile.

“Your old life doesn’t matter anymore” she’d say, her tone as sweet as honey. “What matters is that you’re here now with me. That’s all you need to remember.”

At first, you believed her. After all, what reason would she have to lie? But as the days turned to weeks, a gnawing emptiness began to creep into your heart. You felt like a painting with half its canvas missing, a puzzle with pieces intentionally hidden.

One afternoon, while Aglaea was away, you stumbled upon a door you’d never noticed before. It was tucked away behind a heavy velvet curtain, its golden handle cold beneath your touch. Something compelled you to open it.

Inside, you found a room filled with memories you didn’t recognize. An ornate album sat on a pedestal, its cover adorned with intricate golden patterns. Next to it lay a worn leather-bound diary. Both called to you, their presence heavy with the weight of something important, something Aglaea hadn’t told you.

With trembling hands, you opened the album first. Photographs of you filled its pages, each one more unsettling than the last. In some, you were smiling alongside people you didn’t recognize. In others, you looked… lifeless. Your body limp in Aglaea’s arms, her face twisted in a mixture of anguish and obsession.

“No...” you whispered, your heart pounding as you flipped through the pages. “What is this?”

The diary offered no solace. It was written in your own handwriting, the entries filled with your thoughts, fears, and dreams. But as you read, you began to piece together the truth: you had died. Or at least, you were supposed to have. Aglaea had brought you back, weaving your memories into a tapestry that suited her vision of perfection.

“I couldn’t let you go” one of her entries read, scrawled in an elegant hand that wasn’t yours. “You belong to me. You always have.”

The sound of footsteps echoed down the hall, and panic seized your chest. Aglaea’s voice called out, sickly sweet. “Darling? Where are you?”

You scrambled to hide the evidence, but it was too late. The door creaked open, and there she stood, her golden eyes narrowing as they landed on the album in your hands.

“Oh, my love” she said, her voice calm but laced with menace. “You shouldn’t have seen that.”

Her smile returned, wider now, almost unhinged. “But it’s okay. I’ll fix this. I’ll fix you, just like I always do.”

The room seemed to glow brighter as she stepped toward you, her golden aura suffocating, inescapable.

[xoxolaw]

+ 𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗥 𝗗𝗜𝗔𝗥𝗬

in which a quiet visit to her room turns into something else entirely. Hyun-tak finds her diary, and with it, the truth he never saw coming.

+ 𝗚𝗢 𝗛𝗬𝗨𝗡-𝗧𝗔𝗞 𝗫 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥

CH 1 , CH 2 , CH 3 , CH 4

Hyun-tak rang the bell of her house, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, a worn-out bandage peeking beneath one sleeve. He kicked absently at a loose stone near the steps, half-watching it skip across the pavement.

Y/N had texted him an hour ago:

“I got the new game. Come over. I want to beat you at it.”

He scoffed when he read it—because she never beat him. But he came anyway. Of course he did.

The door opened before he could knock again.

“Oh, Hyun-tak,” her mom greeted with a smile that he’d seen since he was a kid. “She just stepped out to grab something from the corner store. Won’t be long.”

He nodded wordlessly.

“You know where to go.”

He did.

He always did.

---

Hyun-tak stepped inside like muscle memory—no need to be shown around, no hesitation. He toed off his sneakers at the door, left them neatly beside hers (his always looked too big next to her tiny ones), and made his way past the kitchen that always smelled like vanilla or soup, depending on the day.

Everything about the house was warm in a way his own never was. Quiet, yes. But never cold.

He climbed the stairs two at a time, pausing at her door. It was already half-open, like it knew he was coming.

Her room hadn't changed much over the years. He'd practically grown up in it—seen it evolve from stuffed animals and glitter pens to books stacked in uneven piles and posters from bands he’d never bothered to remember the names of.

His hoodie was still draped over the back of her chair—the one she always stole because she claimed it was “more comfortable than hers.”

Her lamp was on, the light golden and warm. The window cracked slightly, letting in the soft rustle of late spring air.

It was familiar. Safe.

So he didn’t think twice before stepping in, letting the soft click of the door behind him melt into the quiet.

---

That’s when he noticed it.

On the desk.

A diary—open.

Like a secret waiting.

It was nothing fancy. Just a simple notebook with a little ribbon bookmark fraying at the ends. A pen lay across the middle like she’d just gotten up mid-sentence.

He didn’t mean to read it. Really. He knew how to respect someone's privacy, and the last thing he wanted was to be that guy. The kind who snoops or pokes around where he doesn’t belong.

Still, he scoffed, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.

She wrote in a diary? Like, actually sat down and scribbled her thoughts like some melodramatic protagonist in a coming-of-age film?

It was kind of hilarious.

So very her.

He shook his head and turned away from the desk, plopping down onto her bed like he’d done a hundred times before—arms behind his head, phone out, screen glowing dimly in the warm afternoon light.

Scroll. Tap. Scroll.

Nothing interesting.

The room was quiet. A breeze filtered through the half-cracked window, rustling the curtains gently. The scent of her shampoo lingered faintly on the pillow beside him. A plushie he’d once won for her at a festival stared at him from the shelf, its button eyes crooked and faded.

Everything about her room was familiar. Everything about her felt familiar.

So why did he suddenly feel… restless?

He let out a slow breath and closed his eyes. Just for a moment.

But even in the stillness, the image of the open diary crept back into his mind. The pen lying across the page. Her handwriting. That soft curl at the end of her Y’s.

He sat up.

Looked over his shoulder.

The diary hadn’t moved, of course. Still open. Still quiet. Still waiting.

"...Tch." He rubbed the back of his neck, brow furrowed.

It was probably just grocery lists or doodles. Maybe drama about classmates. Probably something stupid like “Today I got mad at Hyun-tak because he stole my chips again.”

That made him grin.

And then… the grin faded.

Because even as he thought it, something inside him whispered that it might not be that simple.

That maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t about chips. Or games. Or classes. Maybe she’d written about something else. Something more.

Before he could stop himself, he stood.

Three steps. That’s all it took to be in front of the desk again.

He didn’t sit down. Just stood there, hands in his hoodie pocket, eyes dropping to the page like they were being pulled.

Just one line.

One peek.

That wouldn’t hurt, right? But his curiosity got the better of him and he picked up her diary, sat back on her bed, swung one leg up, leaned against the wall, and opened it.

The first page.

The handwriting was exactly like hers—wide loops, occasional doodles in the margins, sometimes a heart where a dot should be.

And then—he began to read.

✎ᝰ.ᐟ⋆⑅˚₊

March 5th, 2013

Dear Diary!!

My mom gwot me this DIARYYY todayyyyyy 🍭 she said it’s for “Writting yur thoughtz and feelings” but that’s kindaaa borinngg??? ☹️

So I’m gonna use it to write about important things

!!Like Hyun-Tak!! 😡

Today he was sooo meeean to me like always 🙄🙄 he said I’m dumb because I forgot my scarf and then he was like

“Tch. You're so stupid. Wear this or you’ll get sick and cry again.”

AND THEN 😤

He put HIS red scarf on me!!! HIS!! It smelt like snack crumbs and him. It was warm 🧣

I looked like a tomato 🍅🍅🍅

and he laughed at me

so I kicked his shoe

but he didn’t get mad???

he just grinned and said

“Don’t lose it or I’m never talking to you again forever.”

so I held onto it SOOOO tight like a SUPERHERO cape 🦸‍♀️

Then at lunch I got milk on my kimbap and I almost criEDDD but then

HE GAVE ME HIS!!

but it was the gross tunaa one so maybe he was gonna throw it anyway

BUT I LOVE THE TUNA ONE!!! So maybe it was TRUE LOVE ❤️❤️❤️

Mama says boys are mean when they like you

but Hyun-Tak is mean ALL the time

SO maybe he LOVES ME the MOSTEST 😤💖

OR maybe he is just a JERK 🙄🙄

(but like… a cute jerk??? shhhh)

Anyway I hope we stay best frends FOREVER and EVER and get married or maybe be astronauts. But I don’t wanna go to space if he’s not going 😣

Okayyy bye diary!!!

Love, Y/N (AGE 5 AND 65 DAYS)

✎ᝰ.ᐟ⋆⑅˚₊

Hyun-tak stared at the page for a long time. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. But it definitely wasn’t this.

A chaos of crooked letters and sparkly doodles. Misspelled words, snack-related heartbreak, heroic scarf ceremonies, and—him.

Laced through every sentence, like he’d always been there. All over it. Everywhere.

It felt like flipping open a snow globe of their childhood. Messy. Loud. Blurry. But inexplicably… warm.

Too warm.

He shifted against the headboard, the bedsheets rustling softly beneath him, one hand still resting on the open page like it might flutter away if he let go.

His eyes drifted again to the part she’d written in huge letters—TRUE LOVE ❤️❤️❤️, underlined twice, like a secret shout through glitter pen and breathless belief. The ink had faded just slightly, the hearts smudged at the corners like they’d been touched too many times.

He rolled his eyes. “Tch... idiot.”

But the corners of his mouth gave him away. Just a little. A quiet curve, barely there—but honest. Gentle.

The memory came without asking.

His younger self—scrawny, grumpy, still learning how to tie his own laces—muttering while tugging a too-big scarf around her neck with all the finesse of a grizzly bear.

Checking, double-checking, triple-checking that her ears were covered. Calling her stupid while handing over the better half of his lunch.

Pushing boys off swings who made her cry.

Staring at the ground while walking her home, as if the silence between them had its own language.

He hadn’t known she was writing it all down. Hadn’t known she remembered.

He reached out and brushed his thumb over the messy little heart she’d doodled beside his name. Lopsided. Unapologetic.

Age 5 and 65 days.

Who even counts days like that?

But she did.

Because she was the kind of person who measured everything. Moments. Moods. Melon bread halves. He just never noticed it until now.

He closed the diary carefully, the pages whispering shut like they were tucking themselves in for the night. The edges were soft, worn from being opened and reopened too many times.

He held it for a moment longer, just resting in his lap like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.

And then, as his fingers slipped to the next page, he caught the header in bubble letters:

March 6th, 2013

Today Hyun-tak got mad because I licked his lollipop. BUT—

A laugh—a real one—escaped him, sharp and quiet like a secret.

He snorted, shaking his head.

“Of course she kept going.”

And without even thinking about it, he turned the page.

+ 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥'𝗦 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘 + 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

Let me know what you think <333 for now let's just say that the emojis in the diary entries are doodles.

+ 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

@keizvn @soobinbunnie5 @chaywkk @l5byrinth @inom17 @randomheyl @coffee-ii @mizxuqii @dna-black-and-blue @kyungjunnies @maxinehufflepuffprincess @deboizzzstay @coolasiangal123 @intoanothermind @satoru2716 @chenlegendj @changbinkisser @xh01bri @jww-sjzyeirie @thebatapex

[cyberskulzzz]

Hey! I had a request for Rodrick, I was thinking about a one shot where he and Greg are fighting, and maybe Rodricks takes it a bit too far and hides Greg's diary or something. And since Greg is so upset he takes revenge on his brother. In this scenario reader is Greg's babysitter and Rodrick has a huuuge crush on her. Sooo I was thinking about how Greg would use that and make a plan to get back at him by embarrasing him in front of reader. And every time, Rodricks is trying to maybe defend himself? I can't actually think of the things he would do to make Rodrick embarrased but maybe you could come up with some and write it :) either way, thanks for reading!

Rodrick Heffley Blurb (not proofread)

Content warning:Idk bad poetry

Youre Greg’s babysitter,and you have been for quite the while,however you and Rodrick had always taken interest in eachother,and with you two being home alone a lot one thing led to another. 

It had all started a few weeks ago when Greg accidentally walked in on you and Rodrick right before he could get to second base. Although Rodrick had previously threatened Greg that if he’d ruin Rodrick’s chance with you he’d end Greg. However that was exactly what happened,Greg marched in,yapping about something that had happened with Holly,Rodrick immediately getting off of you and shoving Greg outside,however as soon as he turned around again you already had your bag in hand,needing to be home on time.  

Right after the front door closed and you left the porch it got messy,Susan‘s sure Rodrick would’ve murdered Greg if she didn’t interfere. 

The next day when Greg got home from school the door to Rodrick‘s room was wide open,which was odd.Greg walked slowly,aspecting some kind of attack however Rodrick was calmly sitting in front of his pc with Greg‘s diary next to him,the email of a few pages opened on his pc,but before Greg could even open his mouth they were already send out,what seemed worst of all to him was the fact Holly would surely see it too. 

You went to Rodrick’s again the next weekend,mostly just hanging around his room.When Rodrick left you upstairs for band practice for a second it didn’t take long for Greg to appear in the doorway way. 

"Rodrick!“,he pretends to call out,knowing damn well he isnt in his room,"you left your text book downstairs again-",Greg stumbled,his finger between the page he had deemed most embarrassing,the text book falling right in front of your feet.Greg almost wanted to yell in triumph when he noticed the book had landed right.

"Woah- you okay there?“,you asked giving Greg a hand,who got up without any trouble,causing you to pick up the text book next.Your eyes wandered across the page shortly,subconsciously reading till you noticed your name,taking it back quickly. You know you shouldnt,its an invasion of privacy,but then again it was so painfully obvious Greg wanted you to see this,and that its related to you. 

~Oh, girl who sits upon my couch, Your presence makes me scream, "Ouch!" For Cupid's arrow struck my heart, And now my brain can't even start.

Your hair shines brighter than the sun, Your laugh's a song,it's number one. When you walk in,I lose my cool, (Though Greg still calls me a fool.)

Your eyes,whatever color,they’re divine.  Like sparkling soda,straight from the vine. I’d sing to you with my sick riffs, But I can’t risk you thinking, “What ifs.” You’re my muse, my crush, my greatest song.  But confessing feels... so very wrong.~

You smiled slightly,letting out a slight chuckle as your eyes followed the words,however your amusement was quickly interrupted by Rodrick running up the stairs,Greg seeing his chance and running before it‘d be too late.

"Sorry I took a bit longer,Ben couldn’t get the first verse-I- did Greg give that to you?",he froze gesturing to the textbook. 

"Its not the best- you werent supposed to-",he stutters,trying to make this less embarrassing for himself till you interrupted him.

"I think its really sweet,the fact that you took the time to write for me",you reassure,"I know youre into me,you dont think you’ve made it quite obvious the last few times I was here?“

Rodrick’s eyes,followed yours gesturing to the bed you guys had been making out on just a few minutes ago.However your train of thought was then quickly interrupted by Rodrick wrapping his arms around your waist in awe,kissing you passionately his,hand placed on your cheek while slamming the door shut with his foot,making sure Greg stays out this time. 

@lockettesstage

[holdmytesseract]

daryl dixon x fem!reader

🪶 part two

warnings for this chapter: typical twd stuff, walkers, weapons, 'idiots in love', insecure!Daryl? lots of tension? another cliffhanger, swear words, Carol and Daryl being besties

word count: 4k

a/n: i finished writing this sweet mini series - and i absolutely cannot wait to share the other three parts with y'all! i love this so much.

[ 🪶 part one ]

masterlist 🪶 EoH Masterlist

LITRM Masterlist 🪶 Daryl Masterlist

Daryl snorted and shook his head at his best friend's words. "Nah." A reaction the woman had kind of anticipated. "Yes, you are, Daryl. Admit it to yourself." The archer scoffed, "'M not... in love." and continued to dispute it. Carol sighed; letting go of the man's arm and slightly shifted to be able to face him better.

"Okay, where's the problem? What's so bad about being in love?" Daryl scoffed; throwing the stone in his hands away, which caused Dog's ears - who laid snuggled against his dad's leg - to perk up. "Nothin'. 'S just... I've never did this before. Not properly." "And that's okay. I'm sure Y/N understands that as well. There's a first for everything."

Another moment of silence passed, before Carol took the hand of her best friend in hers; causing his head to turn and face her. "You deserve to be happy, Daryl. You deserve a happy end. Especially after all that shit you've been through. You deserve to be loved." The archer's hand gently squeezed the woman's hand as he pressed his lips in a thin line; not saying a word. He simply didn't know what to say.

"Don't you want this?" She asked carefully then, to which Daryl only shrugged his shoulders. "Dunno," he said; voice merely above a whisper.

"Well..." Carol started, and took a deep breath. Her hand let go of his again. "No matter how you decide on this, you have to give Y/N her notebook back." Daryl grunted lowly. "Can't ya give it back to 'er?" The gray haired woman shook her head; "No." a small smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. "I won't let you run away from this, Mr. Crossbow. You'll have to face this - and Y/N."

"You really think I'm gonna find it again?" You questioned Michonne sceptically. The woman smiled and nodded confidently. "Yes. Don't worry. Your notebook will find its way back to you. I'm sure of it." "Okay..." You gave her an uptight smile and went to hug her in order to say goodbye. "If you say so..."

That's what Michonne said... Almost two months ago, right before she (and everyone else) returned to their communities... Slowly, you really started to lose hope... You sighed and clapped your diary shut; hiding it again underneath your mattress. Just as you wanted to blow out the candle and go to bed, you could hear a soft - almost faint knock against the door to the cozy, little hut you lived in. Frowning, you reached for your knife and slowly made your way over. Taking a deep breath, you opened the door - only to see a familiar figure standing in front of it. Well, rather the back of a familiar figure. Your heart skipped a beat.

"Daryl?"

Your voice caused the archer with his signature angel-winged vest to stop dead in his tracks. "What are you doing here?"

The man swallowed hard - unbeknownst to you. He had hoped that you were asleep already. That he arrived too late in Oceanside. That he didn't have to face this, but reassuring his conscience with the fact that he tried.

Well, his plan failed.

Taking a deep breath, he turned to face you; arms crossed behind his back to hide your precious notebook. "Been bringin' some stuff for the trade." It wasn't a lie. "O-kay," you gave him a nod, then frowned. "I-I mean, no. What are you doing here?" You vaguely gestured around to refer to your hut; unable to form a different sentence. The presence of your crush totally threw your already tired brain totally off-track.

"Oh, uh," Daryl started and ducked his head, while nervously chewing on the inside of his bottom lip; working hard to form the right words in his head. "I, uh, jus' wanted to give ya somethin' back." Slowly, he brought forward your notebook from behind his back, causing your eyes to widen.

"Belongs to ya, righ'?" You nodded; stunned and wordless. Daryl took a few hesitant steps closer - as if you were a wounded, dangerous animal. "Found it, 'n thought I should give it back to ya." Once he was close enough, he literally shoved the notebook into your arms and chest, before quickly stepping backwards again.

You blinked; looked from him to the notebook and back. "T-Thanks, I-" "'Course, see ya." The archer instantly interrupted you and this time really turned on his heels and vanished into the night; leaving you just standing there. What you didn't see, nor hear, was how the man pinched the bridge of his nose and repeatedly mumbled under his breath: "'M a goddamn idiot."

You stood like frozen to the ground in the doorway, just staring into the distance. Only a chilly breeze, which caused goosebumps to spread all over your skin managed to pull you out of your trance like state. Blinking again, you turned around and went back inside the hut; closing the door behind you. You made your way back into your cozy bedroom and got comfortable underneath the sheets; carefully checking the beloved notebook in your hands if it was okay. Not that you didn't trust Daryl, but...

Skipping through the pages, you discovered that everything was as it should be. No ripped pages, not dog-eared or stained. He had been really attentive. A smile spread on your face. The happiness that you got your most valued possession back finally sinking in - but not lasting long...

You reached the last page you had drawn something onto... Daryl. And suddenly sunk your heart to your boots. What if he knew? What if he had seen the drawing? "Oh gods..." You whispered to yourself. Was it a coincidence that he of all people had found your notebook? Should you confront him? Ask him? You had to, right? Or not?

Your head started to spin; one thought chasing the next. Needless to say, it was a sleepless night.

You couldn't tell yet if fate wanted to help you or kick you repeatedly in the butt. All you wanted the following day was to talk to Cyndie - thinking Daryl had left Oceanside again, but then you saw the two of them having a seemingly important conversation. With your eyes widening, you quickly turned on your heels again and wanted to 'flee'.

But you didn't get far.

"Y/N, wait!" You heard Cyndie call out. Squeezing your eyes shut in a grimace, you took a deep breath and turned to face them with a fake smile. "Good to see you. You're just in time." "O-Oh, yeah? Am I?" Cyndie nodded with a smile, then gestured towards the archer. "Daryl agreed to help us get the new solar panels we need. You know, the ones which got destroyed in that storm a few weeks ago?" "Yeah, I know... How, uh, kind of him." "Indeed," Cyndie agreed. "And you are going to go with him."

Your eyes widened again; cheeks instantly turning red.

"M-Me?"

"Her?"

Both, you and Daryl exclaimed simultaneously.

Cyndie's eyes darted back and forth between you and the archer. A borderline skeptical look was on her face as she nodded. "Yes. You know the area pretty well. Better than anybody. You know where that warehouse is," she explained, then scanned your faces again. "Is this a problem for you two? A conflict or anything else you want to talk about?"

"No."

"Nah."

You and Daryl answered simultaneously once more. The leader of the community gave you both another skeptical look. "Okay. You should gear up and get going then. Better be back before it gets dark. And be careful, yes? Take care." Cyndie received two nods as an answer. "Good," she said and turned to walk away. "Oh, and Daryl?" The archer looked up to face the woman. "Thank you. Your help is highly appreciated." The man nibbled at his bottom lip and gave her another nod; desperately trying to hide the upcoming nervosity inside him.

You inhaled a deep breath in a lousy attempt to calm your rapidly beating heart. It was beyond excited to spend time with the man it secretly yearned for. Your head on the other hand was signaling you the complete opposite. Your head told to run and hide, despite knowing that you couldn't. You agreed to this mission, after all.

"Get yer stuff. Ten minutes at the gate," Daryl's voice urged to your ears, but before you could say something, he was gone.

"Shit, shit, shit," you cursed under your breath. This was going to be a fucking nightmare

Thirty minutes later, you and Daryl were on the road together; making your way to the warehouse with the solar panels. Cyndie had described the way and even handed him a small map. You really didn't know why she nevertheless send you along. Just because you 'knew the area'? You had to suppress a scoff. Despite all that, though, were you certain that your leader had no idea which hell she pushed you through. It was torture. You absolutely didn't know how to act around Daryl anymore. The uncertainty what he knew and if he had seen your drawing of him (including the poem) was positively driving you insane.

Of course, you didn't have the guts to ask him either; too afraid of the outcome. What were you supposed to say anyway?

'Hey, Daryl, have you coincidentally seen the drawing I made of you in my notebook? Why I drew you? Oh, just because I'm totally into you.'

No. Certainly not.

Therefore, you settled on staying quiet and watching him instead. Analyzing his behavior. Daryl was walking ahead in silence; crossbow slung over his back and map haphazardly stuffed in the back pocket of his jeans. He led the way, but looked regularly back over his shoulder to make sure you were still there. It was challenging to lower your gaze in time and avoid his beautiful eyes whenever he did that. No words were exchanged. Sure, Daryl wasn't super talkative. He had never been and you knew that, but... You felt like he was even quieter than before. It was weird. His whole demeanor was weird. He was acting... different - and it gave you chills.

What if he had truly seen the drawing and is now creeped out by me? What if he thinks I'm weird? Or crazy? Or he's disgusted? Angry?

Your thoughts were a mental merry-go-round.

Little did you know that the archer was acting so distant and weird because his romantic feelings for you he had discovered a few weeks back were skyrocketing since he was that close to you for almost two hours now, and he just didn't know what to do with himself. He felt like a teenage boy falling in love for the first time. He just hoped that this was over fast and he could return back home to Alexandria and hide away.

But fate had other plans, of course. It didn't let you and Daryl off the hook that easily. Quite the opposite...

"S-Stay here? Overnight?" You squeaked out in a high-pitched, yet muffled voice; shocked and appalled. "Ain't got no choice," Daryl whisper-shouted as he carefully peeked out of one of the small, dirty windows of the barricaded door. "'S way too dangerous, 'n it's gettin' dark soon. There 'r way too many of 'em out there. We can't take 'em. Not jus' the two 'a us." He referred to the rather big herd of walkers, which had suddenly decided to flood the small town you were in. "If ya wanna go 'n die, go. Ain't gonna hold ya back," he snapped gruffly, but instantly regretted it again. The mere thought of seeing you die caused his heart to shoot an aching pain through his whole body. Oh, how he would hold you back...

You just nodded wordlessly and turned around to somehow make yourself comfortable. "Well, at least we got the solar panels," you whispered and vanished around the corner. He could hear the slight hurt in your voice.

Daryl sighed deeply and squeezed his eyes shut. "Idiot. Yer a damn idiot, Dixon," he muttered to himself and managed to barely hold back his fist from slamming it against the steel door. Attracting a ton of hungry walkers in an already shitty situation wasn't a good idea.

To keep his mind distracted with other things that weren't you - and frankly to give himself an excuse to not face you, he patrolled the whole building; checking every window and door to make sure that nothing dangerous could get in. Dead or alive.

Nevertheless, Daryl knew that he had to face you at some point. He just couldn't stay away. His selfless nature and the attraction he felt towards you literally urging him on to check in on you and protect you if necessary. So, he made his way carefully to the little camp you had set up. Wordlessly, he set his crossbow down, shrugged off his backpack and sat down opposite you with his back resting against the cool wall. He just watched you for a long moment with the pad of his thumb between his teeth; gnawing at the rough skin, as you munched on some bread you had packed.

"Barricaded the doors 'n made sure nothin' can get in," Daryl dared to speak up then. "We should keep watch anyway, though. Ain't takin' the risk." You nodded - and silence settled over the both of you again. It was nowhere near pleasant and rather suffocating. And yet neither of you knew what to say, until...

"Ya mad at me or sum'thin'?"

The archer's sudden, unexpected words cut through the silence like a knife. Daryl himself didn't even know why he said them. They just slipped past his lips. You hadn't given him a glance. Until now. You looked up slowly - almost shyly. Your eyes met his, and he could swear that his heart skipped a beat - just like yours. Then you shook your head. "No. Why should I?" The man opposite you merely shrugged his shoulders. "'Cause yer actin' pissed 'n distant." You scoffed, "Me? Distant and pissed?" and crossed your arms over your chest. "You're the one who's acting weird and distant." Daryl grunted, and shook his head; causing a few wild bangs to fall into his face. "Nah, I ain't. Dunno whatcha mean." "You're a bad liar." Now Daryl scoffed. "Yeah? How do ya know? Ya ain't know shit 'bout me."

You didn't know why, but his words stung.

You said nothing and instead turned away from him to lay down on the hard, uncomfortable underground with your backpack acting as a pillow. "I thought we were friends, but... Apparently I got that wrong," you whispered and closed your eyes. And again Daryl regretted his words. How could he act so stupidly and make the same mistakes again and again?

Another long period of silence passed between the both of you, while it got dark outside. The only source of light were both yours and the archer's flashlights. The faint but always present sounds of familiar groans and snarls reminded you constantly of the danger lurking outside - why you were trapped in this damn building, and keeping you from sleeping. Since you had turned away from the man across you, you had been staring out of the distant window; watching the moon replace the sun through a thick layer of dirt and dust.

"You could've just told me." Your quiet voice ripped Daryl out of his trance like state; deeply sunken in his own thoughts. "Wha'?" He asked; heart speeding up again as his brain registered your words and the possible meanings behind them. Tell you what? That he loved you? Have you managed to see through his façade?

"That you hate me."

Your words soothed and simultaneously hurt him. Relieved that you hadn't figured him out. Hurt that you were thinking he hated you. "Wha'?" He croaked out again; too stunned to get his mouth to say something different. You shifted and turned to face him once more. The light wasn't bright and your face barely illuminated, and yet he could see the nervosity on your face. Your eyes held fear, regret - and something he couldn't pinpoint. "You... You've seen the page, didn't you? I-In my notebook. That's why you act like that. You hate me now." You didn't know where you took the bravery from to ask him that. Perhaps it was the steady relentless nagging of the voice in your head. Perhaps you just couldn't take the uncertainty any longer.

Daryl was speechless. Way too overwhelmed by what you just said. She knows. She knows. She knows. The words echoed through his mind on repeat. His pulse sped up once more as he stared at you in shock. "I-I-" The man stammered and needed quite a few moments to get himself together. "Nah. I-I mean, yeah. I, uh, saw your drawin'. 'M sorry. I didn't mean to snoop around. I jus' wanted to figure out who the notebook belonged to."

Fuck, fuck, fuck, you cursed internally; having a hard time to hide your blush. This was beyond embarrassing. You felt like being stripped butt naked and put in front of a huge crowd of people; judging and laughing at you. Your mind worked at lightning speed to find the right words to say to Daryl. A good explanation. An apology. A white lie-

"But I dun hate ya."

And suddenly it was quiet. All the thoughts and voices in your head suddenly fell silent.

Blinking, and completely in disbelief, you sat up. "What?"

Daryl shrugged his shoulders; nervously fumbling with his fingers. "I dun hate ya."

You blinked again. "You... Don't?" "Nah."

Another beat of silence passed, in which your brain just tried to comprehend what your ears just heard. You opened your mouth to say something and answer him, but before a single word could leave your lips, a loud noise could be heard from just outside the building. It caused both your survival instincts to kick in; the conversation forgotten for the moment. "Get over, 'n turn off yer flashlight," the archer whisper-shouted as he got on his feet; extinguishing the light and drawing his knives. You quickly nodded and got over to him. Pressing your back against the wall beside Daryl, you drew your weapon as well and switched off the flashlight. It was entirely dark now in the way too large warehouse - except for the moonlight shining through the high windows. Adrenaline pumped through your body as you stood there besides Daryl; breathing shakily. The noise you had heard a few moments ago didn't repeat itself, but the snarls and growls outside got louder.

The archer stowed his knives away again and switched his flashlight back on, before he made his way over to an old shelf. "Help me get that thing over there," he said; jutting his chin towards the wall ahead and taking the flashlight between his lips. You did the same and hurried over to help him get the shelf as quietly as possible over to stand directly against the wall; not knowing what his intention was. You discovered it soon, though; watching with wide eyes as he started to climb on the damn shelf. "Daryl," you whispered. "What are you doing? This thing is old. What if it breaks?" "Ain't gonna break. 'M jus' takin' a look," he grunted and reached the top; pulling himself up to stand and look out of the window. "What is it? Can you see something?" "Jus' a burnin' car," he stated quietly, then shifted to climb down again. "Be careful," you mumbled; watching his every move.

"A burning car?" You asked as the archer had both feet planted firmly back on the ground again. "Yeah. 'N a hell lotta walkers, of course." You frowned. "Means someone is out there?" Daryl shrugged his shoulder. "Could be anythin', but yeah, looks like someone lit it to distract the walkers." He walked back over to your little camp to grab his crossbow. "Imma check the doors again, 'n take a look around. Stay put, 'kay?" "But..." You watched him disappear into the darkness with wide eyes.

You sighed and sat down again; back against the wall and clutching your flashlight and knife tight. Those haunting sounds of dozens of walkers attracted by that car keeping you brain on high alert. You weren't afraid of the situation. Nervous, perhaps. You were afraid that something happened to Daryl. That someway somehow found something dangerous its way past the barricades inside the building and was now lurking in the shadows to attack. Should I follow him? The thought crossed your mind more than just once - but before you could act on it did you hear some rustling. Quickly snapping your head to the right - ready to defend yourself, you watched with pure relief how Daryl appeared from around the corner. "Daryl..." You sighed; a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "You okay?" He nodded. "'M fine. Doors are still barricaded. Seems like nothin' tried to get in," he reported as he put his crossbow back down. "Wha'ever it was it's gone. Think we are safe. Jus' need to wait out those damn walkers. There's even more now." He sat down beside you with a grunt. "The car..." The archer nodded. "Well, at least we are safe for now... Hopefully," you muttered and took another deep breath; leaning your head against his shoulder. Before you realized what you were doing, was it already too late. Your body craved safety and a feeling of comfort - and the man you loved was right there. Apparently did your control slip for a moment, which was enough for your heart to command your body to act as it desired.

Daryl froze at the sudden, unexpected contact; a blush spreading over his whole face and even coloring the tips of his ears. "If you don't hate me... Why do you act like you do?" Your voice was hushed and soft - almost vulnerable. It tore at the archer's heartstrings.

He swallowed; "'Cause I..." trying to find the right words to say. "I didn't mean ta push ya away, 's jus'... I've never... I..." You slowly lifted your head to look at him. You had never seen the archer struggling like that. "You never...?" You asked quietly; literally able to see the gears turning in his head. Daryl shyly tilted his head a mere few inches to be able to look at you as well - a big mistake. He didn't realize how close you truly were. Until now. He was able to see every inch of your beautiful face. Every dimple. Every dip and curve. Every mole and beauty mark.

Once more he swallowed hard; eyes dropping to your lush lips. They looked so warm, so soft, so inviting - and only a few inches separated them from his. It caused the archer's breath to hitch in his throat.

"You never...?" You repeated, seemingly unaware of the situation you both were in. Daryl couldn't do much than stare. "I-I never..." He tried again, but felt himself lose the battle. He leaned in slowly, causing a small gasp to slip past your lips as you suddenly noticed as well how close you were. "D-Daryl?" Your heart threatened to burst with each inch he bridged, until his lips were hovering just above yours.

He is going to kiss me. It's happening. Daryl Dixon is going to kiss me. Am I dreaming?

You couldn't believe this; were clearly thinking that you were caught in a dream. You would've never imagined that this was going to happen - and yet you could feel his warmth radiating off of him and his unsteady breath against your skin.

Like clockwork slipped your eyes shut; ready to finally feel his lips on yours.

[ 🪶 part three ]

tags: @dixonsdarkelf @angelwings-crossbowstrings @ellasdixon @dixons-sunshine @negansbestie @bigbaldheadname @km-ffluv @loz-3 @whore4romance @dilfdixon @mayday2007 @huntedmusicgardenn @0-aubrie0 @sweetz1919 @stitchintimefan @cakesandtom @ffsjustletmesleep @making-the-most-0f-it @erebus-et-eigengrau @belitoxx @fictive-sl0th @marvelcasey05 @secretsicanthideanymore

[slvtrlv]

~ ULTRAVIOLENCE ~

part 11. The other woman

Summary: “…The other woman will never have his love…” She finds out about Grace. About how deep that wound still goes. She wonders if she’s just a distraction. Tommy assures her she isn’t — but in the dark, even lies can feel like love.

Relationship: Tommy Shelby x Female Reader.

Warning: diary style, smut, 18+, smoking, alcohol, slow-burn, drama, angst, fluff, age-gap, power dynamics, obsession, protection, forbidden love, feminine rage & surrender, based on album "ultraviolence" by lana del rey.

Words: 2280

A/N: comments and reblogs are appreciated

_ _ _

“…And when her old man comes to call. He finds her waiting like a lonesome queen. 'Cause to be by her side. It's such a change from old routine…” — Y/N’s diary, 1916

It started with a drawer. A simple, stupid drawer. Small, unassuming, tucked inside the writing desk by the window, the one Tommy never touched when I was in the room. And maybe that should’ve been a clue. Maybe I should’ve known that some silences aren’t empty, they’re guarded.

It was late. The kind of late where the city goes soft and strange. The rain was steady outside, wrapping the windows in rhythm and I couldn’t sleep. Not without him. The bed, even warm from memory, still felt like borrowed skin. I stretched across it restless, then pulled on one of his shirts: soft cotton, threadbare at the collar, and wandered barefoot through the house like a ghost.

I told myself I was just looking for a pen. A letter had stirred in my chest, unwritten. Words to no one in particular. Something about memory. Something about grief. Something about how quiet it can get inside a body that wants too much.

The drawer creaked open like it had been waiting. Not screaming, just sighing. And there it was. A ribbon. Pale blue, satin and smoothed by years of fingers twisting it in thought or grief or love. A black and white, slightly frayed photograph. She looked soft and golden. Grace. Her name was etched on the air before I even knew it. She had that kind of face - the kind that people love without effort. The kind that makes you believe in soft mornings and easy endings.

And a ring. Simple. Beautiful. Not something she would’ve taken off easily.

I didn’t touch anything. I didn’t need to. The weight had already settled on my chest like a second heavier and hollower heartbeat. It throbbed beneath my ribs and bled into my throat.

The drawer whispered shut. Too late. The damage had already found its way under my skin, crawling slow and cold through everything I thought I understood.

I sat on the edge of his bed, the cigarette in my hand long since burned out, nothing left but ash and the bitter smell of too much wondering.

He came home smelling like stormwater, rum, and something metallic: the scent of danger and distance, his own signature. The door closed behind him with a click, and I didn’t move.

— You’ve been quiet - he said as he shrugged off his coat. His voice was lower than usual but not tired and sharp. Just observant. Watching me from the corner of his eye the way he always did when he wasn’t sure whether he’d stepped into calm or fire.

I didn’t look at him. I didn’t say hello.
— Who was she? - my voice felt like it belonged to someone else. He paused.

The silence between us stretched, taut and strange. One beat. Then another.

— You went through my things? - he asked, carefully without anger, but something adjacent to it. Self-protection, maybe. Shame, maybe.

— I live here - I said and my voice was quiet, soft around the edges but steady — I just wanted a pen.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t lie. He walked slowly toward the chair across from the bed, sat down, and unbuttoned his shirt with rain-slick fingers. His chest was still damp from the storm, glistening faintly in the dim light. But his eyes: they were bone dry. Ancient.

— Her name was Grace - «was». A past tense so sharp I almost flinched — She’s dead.

I nodded slowly, more to myself than to him. I bit the inside of my cheek until the taste of copper filled my mouth. Something to hold onto. Something real.

— Did you love her? - the question cut the air like a blade, clean and necessary. I didn’t dress it up in pretense. I wanted to know. I needed to. Not because I didn’t believe in ghosts but because I was starting to wonder if I was one of them.

He looked at me then, really looked. Not with pity. Not with cruelty. But with that unbearable Tommy Shelby stillness that feels like waiting for a gunshot you’re not sure is coming.

— Yes - he said. The word was quiet. Final. — In a way I didn’t understand until it was too late.

I swallowed. Let it sit.

— Do you still?

There was a long silence. Not empty, but crowded. Like he was sorting through the drawers of his own mind, trying to decide what belonged to memory and what still had a pulse.

— I don’t know what I feel about anything anymore - he said finally, voice low, threadbare — But I know how I feel about you.

He reached for my hand. And I let him take it. His palm was rough against mine, fingers curling around my knuckles like they wanted to memorize the shape of me. But something inside still felt cold. Still ached.

— Do you? - I asked. He blinked. I watched the question land on him like a match dropped in a dry field.

— You’re the only thing that makes me forget I’m already a ghost - I flinched but not because of the words, but because of how they stitched together truth and longing and tragedy so seamlessly. It was beautiful. It was brutal. And it wasn’t enough.

— I’m not her, Tommy -I said.

— I know.

— You don’t have to pretend I’m some perfect dream you lost.

— I don’t pretend - he stood slowly, walked to the window. The rain was still tapping at the glass like it wanted in. He lit a cigarette with just slightly shaking hands. Barely noticeable unless you knew what to look for. And I did.

— Grace was light - he said after a while. The smoke curled from his lips like confession. And then he added, his voice cracking almost imperceptible — You’re fire. She healed me. But you make me feel alive.

I rose. My legs felt heavy, like the room itself didn’t want me to move. But I went to him anyway. Step by step, pulled by something older than desire, something deeper.

I stopped inches from him. He didn’t look at me, but he didn’t move away. I placed my hand over his chest again, that same space where grief and breath and history meet.

— Then don’t compare us - I whispered — I don’t want to be her replacement. I want to be your reckoning.

He looked down at me then. And what I saw wasn’t confusion or even guilt. It was surrender.

He kissed me: not with desperation, but with something harder to name. Like an apology he didn’t know how to say out loud. Like a promise he wasn’t sure he had the right to make. His lips tasted like rain and rum and a thousand things he would never write down. And I kissed him back like I was trying to swallow every secret he’d ever buried in silence. Like I didn’t want soft. Not tonight. I wanted brutal. Honest. The kind of touch that leaves marks you feel in the morning, the kind that says mine with teeth.

It wasn’t escape. It was claiming. Not possession not the way men try to own. But the way someone marks their grave and says: «This is where I buried the pain. This is where I start again»

His hands came up to my face, cupping it as though he needed to be sure I was real, as though I might vanish if he didn’t hold me tight enough. But his mouth - God, his mouth - it was anything but hesitant. He kissed me with hunger, with guilt and with the kind of ache that makes you forget anyone came before.

I pushed his coat off his shoulders. He let it fall. His shirt came next, and I watched it peel from his chest, still damp from the storm, clinging just enough to make me linger. The candlelight flickered across the plane of his collarbone, the hollow of his throat, the scar above his heart: the one I always kissed like a vow.

His hands slid under my thighs, lifted me like I weighed nothing, and set me on the edge of the bed with a kind of rough tenderness only Tommy Shelby could make feel like worship. His mouth moved down slow and hot on my neck, leaving open kisses along my jaw, my collarbone, the sensitive spot just beneath my ear that made me gasp and clench my thighs.

— You’re shaking - he murmured against my skin.

— Maybe I want to be ruined - I whispered back. His groan was low, dark and primal.

— You already are. Look at you.

And I was for him. Only for him. Breathless and half-undressed, legs spread just enough for him to slip his hands between, thumbs pressing into the tops of my thighs as he knelt before me.

The power of that - Tommy Shelby on his knees - made my pulse stutter.

— Say what you want - he said, fingers teasing the edge of my underwear, sliding down so slow I thought I might cry — Say it, Y/N.

— I want your mouth - I whispered. He didn’t ask twice.

The first touch of his tongue against me was gentle, barely there, just enough to make my hips buck toward him. His hands came up to pin me, hold me open, keep me steady while he tasted me like he had all the time in the goddamn world. Long, slow licks. Deep pressure. Sucking just right until I couldn’t breathe through the pleasure, until my legs were shaking and my head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut.

— Tommy…fuck…don’t stop… - and he didn’t. He never did anything halfway. He kept his mouth on me until I was coming apart, trembling against his tongue, the muscles in my stomach clenching so hard it felt like being cracked open. And even then, even after I came, he didn’t stop. He just slowed, licking me through it like he couldn’t get enough.

When he stood, his mouth was wet, his eyes darker than sin. He didn’t say a word as he undressed me, just looked at me. Touched me. Like he needed to commit every inch of me to memory. The reverence in that stare made me dizzy.

— You’re fucking perfect - he murmured, dragging his hands up my thighs, over my hips, up my ribs to cup my breasts. He bent to kiss each one like a ritual, like a promise — I’d kill a man for looking at you like I do.

— Then stop worshipping me and fuck me - I said pulling him down onto me, desperate now, my skin humming, raw. His laugh was rough, wicked.

— Careful, love. I might never let you leave this bed.

— Maybe I don’t want to.

Then he was inside me. One hard deep thrust, and I forgot every other name I’d ever known.

It wasn’t sweet. Not tonight. It was filthy and slow, the drag of him filling me again and again until I was whining into his mouth, nails clawing at his back, legs locked around his hips like I couldn’t bear for him to stop. Every thrust was a demand. Every moan a surrender. I could feel the control bleeding out of him with every roll of his hips, every growled: «You’re mine» against my throat.

And I was. God help me, I was his. He fucked me like he was trying to bury every memory of her. Like he was trying to fuck Grace out of his own bloodstream, and me into his bones. And I let him. I gave myself to him: not to erase her, but to remind him that he wasn’t dead. That he could still feel. Still burn.

We were skin and heat and sweat and want. The bed rocked under us, the sounds obscene, raw - my name on his lips like blasphemy, his curses low and hot in my ear as he drove into me, over and over, until I was right there again, on the edge.

— I want to come with you - I breathed, nails raking down his spine — Don’t leave me behind.

— Never - his lips found mine bruising desperate.

I came hard, clenching around him with a cry I didn’t recognize, and seconds later, he followed with a shuddering groan, his face buried in my neck, the two of us trembling through it together like an earthquake shared.

After, we didn’t speak. Not for a long while.

Just breath. Heartbeats. Sweat cooling on skin. His fingers tangled in my hair. My legs still around his waist like I couldn’t let go even if I wanted to.

He kissed my shoulder. My jaw. The curve of my hip. Not like a man apologizing but like one anchoring himself. And for the first time that night, I didn’t feel like a replacement. I felt like the reckoning I promised to be.

DIARY — 1925 I saw her face and thought: of course.
Of course he loved her. She was golden. Graceful. Light.
And I…. I’m smoke after fire.
Heat with no warning. But he kissed me like I was the only thing still burning in his world of ash. And maybe that’s enough.
Maybe I don’t want to be the girl he mourns.
Maybe I want to be the woman he survives. — Y/N.

[fandoms--fluff]

Mud and Suds

Flufftober, October 3rd

3 year old Salvatore sister reader x Stefan Salvatore x Damon Salvatore

Summary: Damon makes Stefan give you a bath from you being all dirty, and it backfires on him just a bit

Warnings: None, fluff overload

A/n: may be a bit ooc, but it's really stinkin cute

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s been two hours since you went outside carrying a plastic shovel and two different sized containers.

“She’s been out there for a while, what’s she doing?” Damon brought up, looking outside through the open door and can barely see you because you’re too far away. 

“Well you can always check on her” Stefan pointed out, looking up from writing in his diary.

Damon shrugged and went out, walking towards where you were sitting, surrounded by different blobs of dirt and mud. You built all of them forming a little mud kingdom of your own surrounding your vicinity. He walked up to you, noticing all of the mud smeared on your clothing, face, arms, and legs. He raised an eyebrow wondering how you managed that. 

“Hey, Kiddo, I think it’s time to go inside and clean you up” Damon crouched down in front of you. 

“Bu’ mud, Day Day” you pointed at your creations, and called your brother by his nickname.

“Its getting late, you can continue tomorrow, alright?” Damon said and you nodded.

You stood up and walked over to Damon, avoiding destroying any of the mud castles. He took one of your muddy hands and walked you into the house.

"Don't you even think about it" Damon said when you were about to pull away from him and run around the house.

You looked up at him and stuck your tongue out before seeing Stefan sitting in one of the chairs. "S'efan!" You exclaimed and ran over to your other big brother. You wrapped your arms around his legs, unnoticlingly smearing mud all over his pants.

"Hello to you too, y/n/n" Stefan sighed when he saw all the mud on him.

Stefan looked over to your guys' older brother and pressed his lips together for a moment. "At least she only ran four meters away?" Stefan shrugs.

"Really? Well for that, guess who's on bath time duty? You" Damon told him before walking up to his room.

"Okay. Let's go get you all cleaned up! And let's get all these muddy clothes cleaned" Stefan picked you up, not caring about more mud getting on him since he already has to change anyways. "Yeah!" You exclaimed, leaning your head against his shoulder.

He carried you on his hip up the stairs and to his bathroom. Once he got there, he sat you down on the counter for a second while he turned the tap on to gave the bathtub filling up.

"Let's get you out of these dirty clothes, and if you're good during the whole bath, you can sleep in Damon's bed tonight" Stefan smiled, getting back at Damon for leaving him alone with a mud covered and energetic you to get cleaned and ready for bed.

"Yea, Day Day! Bubbles?" You asked him. "Yes, you can have bubbles in your bath" Stefan agrees. He grabbed the bottle of lavender scented bubbles from under his sink that he bought for you a couple months ago.

After he poured some of it in under the running tap, he came back over to you. Getting you out of the clothes was fairly easy to him. Usually you'd have put up a fight about having a bath, but today you're cooperating easily.

"Ready!" You exclaimed and raised your arms in excitement. "Yes you are, good job!" Stefan brang you over to the tub and slowly raised you into the warm water. "Is it too hot?" He asked. You shook your head, immediately playing with the bubbles.

"Okay, I'm going to be back in just a second, I'm going to get all your muddy clothes into the hamper, and change out of my now muddy clothes, you got it?" He said softly.

"Otay" you said before splashing with the bubbles again.

Stefan ruffled your wavy hair before picking up the pile of small muddy clothing. He vamped out of the bathroom connected to his room. He quickly put all yours and his muddy clothes into an empty laundry bin and changed into a tshirt and sweatpants.

When he got back into the bathroom, there was water splashed onto the ground. "Really?" he deadpanned, to which you just giggled back.

Stefan just shook his head with a small smile. He came over to you with a washcloth and body wash. He washed all the mud off of you quickly, surprised that you stayed still the entire time.

"Okay, last time, cover your eyes" Stefan told you, holding a cup of water above your head to rinse out the final suds of shampoo out of your hair. Your head was tilted back just a bit.

You covered our eyes with your tiny hands, while also squeezing them shut. Stefan slowly poured the water over your head, making sure to get the last of the shampoo out.

"Alright! All done" Stefan tells you. You removed your hand from your face and tilted your head back to normal. "Bath 'inished?" You ask.

"Yep, it's finished, time to dry you off and get into your pajamas" Stefan told you and lifted you out of the tub with a towel and quickly wrapped it around your body.

He undid the stopper, letting the water drain out before walking out of his room and over to yours. He placed you on your bed, all dry becuase of the towel now and walked over to your dresser.

He pulled open one of the drawers with your pjs in them. "Do you care which one?" He asked you. "Uh-uh" you shook your head.

Stefan picked out a light purple and white striped lonsleeve and bottoms. "Okay, stripes it is" he said. He dressed you in the pajamas as you started to nod off.

"Day Day" you quietly said, realizing Stefan had picked you up into his arms again. "Mhm, let's go see drop you off with Damon" Stefan said, to which you giggled at.

When Stefan walked into Damon's room, he looks up from where he's sat in his chair. "What do I owe the privilege of seeing my baby siblings" he smirked at Stefan's slightly offended face from being called a 'baby sibling'.

"Oh, just a little gift" Stefan passed you over to him.

"S'eep in Day Day's bed!" You told him before nuzzling into his chest.

"I told her if she was good during her bath she could sleep in your room tonight and she was!" Stefan told him, answering his confused stare.

Stefan quickly bolted out of the room when he got the death glare from Damon, "Have fun!" He yelled before closing his door.

You just giggled at your older brother's expression and poked his face multiple times. "Good thing you're my favorite" Damon whispered in your ear.

[bellesdreamyprofile]

Hi can you do a fluffy where austin and reader fell in love while shooting caught stealing and they are on their press tour together and the people are starting to speculate about their relationship through their chemistry and when austin is in a talk show to promote he gets emotional while talking about her which basically confirms their relationship and please make it in an austin pov

Caught Stealing - Austin Butler

Our story started as Yvonne and Hank and we stayed Hank and Yvonne for a long time. There was a line between our relationship — between the people we were and the people we played. That line was blurred when we first kissed as Hank and Yvonne — her hands were on my chest and mine were on her cheeks.

Her warmth sent shivers down my spine and her lips made my head spin. I got lost in her embrace, wrapped up in her touch, until the director yelled a distinctive cut. Then her hands left my body and her lips distanced from mine. But there was something in her eyes, a twinkle that I couldn't translate exactly, but enough to give me the sensation that something was there — something neither of us could control.

Maybe it was the way she avoided my gaze as Y/N and then had no problem to kiss me confidently as Yvonne. I didn't know, but we never got to talk about it. The filming process ended and I never brought up the way she lived in my mind rent free. I could never mention how my head kept spinning, my heartbeat picked up whenever I thought of her touch on my skin. It was too late.

Time passed, my head emptied and filled up with other projects, more books to immerse myself in — anything to forget about her. I thought it worked, and then there was the press tour.

"Hi, I'm Y/N.", she smiled sweetly, her gaze pointed at the camera in front of us. Silence followed, my eyes on her and a small smile curled on my lips. She turned her head to look at me sideways and nudged my arm with her elbow.

A chuckle fell from my lips.

"Say, I'm Austin Butler.", realization hit me, but I couldn't help but laugh at her deeper tone, obviously trying to sound like me. My arm tingled in the most pleasant way from the nudge.

"I didn't know I sounded like that.", I teased, making her shake her head, her lips pressed together to suppress a smile. "Well, that was perfect. I think we need to do another one.", I clapped my hands, earning a laugh from the crew.

"Why, I'd say it was perfect.", Y/N said teasingly, nudging my arm again.

There was my heart again, beating faster for a silly action. But what if the action wasn't meant to be just silly after all?

We finished doing the interview later, smiles and laughter incorporated, and we were off in our designated rooms for touch-ups. Y/N went to the bathroom and my publicist led the way to one of the rooms.

"We need you back in 30 minutes, Austin.", I nodded absentmindedly, my head preoccupied by my all too consuming thoughts. I opened the door and shut it behind me, immediately plopping myself down in a chair as a heavy sigh fell from my lips.

My hand reached for the stack of books, grabbing the first one on top. I opened the first page and quickly came to the realization that this was no book at all — this was someone's diary. My brows drew together and I looked up, my eyes looking around the room. Candles, flowers, perfume. This wasn't my room.

A quick peak wouldn't hurt right?

So I skimmed the first page, a chuckle leaving my lips.

Dear Diary,

Today was AAAAAAAAAAA ! I can't explain right now because I'm so overwhelmed by everyone and everything, but OMG I finally saw him! He's so incredible — and sure he's very attractive — but his personality, easy demeanor, his smile and his attentive eyes! What. A. Man.

I'll explain at some point,

XOXO

No one had signed the page, so I kept reading. All pages had one or maybe two paragraphs, everything was kept short and minimal. It was a fun read, I wasn't gonna lie. I flipped the pages until I found the last three written pages and those were no short paragraphs. I withheld my breath.

Dear Diary,

I kissed him. We kissed. Sure, it was for a scene, but it felt so flipping real, I can't put my emotions into words. And he was so kind, so attentive, always asking me if it was okay when he was about to touch my arms. Then the scene started, Darren yelled ACTION!, and his hands were on me and mine were on him. Our lips met and it felt like a dream come true — like that was meant to be, you know?

Then the scene ended, we pulled away and oh, how wrong it felt. The air was suddenly too cold and the distance between us too much—

I kept reading and reading, desperately looking for a name — any name. I needed to know who it was the person was describing and I needed a confirmation before I let my thoughts take me places I didn't wanna be.

I can't spell out his name, I'm afraid to jinx it.

"Oh, come on.", I grunted, flipping another page, my heartbeat increasing.

The interviews with him are driving me fucking crazy. When he looks at me I never know if he's listening or if he's thinking of undressing me. I wish I could take a look in his brain.

I laughed, shaking my head. Fuck. I was in love with this woman. Her words just made me realize it.

I think I love him. He's such a Leo, but I think I'm in love with him. But it's too late now, filming is over, the interviews are slowly coming to an end—

The doorhandles twisted and suddenly the door was open. "Austin?", I froze at the familiar sweet sound. I looked up and simultaneously shut the diary, clearing my throat.

"I swear it's not what it looks like.", I said meagerly, setting the diary on the table. Y/N stayed by the door, her face impassable. I stood up, anxiety slowly creeping in.

"You reading my diary is not what it looks like?", she raised an eyebrow, but her tone wasn't accusatory.

I sighed, my gaze low. "I'm sorry, I thought this was my room.", my words were weak, but that was when the dots in my head finally connected. I could tell her how I feel — this was the perfect time. "I'm sorry I read your diary."

Despite my apologies, she still stood frozen by the door, eyes steadily on me.

"And?", her question took me by surprise.

My eyes widened for a moment. "And...", I gathered my courage and breathed in. "I don't know what star sign you are or what it means to be such a Leo— but I think I'm in love with you too."

My last words were rushed and I was left out of breath before her. The truth was out, my hands were clammy and my knees were shaky. Please, say something, please.

I noticed a subtle clench in her jaw and her feet suddenly started moving. Her eyes stayed low, but as she inched closer all I could focus on was her sweet smell — probably that same perfume she had left on the table. My breath hitched in my throat as her hands found the diary, her fingers brushing over the same pages I did before.

"I think that the correct words were "He's such a Leo, but I think I'm in love with him."", her doe-like eyes looked up at me and I nodded, before I could even process what she said. Y/N let out a breathy laugh, her gaze lowering and the strands of her hair falling around her face in the most perfect way.

"I love you.", I said again, but now I felt at ease somewhat. The secret was out and that was okay. Her eyes met mine again, a small, soft smile painted on those pink lips.

"I love you too.", her words matched mine and I let out a breathy chuckle, her eyes were still on me and I was just standing there intoxicated by her beauty.

"Good.", I nodded, feeling my own permanent smile straining my face.

She raised an eyebrow, her smile still intact. "Yeah?", her tone was laced with playfulness.

"Yeah.", I confirmed, my hand slowly moving to interlock with hers. She looked down and then moved her eyes back up.

"Wanna kiss me?"

I didn't answer and simply let my lips fall on top of hers, my hands tugging her closer to my body until she was fully pressed against me.

My dreams came true.

The press tour continued, it was us and our delicious secret against the world. My hand always lingered on her — whether it was her thigh, arm or hand. Y/N told me she loved my hair, so if anybody was looking for her hands, they could be found there.

The interviews would start and our hands let go of each other. We nodded, laughed, answered and looked at each other. Like she wrote in her diary, my eyes lingered on her and yes, from time to time I did mentally undress her, but overall I was mesmerized.

Her hands moved when she talked and then she'd look back at me to confirm. I'd nod, smile and put some words together and offered them as an answer. I couldn't concentrate, I just couldn't.

"The chemistry between the two of you in the movie is almost undeniable.", Y/N let out a little laugh and raised her palm at me.

"We did it. High-five.", I chuckled and clapped my palm to hers, earning a laugh from the interviewer and the crew backstage.

"I don't know if you're aware of the internet's speculation between the two of you.", the woman's eyes darted between us in question.

"I'm not a big user of Instagram or whatever.", I gave a simple answer and looked at Y/N, whose eyes immediately locked with mine.

"Yeah, me neither. I'm always kind of trying to be in the moment, you know. The internet can be so draining sometimes.", she puffed playfully.

"That's a good point, Y/N, yeah. So let me fill you in what you've missed.", I tensed up for a second and then looked at my girl, sitting comfortably without a trace of worry in her face.

"The rumor is that— well basically, the chemistry between you two is not just undeniable in the movie, but it seems like you've brought it back in your real lives too."

I looked at Y/N, eyes finding mine with ease. She offered me a smile and then turned to look back at the woman sitting in front of us.

"You know, with a woman like Y/N it's kind of difficult to keep it between scripts and sets.", I started off slowly, my hand shaking a little at the sudden emotion I was feeling. "I've never met anyone with such incredible work ethic— and-and her humor is unmatched. She's simply the greatest and I'm honored to be even sitting here with her."

I heard a little sniffle and turned to my right. "Oh, honey.", my hand brushed her cheek for a split second and pulled away. She let out a little chuckle and turned my way with a smile.

"Says the most perfect human ever.", she gripped my hand and squeezed it. Y/N turned back to the woman and smiled once again, her eyes covered by layer of tears.

"Wow. Well, congrats you guys!", she exclaimed happily. "Internet, you heard it here first!"

A/N: thank you so much for reading! this was a request (thanks again to the person who requested) so if you have one as well, don't hesitate to let me know! I'll see you in the next one 💋🌙

MASTERLIST austin masterlist

[fanficgirl429]

Remembering the Past (Mike Schmidt Fluff)

Prompt: Y/N and Mike are going through some of Y/N's old keepsakes and come across a piece of paper that could change everything.

Word Count: 2k

----

Y/N hesitated for a moment before turning the worn brass doorknob of her childhood bedroom. As the door creaked open, a familiar scent of aged wood and faint vanilla—her favorite candle from years ago—wafted through the air. The soft glow of the afternoon sun filtered through the floral curtains, casting golden patterns on the faded carpet.

Stepping inside, she felt an invisible thread pull her back in time. The walls, still adorned with posters of long-forgotten idols and scribbled notes from old friends, whispered stories of late-night dreams and whispered secrets. Her fingers trailed over the edge of her wooden desk, now coated in a thin layer of dust, remembering the hours she had spent scribbling in diaries, pouring out her heart onto lined pages.

But with the good came the shadows of the past. The corner by the window, where she had once curled up with a book to escape reality, also held echoes of quiet tears and muffled sobs. The closet door, slightly ajar, reminded her of the nights she had hidden away, trying to make sense of emotions too big for her young heart to hold.

Despite it all, the room embraced her like an old friend—unchanged, waiting, a tangible piece of the person she used to be.

Her parents were moving into a smaller home and had asked her to go through her bedroom and take what she wanted and trash or donate the rest. 

Her closet contained only a limited selection of clothing, most of which she chose to donate. However, an old blue sweatshirt drew her attention, prompting her to take it out and smile. It had once belonged to her best friend, Mike. She had taken it from him one evening while they were out together, and she had been anticipating his request for its return, which never came.

A soft knock at the door pulled her from the tide of memories, and she turned to see Mike leaning casually against the doorframe. His dark hair was a tousled mess, evidence that he had just rolled out of bed, and the faintest hint of sleep still lingered in his heavy-lidded eyes. In each hand, he held a coffee, the steam curling lazily into the air, filling the space with the comforting aroma of roasted beans and warmth.

For a moment, she just looked at him—at the way the morning light caught in the soft angles of his face, at the easy smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Figured you might need a pick-me-up," he said, lifting one of the cups slightly in offering. His voice was still rough with sleep, the kind of sound that sent warmth curling in her chest.

Y/N took a long sip, savoring the rich taste. 

“Have you found anything exciting yet?” Mike asked, looking around her room. 

Y/N shrugged. “Not yet.”

Mike glanced over at her, recognition strewn across his face. 

“Oh my god! You took my sweatshirt. Do you know how long I looked for that?!”

Y/N laughed. “It’s about time you know that I had it!” 

“You’re the worst,” Mike said laughing. “At this point you can just keep it!”

“Don’t mind if I do!” 

The two of them sat in comfortable silence, the quiet hum of the world outside filtering through the window. The warmth of the coffee lingered between them, mixing with the weight of unspoken thoughts.

After a few moments, Y/N set her cup down and shifted to her knees, reaching beneath the bed. Her fingers brushed against something solid, and she pulled out an old shoebox, its once-bright colors now faded beneath a thick layer of dust.

She ran her hands over the lid, tracing the worn edges before blowing softly on the surface. A small cloud of dust swirled into the air, and Mike immediately recoiled, waving a hand in front of his face.

"Warn me next time, would ya?" he said, letting out a small cough.

Y/N smirked, brushing off the last remnants of dust before looking up at him. "Where's the fun in that?"

Mike huffed, but his eyes flickered with curiosity as he leaned in slightly. "Alright, what’s in the time capsule?"

Y/N hesitated for just a moment before lifting the lid, revealing a small collection of keepsakes nestled inside. Time had faded some of the edges, but the memories they held were still as vivid as ever.

Right on top was a stack of old concert and movie tickets, their corners slightly bent and ink a little faded. She sifted through them with a soft smile, recognizing the names of bands and films they had seen together over the years.

Mike groaned the second he caught sight of one particular ticket stub. "Oh, come on. You forced me to sit through that three-hour musical nightmare."

Y/N laughed, holding up the evidence. "You mean the one where you swore you'd rather chew glass than watch it—only to end up humming the songs for weeks afterward?"

He scoffed, crossing his arms. "That was purely against my will. I was brainwashed."

She grinned, flipping through more of the stubs. "And this one—our first concert together. You pretended to hate it, but I distinctly remember you losing your voice from screaming the lyrics."

Mike shook his head, but there was no hiding the smirk tugging at his lips. "Selective memory, I see."

They continued sifting through the box, each stub sparking a different story, a different night filled with laughter, arguments over popcorn flavors, and inside jokes that no one else would understand. The room, once heavy with nostalgia, now buzzed with warmth and shared laughter, as if the past had never truly left them.

“What else is in here?” Mike asked as he rummaged around in the box. 

His fingers closed on a small piece of paper that had been folded multiple times. 

“What is that?” Y/N asked as Mike began to unfold the small piece of paper. 

“Patience is key,” Mike joked as he read what was written on the paper. 

Without saying a word, he handed the paper to Y/N. 

If by the time we are 27 years old and both of us are still single, we will marry each other. 

Both of their signatures were at the bottom of the paper. It was dated almost ten years ago. At the time that this had been written Y/N had feelings for Mike and secretly hoped that the two of them would still be single in the next ten years. 

Over the past years, Y/N’s feelings for Mike hadn’t changed much. If anything, they had only deepened, settling into a quiet certainty that she had never been able to shake. She had dated a few guys here and there, searching for something—or someone—that could make her feel the way Mike did. But in the end, it always came back to him. No matter how hard she tried to move on, he was the one constant in her life, the one person she always found herself wanting to be with.

Mike, however, had been through more than his fair share of hardship over the years. Losing both of his parents had changed him, forced him to grow up faster than anyone should have to. He had taken on the enormous responsibility of becoming the legal guardian of his little sister, Abby, putting her needs above his own without hesitation.

As far as Y/N knew, he had never gone out on a single date. Not once. Maybe he simply didn’t have the time, or maybe he had never let himself think about what he wanted. She wasn’t sure if he would have told her if he had been interested in someone—but she was certain that Abby would have spilled the beans in an instant. The little girl had a knack for sharing the kind of information Mike preferred to keep to himself, and if there had been anyone in his life, Y/N would have heard about it.

And yet, for all their years of friendship, for all the late nights, shared laughter, and quiet moments between them, she had never dared to ask him the one question that had lingered in the back of her mind for years: Did he ever think of her the way she thought of him?

“I completely forgot about that,” Mike said.

“Yea me too.” 

The room was quiet for a few minutes as the two of them continued to flip through the contents of the box. 

Mike placed the ticket stub he was looking at back in the box before saying, “Well I should probably go. Abby’s probably wondering where I am.”

Y/N stood up and Mike pulled her into a hug. “I’ll text you later.”

Y/N watched as Mike left her room and heard him go down the steps before leaving her house.

——

It had only been a few hours since Y/N had seen Mike but she couldn’t stop thinking about that damn promise the two of them had made ten years ago. She wanted nothing more than to be with Mike and she was going to tell him. 

Mike only lived a few blocks away and Y/N slipped on her shoes and headed out the door, calling to her parents that she would be back soon. 

When she arrived at his house, she hesitated a moment before walking inside. Abby turned around and smiled at her from the couch. 

“Hi Y/N!”

“Hi Abby. Is Mike here?”

“Yea, he’s in his room. But I have to warn you- he’s acting kinda weird.” 

Y/N nodded and made her way down the hallway to Mike’s closed door. She tapped on it gently and waited for him to respond. 

“Abby?”

Y/N opened the door a crack and said, “Nope. It’s Y/N.”

“What’s up?” 

Mike was reclining on his bed, holding his phone. Y/N removed her shoes and settled down beside him. He switched off his phone screen and placed it next to him, turning onto his side to look at her. Y/N then turned to face him.

Y/N took a deep breath, before saying what she wanted Mike to hear. “Listen…there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Is everything ok?”

“Yea. Everything is fine.” 

Nerves began to take over and Y/N sat up and turned away from her best friend. She could feel him sit up as well, his hand rested on her shoulder, putting her at ease. 

“I just…I don’t know…ok, look, it has to do with that promise that we found today…”

“Ok…” ‘

“I know that we were young when we wrote it but at the time I liked you.”

Y/N turned around to look at Mike. He looked confused. “You liked me?”

“Yea…”

“You mean, like, you like liked me?”

Y/N let out a soft laugh. “Yes Mike. I like liked you.” 

Mike’s cheeks began to turn a soft red color and he began to pick at the blanket that was on his bed. 

“And…why are you bringing this up now?”

“Because I…” Y/N sighed. “I know that over the past few years I’ve dated a few guys here and there but remember how I said I always felt like something was missing?”

“Yea- you always had a ridiculous reason why you wanted to break up those douches.”

“Those were just stupid excuses. The real reason was because none of them were you…” 

“Me?”

“Yeah you- you dumbass. I never stopped having feelings for you. Somewhere along the way I hoped that you would get jealous and finally say that you wanted to be with me but you never did, so I just continued to see other guys, hoping that my feelings for you would just disappear. But guess what? They never did!” 

Instead of waiting for an answer from Mike, Y/N stood up, grabbed her shoes and walked out of the room. She was too nervous to hear what his response was going to be. 

When she reached the living room, she sat down on the couch with Abby and slid her shoes on. 

“Y/N!” Mike called, running down the hallway. 

“She’s right here!” Abby yelled back. 

Y/N glared at Abby just as Mike came to a stop in front of her. 

“I love you,” Mike blurts out. 

“No way!” Abby said, standing up. “It’s finally happening.” 

“I’ve loved you since freshman year of high school. I love spending time with you. You make me laugh, and you’ve been with me through everything. I never said anything because I love what the two of us have and I didn’t want to ruin that,” Mike blurted out. 

Mike took a step closer to Y/N and placed his hands in hers and pulled her closer to him. His hands moved to her waist as he leaned down and placed his lips against her’s, kissing her gently. 

“Yes!” Abby cheered, making Y/ and Mike laugh. “It’s taken you two long enough.”

“Ten years to be exact,” Mike said. 

[orimuraa]

chapter 9: operation ynki is a success!!!

chapter warnings: swearing, a kiss wc: 530

confused, you set down your phone, grabbing your coat and heading out the door to go meet riki.

you’ve been so thankful for him for the past month as he’s been so kind to you and teaching you korean.

it makes you really think about your feelings for him. does he like you back? or is he just being nice?

you thought back to a conversation you had with ningning one time, remembering how she said riki is “totally crushing on you”. and the thought of that made your stomach spin.

deciding to clear your thoughts, you open the door the café, immediately dragging your eyes over to your usual booth.

there sat riki, looking as fine as ever and he quickly saw you too, a smile forming ok his face as he waved you over.

“hey ynnie! sorry for late notice,” he apologizes, sheepishly scratching his neck.

“no worries!” you smile, sitting down across from him. you notice that riki looks slightly nervous but you don't comment on it.

“so, did you have anything to tell me? or just a sudden hang out,” you ask, glancing at the menu for a drink.

“o-oh, right..yeah i just wanted to say,” he stutters, taking a deep breath before looking you straight in the eye. “y/n, i really like you and i don’t know if you feel the same but i just wanted to get that off my chest. i’ve really enjoyed hangout out with you for the past few months and in that time, i think i’ve really fallen for you,” he confesses, never breaking eye contact with you.

and woah, are you shocked. riki likes you back??? riki likes you back!!!!!

“riki….i feel the exact same way,” you laugh, feeling like you want to cry tears of joy.

at a loss for words, you cover your face with your hands, feeling very flustered at the moment.

“really?? then…will you be my girlfriend?” he asks, softly grabbing your hands to look at your face.

his eyes are soft and they’re genuine. he has a hopeful glint in them and god do you want to kiss him right now.

“yes!! riki a hundred times yes!!!” you exclaim, a little too loudly and it catches the attention of some of the other customers.

but you don’t care. you just pulled nishimura riki!

“can i kiss you?” he asks shyly, waiting for your approval. you nod shyly, slowly forgetting about the world around you.

he slowly leans in, moving his hand to softly hold your cheek as he connects his lips to yours.

the kiss is everything you ever wanted and more, soft and sweet yet full of love.

when you pull away, you smile softly at riki, feeling the blush dust your cheeks as you stare into his eyes.

“let’s get outta here, yeah?” he offers, holding out his hand for you.

you gladly accept, and you and riki walk hand in hand all the way back to your dorm.

~~~

currently, you’re in the arms of riki, laying in your bed. you’re comforter is already starting to smell like riki but who are you to complain.

you’re just glad he’s yours now.

back / masterlist

ahh we made it to the end!! even tho this may not be the best smau series ever, i sure had fun with it and i hope you all look forward to my future series!!! mwah! i love you all so so much and they you to everyone who supported off my face <3

𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬: @en-diaries, @k-films, @k-nets

⚘. Perm taglist: @vmpivory, @yuvany, @seozii, @pinknjm, @greentulip, @jomisu, @nxzz-skz, @ancnymcnzjy, @hyukabean

taglist: @hearts4hansol, @lonelylandofan, @sirens-dreams, @jiiyen, @inaisis, @right-person-wrong-time, @pshfan0812, @cherrybeomm, @rairaiblog, @tasnemluvs, @miniaturemartian, @mydearyeseo, @enhamonsterghoul, @fairysungx, @kittsnewera, @jellyluv4eva

[illuminatedquill]

Story Summary: Ursa Wren faces a dilemma: since her daughter, Sabine, is now of age, several high-ranking clans now seek to win the favor of Clan Wren by offering her potential suitors. With the political pressure mounting, Ursa has no choice but to acquiesce to the invocation of an ancient rite that will determine which of the suitors will have Sabine's hand in marriage. It's a risky game: turning any of the clans down has the potential to create new enemies that Clan Wren can scarcely afford as they continue to wage war against the Empire. To win this game, Ursa will need to rig it in Sabine's favor and choose a candidate of her own. But this candidate will need to have more than luck on their side . . . which is why she summons a certain plucky young Jedi named Ezra Bridger to Krownest.

Part 1 of 4

Mandalorians were taught since birth to only use beskar for armor and weaponry. That has always been the way. To use it for anything else, according to custom, was to waste it. But one person did not see it that way. They saw beyond, to what it could be. What did they see, you ask? Beauty. And so, they fashioned rings of beskar. The first of their kind. Who would be crazy enough to do such a thing? To go against established Mandalorian custom and change something considered immutable and derive a different purpose? You guessed it. It was a Jedi. - From the personal diary of Countess Ursa Wren

"To be seen is to be loved." - Unknown

~ the call ~

Fenn Rau rapped three times on the heavy wooden door and waited, taking a few moments to marvel at the craftsmanship in its design. Most Mandalorian clans loved to imbue their castles or fortresses with the latest tech to showcase how impregnable their stronghold was to guests. But not Clan Wren - here they still stood on tradition and the old ways but not in a manner that stifled innovation. It had been some time now since he had arrived on Krownest in service to their matriarch and it felt more like a home than anything else he could remember in his life.

"Enter." The commanding voice of his benefactor, Countess Ursa Wren, recognizable even through the thick wood, still full of authority and steel even at this late hour.

With a grunt of effort, he pushed the door open and entered Ursa Wren's bedroom.

Fenn Rau would never confess out loud, but he did harbor a curiosity regarding Clan Wren's matriarch - especially considering Sabine's strained relationship with her. But after meeting the woman himself, he immediately understood where the younger Wren got her fiery resolve from. Both of them were more alike than either were willing to admit - an observation that Fenn Rau decided was wise to keep to himself after witnessing one of their arguments.

Glancing around the matriarch's bedroom, the veteran warrior noted that it seemed to match the woman's personality: it was spartan, utilitarian, with no room given for personal effects that would reveal anything about Ursa herself. The walls were painted a light, neutral green shade that seemed to be an attempt at instilling calmness or serenity in the room's occupant, but Fenn Rau instead found it somewhat nauseating to look at for too long.

Pressed up against the wall to his right was a simple bed with plain grey bedsheets, accompanied by a single lonely pillow that had been flattened due to years of use. To his surprise, the bed was unmade - the only sign of life in the otherwise sterile feeling room. It seems the Countess really was human after all, he thought, feeling amused.

Other than the bed there was a large arch window that overlooked Castle Wren's grounds; a bookcase filled with thick, leather-bound books with the titles written in ancient Mando'a worn away on the spines; a medium sized wooden closet that presumably held Ursa's armor and other sets of clothing; and the only other piece of furniture in the room - a small, round table that had a tiny, delicate vase containing a red rose sitting upon it. It was an oddly personal touch of beauty that immediately suggested to him that it was not placed there by Ursa's hand. Perhaps Sabine, he wondered.

Next to the table, sitting in a wide-backed chair with one leg crossed over the other was the Countess. Ursa wore casual sleep wear: a simple, form-fitting long sleeve shirt and pants that were the same slightly nauseating green as the bedroom's walls, complete with comfortable house shoes. Her hair still remained tied in a tight, professional bun, but she was casually scrolling through a data-pad, her sharp, intelligent eyes raking over the information being shown.

Fenn Rau waited for her to acknowledge him. Finally, after a few seconds of silence, she sighed and tossed the data-pad gently onto the table next to her. With a weariness rarely seen by him, Ursa hunched over and massaged at her temples, eyes closed in deep thought.

"Countess," he said, concerned. "Are you alright?"

Ursa straightened herself with a wince and fixed him (Fenn Rau charitably ignored the faint popping noises that emitted from her back as she did so) with a grim stare.

(Pictured above: Ursa Wren contemplates her next move.)

Fenn Rau forced himself to stand upright against the weight of that intimidating stare.

A few tense seconds passed before Ursa finally relented, a small smile flickering over her face. "At ease, Rau," she said. "Just feeling the weight of my years."

"You're younger than me, Countess," he replied.

The smile grew. "Flatterer," she said.

"It's the truth."

She sighed. "Perhaps so," she said. "I suppose it's more to do with the mileage, rather than the actual number of years."

He nodded in understanding. Fenn Rau had his fair share of wear and tear from the long, hard years of life but by all accounts, Ursa Wren was far more accomplished and battle-worn in her early adulthood than he had ever been at that age.

And that was before she had become the leader of her clan. The stories he had heard about Ursa Wren over the years . . . well, it was enough to chill the blood of any Mandalorian.

"Is there anything I can do to assist you this evening?" he asked. "You did call for me."

"Yes," she answered. He suddenly caught a gleam of mischief in the woman's eyes that sent a spike of anxiety coursing through him.

"Fix my daughter's love life."

Out of all the requests she had ever given him, this was by far the craziest one yet.

Feeling somewhat unsteady on his feet, Fenn Rau asked, injecting a calm that he did not feel into his voice, "I beg your pardon, Countess?"

She gestured at the data-pad laying on the table. "More offers continue to come for my daughter's hand in marriage."

"Ah," he said. "I take it she's responding to them in her usual manner."

Ursa snorted. "Brief and colorful, as always. I'm somewhat proud."

Rau frowned. "You don't wish to see her married?"

"I wish to see her married, yes. Securing Clan Wren's future, especially in these precarious times, is among my top priorities."

"Then why - "

"Because," the Countess interrupted, "I would see her married to a suitable partner of her own choice."

He raised an eyebrow. "Wasn't your own marriage arranged, Countess?"

Ursa grinned. "Yes. By me. My parents threw a fit, of course, over my choice of Alrich. They had to save face somehow, insisting to the wider Mandalorian hierarchy that it was their doing."

Rau laughed. The Wren matriarch frowned at him. "What's so funny?"

"It's very . . . you, Countess."

"It should be," she responded. "I don't know how to be anyone else."

The data-pad suddenly chimed, indicating a new message. Ursa glanced at it and let out a soft groan.

"Another offer, I take it," observed Rau.

"Worse," muttered Ursa. "An invocation from three of the more insistent clans. They are demanding to invoke a Rite."

"Which clans?"

She checked the data-pad, eyes scanning the message. "Clan Eagan, Clan Cobel, and Clan Reghabi."

Fenn Rau grimaced. He had heard of these three - they were sharks in the water, smelling blood. They were ambitious, competent, and looking to claw their way up to the upper echelon of Mandalorian clan hierarchy. Outside of the larger war against the Empire, these three clans had been on the rampage, absorbing smaller clans under their respective umbrellas through back-door negotiations - or by force.

An invocation was a way for the smaller, less powerful families of Mandalore to force a response from the higher, elite clans. There always had to be at least three of them, Rau remembered.

Politically speaking, Ursa was in a bind. Yes, she could turn down the invocation, but it would weaken Clan Wren's stature in the eyes of Mandalorian society. Even during wartime, it could be a death knell. They were spread thin enough as it was and with the continued absence of Alrich - itself a weakening blow to the clan's political stature - their alliances were shaky at best.

It was only due to Ursa Wren's steely resolve that Clan Wren stayed ahead of their rivals, her efforts bolstered by her daughter's timely arrival with the legendary Darksaber.

However, there was a catch . . .

"You can still choose the Rite, if I remember correctly," he said. In the interests of fairness, the clan challenged could choose the manner of challenge.

"Yes," Ursa said, smugly. "And that is how I will settle this matter, once and for all."

His stomach sank. "You intend to go through with this?"

She shook her head. "I have no choice. Clan Wren can ill afford new enemies during this time. Desperate times, Rau."

Rau pursed his lips, thinking. Ursa eyed him. "Speak your mind," she prompted.

"You're playing games with your daughter's life, Countess," he pointed out - gently. "It's unlike you."

"Am I?" she asked, her voice whisper soft. A smile appeared on the matriarch's face - a surprisingly evil one, in fact.

He studied her, feeling the anxiety spike through him again. "I'm assuming you have plan for these games."

"Obviously," she replied. "I never would play games with my daughter's life."

Rau asked, "How do you intend to win?"

"How do you assure victory in anything?" she asked. "You rig it in your favor."

He considered Ursa's words. "That depends on the rite you choose. Which one will it be, Countess? The rite of woe, frolic, malice - or dread, perhaps?"

The evil smile grew wider. "I was thinking the Rite of Hearts."

He frowned. "I don't quite remember that one."

"I pose a question to the suitors," she answered. "How they answer will prove the winner of Sabine's hand in marriage."

He arched an incredulous eyebrow. "I remember now. It's not that simple. Isn't there a vote by each of the clans to declare the winner?"

The Countess laughed. "I don't intend to make it simple. You'll be helping me in that matter, Fenn Rau."

"I see." He really didn't but assumed that Ursa would explain later.

At least he hoped so. In her own way, the Wren matriarch was as unpredictable as her daughter.

"How do you intend to rig this in your favor?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Each of the clans will choose their suitor," Ursa explained. "I am allowed a choice, as well."

"Seems odd," he replied. "Regardless of the outcome, each of the clans will only vote for their own suitor."

"Unless they can be swayed to vote outside their own choice," Ursa corrected. "It can happen."

"I've never heard of it happening," he said. "Not in my lifetime."

She shrugged. "Depends on the candidate."

"Your candidate, you mean," he said. "Who would be brave enough to go along with this?"

She eyed him, the evil smile returning in full force.

A horrible thought occurred to him then: the image of a young man, piercing blue eyes, a scarred cheek, brandishing an emerald bladed lightsaber in the thick of combat.

"You can't be serious!"

"Deadly serious, Rau," Ursa confirmed. "He's the one."

Rau's mouth gaped open, his mind working furiously through the implications. "Countess - choosing him surely is against the rules?"

"I make the rules," she replied coldly. "It's my game now. We are at war - not just against the Empire but for my daughter's freedom. And that boy is my best bet against these sharks swirling around us."

He stared at her. It was a bold move indeed.

Rau didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Maybe when his wits caught up with him, he could decide on that later.

"Shall I make the call, then?" he asked her.

"Yes, if you please," responded Ursa. Her face turned serious. "Get me a secure channel to the Ghost. I suspect Hera Syndulla will still be awake at this hour."

_ _ _ _ _

~ the suitors ~

Three days later

This was the worst day of Sabine's life. She stood in the hallway outside the Wren throne room, awaiting the summons. It felt like she was going to her execution.

On the wall in front of her, Sabine studied the painting hanging there. A portrait of her mother, commissioned by her father, Alrich, as a gift for their wedding day. She initially started to do so as a way to distract herself from the feeling of impending doom but as the minutes passed Sabine came to appreciate the details her father put into the work.

A labor of love, he had called it. Even then, he would privately admit to his daughter later, it did not do his wife's beauty justice.

(Pictured above: Alrich Wren's portrait of his wife, Ursa, given as a gift on their wedding day.)

"Feeling nervous?"

Sabine turned to find Fenn Rau, dressed in formal Mandalorian attire. A sleek, form fitting outfit that was militaristic in style, dyed in the traditional colors of Clan Wren. Sabine felt awkwardly out of place, wearing her customary beskar armor since she owned no dresses. It was hard to get any shopping done in the middle of an active war zone, she had come to learn.

Despite wearing his usual stoic expression, there was a glimmer of humor in Fenn Rau's eyes.

"I'm planning to vomit in front of everyone gathered in that throne room shortly," Sabine responded seriously.

He eyed her. "You don't trust your mother?" he asked.

"How can I trust her after this?" she asked. "She's bargaining away my freedom and - for what - a few meager alliances with some has-been clans?"

Rau's face became pained. "Sabine. If your mother thought this wasn't necessary, then you wouldn't be doing this. We are at war."

"We're always at war," she shot back. "Why now? These offers have been coming in since I got back a few months ago. She didn't seem to mind me turning them down then."

He sighed deeply. "Things change. Listen, Sabine - you know our resources and strength as well as she does. Tell me honestly that we do not need this."

Sabine bit her lip. She could not lie, not even to herself. Things were looking grim for Clan Wren. Even with the strength of the Darksaber backing up their clan, the Empire was everywhere with resources that far outstripped their own. And the Mandalorians were still scattered to the far reaches of the galaxy, hesitant to answer the call to take back their homeworld.

But still, she had hoped it would not come to this. Her mother had never been shy in expressing marriage as a viable future for Sabine, but Ursa had always been insistent that it would be her choice - and no one else's.

She thought of Ezra suddenly. The image of her best friend, far away on the Ghost or in the middle of some crucial mission for the Rebellion, brought a lump to her throat.

I miss you, goober, she thought miserably.

If it could have been my choice, Ezra . . .

She let that thought trail off, not daring to follow through with it. It was too late for that.

Far too late.

Duty calls.

Sabine came out of her reverie to find Fenn Rau looking at her with a surprisingly gentle expression. "You alright?" he asked.

"No," she said, her voice rough. "None of those people will ever love me the way I want. Nor will I ever love any of them."

Something almost like a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. She was immediately suspicious. "What is it?" she demanded.

He shrugged, the almost smile vanishing instantly. "Trust your mother, Sabine," he said again.

She opened her mouth to reply with a snarky answer - and then a horn resounded through the hallway.

It was time.

Sabine took a deep breath, looking up at the portrait of her mother one last time. Once upon a time, Ursa had to go through an arranged marriage set up by her own parents. But that had resulted in her marriage to Alrich, the love of her life.

It worked out for you, she thought bitterly. I doubt it will do so for me.

The doors to the throne room opened. Fenn Rau offered his arm, a formal gesture reserved for Mandalorian royalty. Sabine took it gratefully and let him lead her out.

Sitting on her throne was Ursa, dressed in a sleek silver gown, similar to the one depicted in the portrait Sabine had just been studying. Her mother's eyes watched her carefully, flashing coldly in a warning that only her daughter would pick up on: Behave.

It took every fiber of restraint not to dash out of the room right then and there, but Sabine did it. Her clan was at stake.

This is the right thing to do, isn't it Ezra?

But her best friend was not here to console her. Sabine wondered if she would ever see him again after this.

They reached the center of the room, Ursa behind them on her throne, and faced the candidates from the different clans.

The three suitors were hidden beneath shimmer-silk cloaks, bequeathed to only the most important guests. Behind them were the clan heads, she assumed, also wearing cloaks to hide their faces. The introductions would begin shortly, each candidate and their sponsor lowering their hoods to reveal their faces.

Fun, fun, fun, Sabine thought. I might really puke from all this fun I'm having.

"Welcome," boomed Ursa's voice from behind her. "Welcome, honored guests, to Krownest and Clan Wren."

The three hooded clan heads responded in unison. "We seek an invocation, Countess Wren."

Sabine glanced behind her to see Ursa nodding in acknowledgement. "I accept this invocation."

They spoke again. "What rite would you ask of us?"

"The Rite of Hearts," Ursa said calmly.

There was a pause. The hooded clan members exchanged hidden looks with one another; Sabine caught some murmurs of surprise being whispered.

"I take it they're not happy about that choice," she whispered to Rau.

He shook his head, cutting off any further commentary from her. "Just watch."

But she caught that almost smile from him again. She's planning something, Sabine thought. Fenn Rau knows about it.

A small flicker of hope began to quietly burn inside her. It wasn't much, but she clung to it.

What are you planning, mother?

"We accept, oh gracious Countess," came the unified reply, albeit a tad reluctantly. Sabine got a sense of satisfaction from hearing it.

"Good to hear," Ursa said cheerfully. "You are all gathered here today to contest for my daughter's hand in the hereby declared Rite of Hearts. Are there any other challengers that wish to make themselves known?"

The front doors to the throne room blew open in a frigid gale of bitter wind. A person stood there, dressed in a humble hooded cloak of brown homespun wool. They were just a dark silhouette against the frozen tundra in the backdrop, unrecognizable - but Sabine caught a flash of their eyes beneath the hood.

Familiar, piercing blue eyes.

Sabine felt her pulse spike. It can't be.

The figure stalked forward, only to be met by a pair of Krownest guards, brandishing their pikes threateningly in his direction. He paused before them.

Ursa's command cut through the air. "Wait."

The guards stilled their approach but kept their weapons pointed at the new guest.

"Who are you to interrupt these proceedings?" she asked.

"A challenger," came the reply. "As you called for, I am here to make myself known."

Ursa arched an imperious eyebrow. "You wish to challenge against these others for my daughter's hand?"

"I do."

She stared at him for a few tense seconds - and then Sabine caught a smirk flashing across her mother's face for the briefest of moments.

"Very well," Ursa said. "I accept your challenge. I will be your sponsor, as is my right."

The clan heads snapped their hooded faces towards Ursa in shock and anger but didn't dare to raise a complaint. This was, after all, her house. They would obey her rules - or face the consequences.

The guards removed their weapons and went back to their posts. Fenn Rau hurried forward to close the front doors before returning back to Sabine's side. The guest stepped forward and took their place awkwardly next to the other suitors.

They glared at him. He gave a little polite wave only to be met with more glare.

"Seeing as though you came in such a dramatic fashion," Ursa continued calmly. "Why don't you introduce yourself first?"

There was a pause. "Oh, I'm supposed to do that now?" asked the guest.

Sabine stared at him - and then at Fenn Rau.

He shrugged. "Desperate times," he said quietly, in answer to her look.

"Yes," replied Ursa, sounding annoyed. "Unless you're waiting for something else?"

"Oh, uh. No. I guess I'll do that," he replied nervously.

And the guest carefully lowered the hood of his cloak.

There, in the throne room, presenting himself as a challenger for her hand in marriage was Sabine's best friend, Ezra Bridger.

"Hi, everyone," he said in greeting. Ezra caught Sabine's stare and gave her a sheepish smile. "I'm Ezra Bridger. A Jedi. And, uh, Sabine's friend."

The silence in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Sabine took a shaky step forward. Then another one.

Towards Ezra.

"You," she breathed. "It's you."

"Hey, Sabine," he said. "It's been a while - gah!"

She tackled him to the ground.

"Are you an idiot?!" she yelled, grabbing the front of his cloak and shaking Ezra. "Do you know what you've just agreed to, di'kut? Do you have some sort of death wish - "

"If you would just let me explain - glack!"

"Guards!" barked Ursa.

From behind her, Fenn Rau sighed deeply. "All according to plan, I suppose," Sabine heard him mutter, before the guards came to pull her away.

TO BE CONTINUED

[cigarettesaftersae]

cream puff - 01 cherry blossoms

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Series: shidou ryusei x f!reader | contains : fluff, (slight)angst, a bit suggestive(its shidou.), highschool au, troublemaker shidou, reader loves baking, spring :P, warning is shidou

masterlist

Dear diary, who knew today would be something special. I consider maybe a small life, with a big fluffy protective dog and a garden of pink flowers with my baking recipes lying around to be a life that I’d settle for. But in a world where people will settle for anything just to say they have something could make my words mean nothing. That wouldn’t apply to me I hope. Anyways, today was strange, life is strange because why did Shidou Ryusei give me a milk box?

Cherry blossoms fall onto the cement ground, unfolding loves stories whist it aim it's arrow with might to any of those unexpected. Lingering rainy air, blooming flowers, the eye of the moon and for this, your story, now slowly becoming. One petal falls onto your face as Lui, your best friend catches up to you. Out of breathe, she lands her hands on her trumblung knees to calm down. “You walk..too fast” she breathes in and out hastily

“I don't want to be late come on” you rush Lui, her hand in yours now as you ran towards the school building

“Look we’re not even late”

“Better being early at least” you remark, whispering as the teacher took her usual attendence

“Shidou ryusei…shidou ryusei?” She repeats waiting for a ‘here’ but everyone and everything to simply nothing is completely silent. “Not here..” the teacher mumbles till interrupted with a blast upon the door sliding open too rough. “Yo..here” Shidou grins a smirk as the other teacher behind him throws him in deeper to the class “He was trying to skip in the art room” They say with a lingering annoyance hince in their tone,

“Late again Shidou Ryusei”

“Mm, I see that” he remarks in sacrasm which made the teacher wince in a ‘tsk’

“Go Sit down”

“Mmm no.”

“go to your seat

“I don't like where I sit”

“Well life isn’t fair, stop making things complicated and go sit down in your seat”

Shidou continue to refuse, his rebellion making time pass by faster than you thought. Wasting the fabric inch of time as the two bricker. Pushing back your seat, the ends of the chair goes aganist the floor causing a loud rub from it. Capturing their attention and putting a pause in their qurel. “He can take my seat.” You say with a soft demeanor, not wanting any trouble. Your seat was positioned at the window not in the front but not in the back, right in the middle, making you have a great view of the school grounds and the cherry blossoms that fade in the wind. It had to be convincing enough for Shidou Ryusei right?

Well, it sure was because now you’re in the way back as your friend sits in the front. You could see he was clearly messing around, not paying attention to the lesson, and maybe he was even playing minecraft on his phone, hidden by the table as a blindspot. You could see he was fighting a couple of mobs, his sword fighting them till it popped up a ‘You died’ and a respawning button. Causing him to joint in anger, making the teacher notice something off. Another argument between the two start again and you almost groan at this just wanting the day to past by already.

-

“Did you really have to give up your seat for him?” Lui groans, slumping into the chair next to you.

“If no one did anything, it would’ve just kept going,” you reply, brushing off the regret creeping into your tone. Both of you sit in the cafeteria, isolated and insignificant in a world of billions—a pair of small losers in the grand scheme of things.

“Yeah, but it’s… Shidou. What’s worse than that?”

Before you can respond, a voice cuts through your thoughts like a blade. “What is worse?”

You both freeze. The unmistakable voice belongs to none other than Shidou Ryusei himself. He drags a chair across the floor with an obnoxious screech before plopping down directly across from you. The troublemaker of the school, a human hurricane of chaos, sits there with a box of milk, which he casually places on your plate.

You’re at a loss for words—speechless, in the truest sense. Shidou hasn’t done anything to you directly, yet somehow, he’s already gotten under your skin, as if causing psychological and mental chaos is just second nature to him.

[lyjen]

Bad Luck, Good Luck

Summary: Evan and (Y/n) are neighbors, nothing more, nothing less. At least that’s what Evan thinks they are, (Y/n) sees him more than that. When (y/n) discovers that Evan has a girlfriend, she knows she can’t handle seeing him with another girl and decides to move. But what if Evan finds her diary?

Request by: anonymous - The request

9-1-1 masterlist

Taglist: @oliviah-25 @shauna-carsley 

An annoyed groan fell off (Y/n)’s lips as she felt her phone buzzing and the ringtone sounding through the air. She searched the small compartments of her bag, finally fishing out her phone out of the bag as she swipes her finger along the screen to accept the phone call. She pressed the phone to her ear “(Y/n)” she said with a little annoyed tone overruling her voice.

Everything that could go wrong, went wrong this morning. She had overslept, couldn’t seem to get her hair into form, stained the outfit she had gotten on but didn’t have time to put anything else on and at last but not least, being stuck in Los Angeles traffic on her way to work.

She was now on her way to pick up the coffee order from some colleagues from the office she worked at. Her hand reached out for the door of the coffeeshop, as she pulled the door open and stepped over the threshold. “I’m sorry sir! I just entered the shop to get your coffee, I’ll be there in ten minutes.” She said, An annoyed male voice replied back through her phone and abruptly hung up the phone.

Another sigh fell off her lips as she slid the phone back into her bag and got in line to pick up the coffee order. (Y/n) didn’t like the job she did. But it paid well, and she really didn’t know what kind of job she wanted to do. She never knew. No job really spoke to her..

“Sounds like you have a rough day already” a familiar voice sounded through her ears as she scanned her surroundings to find the voice. It wasn’t until he turned his body towards her as she could connect a name to that voice. It was Evan, her neighbor.

With a small smile projected on his face, his eyes found hers. “Tell me about it” she sighed as she slid her hand through her hair, trying subtly to make it look kind of decent. “Slept through my alarm and stained my outfit, not really my best day and look” she said as she pointed at the stain on the chest part of her beige button up shirt.

“Yet this is one of your best looks” Evan says before he could even realize what he said. Maybe a little bit too flirty than he wanted it to sound. “N-Not that you’ve ever looked bad!” He tried to correct himself as he felt his cheeks starting to burn. “And not that I always check the way you look when you walk out the door..” he sighs as he realizes he’s making a fool of himself.

“And.. god I should stop. I sound like a stalker..” he awkwardly smiles as he rubs his hand on the back of his neck.

A smile was spread over (y/n)’s face as he tried to save himself. It was kinda cute the way he was trying to talk himself out of it, the way he smiled at her when he knew he couldn’t talk it right. A small giggle fell off her lips as she nodded. “It’s okay, I know you’re not a stalker..” she smiled down at the ground for a second before she looked back at Evan again. “Just… a neighbor..” she continued.

“Good” he chuckled softly as he dropped his hand down to hold the strap his radio was attached to. “Anyways, if you’re already late.. Why are you here getting coffee?” he asked, confused as he pointed to the signs of the shop hanging around in the space.

She laughed “Part of the routine, and one of the tasks I got from my boss” she nodded, she wasn’t too proud of that part of the job either. “Hmm, assistant job?” Evan asked her as he saw the way he looked back down again. “Yeah.. nobody at the office knows my name but whenever they need coffee, they suddenly know where to find me” she laughs it off as she pushes a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Hey, It’s okay if you still have no clue what you want to do for work.” Evan said as he noticed the way she wanted to get rid of the subject. ”I didn’t know I wanted to be a firefighter until I was twentysix, and after I traveled the country trying out so many jobs.” he continued as he tried to motivate her to not give up. “You traveled the country?” She asked, not sure if he was for real or not.

“Oh yeah, I was a mixologist, construction worker, worked at a ranch and I even joined the Navy Seals for a bit” he said. “You? Working at a ranch?” she laughed. “Yeah, not my finest moment. But I was just trying to figure out who I was” he laughed with her as he held up his hands.

When the laughs stopped filling the space, it went silent. It was nice to talk to someone who also had the same problem as she has right now. But except, he found his calling and she didn’t.. At least not yet.

It was silent, but not the kind of silent where it’s awkward. It was comfortable.

“Order for Buck?” The barista behind the pickup counter said, as his head shot towards the pickup counter as he heard his name. “Yeah that's me” he said as he stepped forward, taking a step towards the counter.

(Y/n) looked around as she waited for her order to be made. “I’ll cover for whatever she orders too.” Evan’s voice sounded through her head as he handed over the money to the barista.

“No.. Evan. I really can’t ask you to do that..” she said as she saw Evan getting the two trays filled with coffee. Evan glanced over to (Y/n) as he balanced the coffee on both his hands.

“You didn’t ask, I offered it. And.. it seemed like you needed some good luck today” He gave her a small smile as he connected his elbow softly with her upper arm. “Guess I owe you now” she smiled.

“Yeah.. I guess you do. But I have to go now.. the team gets grumpy when they don’t get a cup of good coffee before a call” he laughed. She gave him a nod, “See you around” he said as he walked past her.

The entrance bell rang as he pushed the door open. “Oh and by the way..” his voice sounded through the coffeeshop as he was standing in the doorway. ”You can call me Buck”

______

(Y/n) opened the door to the archive room, her boss gave her the assignment to go and clean the archive room since it was a mess. And he was right. Her eyes slowly scanned the space before she stepped over the threshold, and looked around the small space that wasn’t much bigger than a janitor's closet.

A smell of stale, like she walked into an old person’s home was floating through the air and made its way up her nose. There was no window, so she let her hand feel against the side of the wall and searched for the lightswitch. When she found the switch, she flicked it on

It was like she went ten years back in time when she stepped over that threshold. As if she stepped into a time machine. There were loose papers spread over the floor, folders with important documents spread over the small table, boxes with more folders and papers stacked into a storage rack.

A sigh fell off her lips as she looked around. She was an assistant, she wasn’t a warehouse employee or a maid. But she needed this job to pay for her rent, she could look for her dream job or purpose while she worked. The best she could do right now is: do her job, do what they ask to do and nod and say yes.

“Where to begin..” she mumbled as she closed the door behind her so she wouldn’t be a burden to anyone. She decided to start with clearing the table, so she had space to organize lost papers which were everywhere.

But after a few minutes of starting she decided to grab her headphones out of her bag to make it fun. Music always does the trick. She folded out the headphones as she turned the wireless headphone on and put on some music and continued organizing the papers.

One by one she went through all the boxes and started to reorganize them. When (Y/n) carries another box from the shelf, suddenly the lights turn off. “What the hell?” she mumbles with a confused frown projected on her face, she looks around. She placed the box she was just carrying on the ground and slid her headphones off her head and ears and let it rest on her shoulders and around her neck.

Alarms were beeping and screaming as she pushed the headphone off her ears. She felt her heartbeat racing as adrenaline was floating through her body. Her hand found the doorknob, when she turned it and pulled the door towards her the whole floor she was on had already been evacuated. “For fuck sake” the words fell off her lips as she looked around the floor and the light smell of smoke entered her airways.

She ignored the smoke smell and walked fast towards the indicated emergency route. But when she swung the door open a smother of thick gray smoke was blown into her face. Multiple coughs left her mouth as she closed the door as soon as possible. She was trapped. The fire probably came from a few floors below her, and there was no way she could get through that smoke, not even with a piece of fabric in front of her mouth and nose to filter out the smoke.

(Y/n) slid her phone out of her pocket, and her fingers went straight to the green button with a phone projected on it. She dialed the three numbers everyone in the whole wide world had memorized. 9-1-1. and held her phone against her ear.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” a female voice spoke over the phone as she picked up. “I’m stuck on the nineteenth floor of the Hound co. office on central street! A-and I don’t know what to do” a small cough interrupted her sentence as she spoke to the lady on the phone. (Y/n) was starting to panic as she came to the realization that there wasn’t a way out for her.

“It’s okay, we’re gonna get you out of there. Units are already on their way.” The woman on the phone tried to calm down (Y/n). “What’s your name ma’am?” The woman continued as she tried to gather as much information as possible. “(Y/n)” she coughed, the smoke was entering the room more and more. It was stinging her eyes and made it hard to see.

“I’m Maddie, Is there anything you can hold in front of your nose and mouth to prevent you from inhaling smoke? A fabric like a t-shirt, jacket, maybe a towel?” Her voice was so calm and reassuring.

“Yes I think I have a scarf tied around my bag” she coughed. “That’s great. If you have it, hold it in front of your nose and mouth” Maddie, the woman on the phone instructs her. (Y/n) unties the scarf from the bag and does whatever she told her to do.

“Now, we want to get you as far away as possible from the smoke. Do you see a fire escape? There must be some kind of stairwell” Maddie asks through the phone. “I looked there just a minute ago and it was filled with smoke. I can’t go through there!” (Y/n) spoke as she walked back towards the staircase.

“(Y/n) I know it's scary, but I need you to go higher.” Maddie’s voice spoke through the speaker of the phone. “I’m here with you and I’m not leaving until help arrives.”she continues. (Y/n) closed her eyes for a brief second as she looked up at the ceiling. She squeezed her eyelids together as she shook her head. “Okay'' she cried as she felt her eyes burning, not only from the tears, but from the smoke in the room.

“Now, go and look for the fire escape” Maddie ordered, and (Y/n) went straight towards the door of the stairwell. “Okay, I’m back at the door of the fire escape” she said as a small cough left her mouth. (y/n) pulled the door open and a wave of smoke was blown again into her face. Immediately she looked down, searching from what floor the fire was coming. “I think the fire is coming from one of the floors below me!” she tried to say between coughs and she pressed the fabric tighter to cover her nose and mouth. “(Y/n) I need you to go up”

Just as (Y/n) wants to turn to go up the staircase, her eyes fall down onto something that probably wasn’t supposed to be there. It was a hand. Quickly (Y/n) stepped down the stairs to make sure there wasn’t anyone else trapped. “Oh my god” she mumbled through the fabric of her scarf as her eyes found a woman’s body down onto the ground, lifeless.

“There’s someone else down here!” she said as she kneeled down next to the woman. “In the stairwell?” Maddie asks. “There’s a woman, I think she may have fallen when she tried to get out of here!” she coughed as the smoke became thicker and thicker with the second.

“Can you tell If she’s still breathing?” the voice on the phone asked. She held her hand which was holding her phone in front of the woman’s face as she felt a small breath of air tickling her skin. “I think she’s still breathing!” she concluded as she held the phone against her ear again so she could hear Maddie talking.

“Okay, we’re not leaving her behind. Here’s what you need to do..” Maddie spoke as she explained the way to help and rescue the unconscious woman. Maddie gave her the instruction to tie the scarf she had pressed against her nose and mouth, around her head so it would still hold back some of the smoke.

(Y/n) rolled the woman onto her back and pushed her up so she was sitting up. She got behind the woman as she grabbed her wrists and lifted her up to her feet. The chest of the woman was pressed against (Y/n)’s back so she could bend her knees and lift her weight onto her shoulders and back.

“What now?” she groaned as she carried the weight of the woman on her back and shoulders. “Move, as fast as you can. Go up, there should be less smoke a few floors up.” Maddie instructed her. “Okay. Heading up!” she groaned at every step she took.

“I’m at twenty one” she coughed, with every breath of air she felt her lungs take less and less air. As if the smoke that went into her lungs had taken the place of the oxygen. Her world was spinning around her, black and white dots were dancing around her vision at every step she took. “Just a few more (Y/n). You can do this.” Maddie tried to motivate her.

“I-.. I can’t..” she stumbled over her words as she felt her knees cave in. “I’m sorry Maddie” she coughed and cried. “It’s okay. If you can, exit the stairwell and find a wall to slide the woman down off your back.” she said.

But before she could do that, her vision went totally black, her vision was taken over by the black and white dots. She could feel her body fall down onto the concrete stairwell, as the body of the woman fell down onto hers, completely crushing her body.

“(Y/n)? Are you still there?”

“Captain Nash, be advised, there are two women in the stairwell on the twenty first floor, unconscious. Name of one of the women is (Y/n).” Maddie’s voice came through the radio as the team stepped out of the truck.

Evan’s hand reached out to the compartment door to get out the oxygen tanks but froze, as his heart dropped down in his chest. That name. That damn’ name. He knew it could be a hundred or thousand other people with that name, but something told him it was her. His neighbor.

“Copy that, dispatch” Bobby spoke into his radio as he pressed the button to speak. “Chimney, Buck and Eddie, you three go in and get those two victims. Hen, you go and start triage, Chimney will join you after.” Bobby ordered his team that was nodding.

Evan, Eddie and Chimney all three put an oxygen tank on their back as they got ready to get into the office building.

“Almost there! One more floor!” Eddie said as Evan was still full speed stepping on those stairs as if it did nothing to his breathing. Chimney was panting as he was pulling himself up with the help of the railing like it would help him gain more energy and oxygen.

“(Y/n)!” Evan called out as he almost reached the twenty first floor, trying to get a reaction out of her. There was still a chance she would’ve gained consciousness in those minutes they were rushing up the stairs. “LAFD! Call out!” Eddie’s voice followed up Evan’s yell.

Evan’s eyes fall onto the numbers written on the wall. Twenty one, with the door towards the office floor next to it. Evan’s eyes scanned the stairwell as he stopped in his tracks, but when he heard a groan his eyes shot up and he let his legs carry him a few steps higher.

“Ma’am LAFD, we’re here to help!” Evan said as he could see two female bodies collapsed on top of each other. Slowly the woman gained consciousness. “Oh my god” she stumbled as she realized she was crushing (Y/n)’s body.

“It’s okay, let's get you out of here and checked out, alright?” Evan said as he helped the woman to her feet so she wouldn’t be crushing his neighbor anymore. Evan grabbed both of the woman’s hands to support her weight, as he handed her carefully over to Eddie.

Evan quickly kneeled down next to (Y/n) “(Y/n) can you hear me?” he said once more. But when he didn’t receive a reaction to his question, he took off his glove and slid the scarf she had wrapped around her nose and mouth down to her neck.

He pressed his index and middle finger tight against each other and pressed them against her neck. After he found her pulse and it seemed normal, he held his hand in front of her nose as he checked her breathing. “Pulse seems normal, but her breathing is short” Evan says as he looked at Chimney.

“Must have been because of the amount of smoke. Let’s get them both out of here!” Chimney concluded, as he helped Eddie to support the woman. “You got her Buck?” Chimney asks as Eddie and the other woman slowly start to make their way down. “Yeah, I got her.” Evan says as he nodded at Chimney.

Twenty one floors to carry someone was a hell, but if she was unconscious he had no other choice. They couldn’t get the gurney up there, not when the fire was still roaring over one of the floors. Evan carefully turned her so she was on her back, and slid his left arm underneath her lower back and his right arm underneath her knee cavity.

Her body became heavier at every step he took to get from the twenty first floor back to the ground floor. His arms were losing power, but he couldn’t stop, he had to push through the pain. He could hear soft groans and falling from her mouth.

“I need a gurney over here!” Evan panted as he got out of the doors of the building. Chimney comes running down with the gurney, and Evan carefully places (Y/n) onto it. Once she was on the gurney, Evan ripped off his oxygen mask, revealing his blonde curls and sweaty face.

“Let’s get her into the ambulance.” Chimney said. Evan placed one hand down onto her knee as he placed his right hand onto hers, giving her a slight squeeze to let her know he was there, walking next to the gurney to help her get to the ambulance.

A groan fell off her lips as she tried with all her energy to open her eyes. “It’s okay.. I’m here with you” Evan’s voice sounded through her ears. She could feel Evan’s hand softly squeezing her hand.

Her hand tightened around Evan’s hand as she felt his hand loosening around her hand. Evan wanted to let go, so she could get to the hospital.

“Buck..” she stumbled as a loud cough left her throat, and she looked at him through the small space between her eyelids.

The way she tiredly called out his name, made his heart skip a beat. Evan had a feeling she wasn’t going to let go of his hand sooner or later. He felt the eyes of Chimney burning into his skin as they waited for Evan to make a choice.

“I’m here (y/n). I’m not going anywhere.” He softly said as he got in the back of the ambulance.

She didn't know him at all. Only that he was her neighbor. But she trusted him. That was all that she needed right now.

_____

(Y/n) closed the door behind her as she held the garbage bag in her other hand. In the corner of her eye she could see a silhouette appearing, when she turned around to proceed her way to get rid of the garbage bag she met those ocean blue eyes again. He was holding a moving box in his hands, as a spooked look was projected onto his face. As if he had seen a ghost, or something or someone he didn’t want to walk into.

There was a silence between the two of them, “You’re not moving out right?” (Y/n) decided to break the silence as she pointed at the box Evan was holding. “What?” Evan said as a confused look took over his face now, but quickly remembered that he was holding a moving box. ”No! It’s just..-” his sentence was cut off by a female voice filling the space of the hallway. “Hey we probably have to cull as we unpack. Oh-” The female voice stopped speaking as she walked into the hallway, finding Evan talking with (Y/n). With her keys in her hand she stopped in her tracks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were chatting with one of your neighbors” she said.

(Y/n)’s eyes wandered from the woman she didn’t know, to Evan and back, trying to connect the dots. Evan just stayed silent as he held his eyes locked onto the box he was holding. “I believe we haven’t met yet..” The woman came closer to (Y/n) “I’m Taylor, Buck’s girlfriend.” she says as she reaches out her hand, inviting (y/n) to shake hers.

Her eyes went wide as she surprisedly repeated the one word that triggered her. “Girlfriend?” she said as she collided her hand into Evan’s girlfriend and shook it. Her voice sounded surprised, but she tried her best to sound as normal as possible, even if that was possible. Not after he dropped a bomb on her like that. She smiled awkwardly as she glanced over to Evan and back to Taylor. “I’m (Y/n), Buck’s neighbor and just a friend” she said as she gave Evan one fast glance again.

“So you’re moving in?” (Y/n) asked Taylor as she pointed at the box Evan was still holding. “Seems like it, doesn’t it?” Taylor smiles as she takes place to stand next to Evan. (Y/n) could swear she was going to be sick. How did Evan not mention this to her? That he had a girlfriend who was going to move in with him? How is that something that you’d keep out of your conversations?

(Y/n) smiled at the both of them “So, how did the two of you meet?” (Y/n) asked as she felt a silence coming up. “Well, Buck and his team rescued me from a crashed helicopter a few months ago actually. Just another day on the job, isn’t that right?” Taylor answered as she smiled at Evan, curling her hands around his upper arm.

“Wow, I’m sure that must’ve been scary for you” (Y/n) said as she glanced every now and then at Evan, he was quiet. That was nothing for him, he always wants to join in with conversations. “Yes it was, but luckily we’ve got LA’s finest fire and rescue to save us. It wasn’t love at first sight, but we found each other back” Taylor said as she glanced up at her boyfriend, who was pretty much focussed on the cardboard box which he was still holding in his hands.

The smiles and awkward laughing came to a stop, as a silence filled the room again.

“How are you? How are your lungs?” Evan suddenly asked after a few loud minutes of silence. (Y/n)’s eyes wandered towards Evan’s. “I’m doing fine, thanks. I’ve had some extra follow up exams but my doctor says that my lungs sounded clear” (Y/n) explained to Evan. “Good, happy to hear you’re going good” Evan nodded as he could feel himself slip away and drown into her eyes.

Taylor’s face had gone from smiling to a confused look. (Y/n) guessed Evan probably never mentioned rescuing his own neighbor from a fire. “I got stuck in a fire a week back..” (Y/n) said as she looked at his girlfriend, explaining the situation. “And Buck.. well he saved me” she continued as she quickly glanced at Evan. (Y/n) received a quiet “oh” from the woman and she nodded.

“Um, did they find some kind of emergency building to work in?” Buck asked as he clarified the situation to Taylor. A small laugh left (Y/n)’s mouth “Funny you should ask.. Um, I don't know. I quit the job” she said as she looked down at the floor, which was really interesting to her right now.

Evan’s eyebrow furrowed, he didn’t expect her to drop her job like that. “Oh.. I’m so.. sorry. I had no idea.” Evan apologizes to her. “It’s okay.. really. I wanted to quit anyway.” she quickly said as she wanted to get rid of the subject as soon as possible.

Another silence filled the hallway.

“Anyways! It was so nice to meet you Taylor.” (Y/n) said as she gave her a small nod and slowly backed away from the couple. “But.. I’ve got to.. uh go.. do that.. uh.. thing!” she continued, she quickly slid the key to her home out of her pocket and unlocked the door. “See you later?” Buck quickly asked as she opened the door to her apartment. (Y/n) hummed a fast “yes” and closed the door with a bang.

She was still holding the trash bag in her hand, but threw it through the room to release her anger. She let her back fall against the front door of her apartment and slowly let her head bounce against the door. With her eyes squeezed closed, she bawled her fist along her side of her body and let it bang against the wooden door.

This couldn’t be happening.

______

Evan slides the oven rack with the dish filled with fresh lasagna towards him, checking if his dinner is ready to be served.

But his head shot up at the sound of his doorbell ringing. He quickly slides the rack back into the oven as he shuts the door close and throws the towel he used onto the kitchen counter. He quickly walked to the door, and swung the door open as he was within range.

His eyes spotted an older man standing in front of his door. Evan simply greeted him when he saw the man. “Hello, my name is Wright, I’m your new neighbor from next door.” the man says. Evan’s eyes furrowed in surprise. “Oh yeah, I’m Buck. Welcome to the neighborhood” Evan introduces himself to the man.

It has been months since (Y/n) moved out of the apartment next door, she told Evan that she found a new job and had to move to Berkeley. Which wasn't a lie, technically. After everything that happened to her, she found a new purpose, and needed a new beginning.

But the one thing she didn’t tell anyone was her main reason why she left. She left Los Angeles, and her apartment was because she knew she couldn’t bear to see Evan with another woman. She knew that she would be suffering every awaking second, as she saw Taylor and Evan together.

After the office building fire, she was desperate to help people and to show people that she in fact was intelligent and useful. The people at the office treated her like she was stupid and used her for the most simple tasks. She wanted to prove herself, so that is what she’s going to do. She moved to Berkeley to start medical school at the University of California.

Evan has also broken up with Taylor a couple of weeks ago. Taylor promised Evan that she wouldn’t run the Jonah Greenway story, but eventually betrayed him by doing it anyway. After they spend some time avoiding each other, Evan and Taylor parted ways.

“I came here to ask if you knew the previous neighbor?” Wright asks Evan. He nods as her smile flashes through her mind again. “Yeah, I did” he says with a soft smile projected on his face.

“Good, because he or she left this behind and I wanted to give it back to its rightful owner” the new neighbor says as he holds up a book. The book he’s holding looks used, as if it had lived a long life.

His soft smile morphed into a confused look that was written all over Evan’s face. “I was wondering if you could get in touch with the owner to return it.” Wright says as he fiddles with the book in his hands.

“Oh yeah, sure. I can do that.” Evan answers Wright as he nodded. ”Really? That’s awesome, thanks” his neighbor says as he hands over the book to Evan, who gladly takes it off his hands.

“I’d better get going, have lots to unpack. Let me know if you got it back to the owner” Wright says with a smile written on his face. “I will. Oh and once again, welcome to the neighborhood” Wright sends Evan a small smile and walks away from the door. Evan gives the door a slung so it would close on its own.

Evan inspects the book that was in his hands. It wasn’t like a book to read, it looked more like a notebook to him. When Evan turns the book around to look at the back, he stops in his tracks as something hits the floor. A folded piece of paper.

Another confused look was on his face. He squats down and grabs the piece of paper from the ground. Evan wants to put back the paper in between the pages of the book, but then his eyes fall onto his own name. Written down onto the paper. What the hell?

He had so many questions. Why was his name onto this piece of paper? What was this book? Was it some kind of diary or was it just a book? Was she writing about him? And if so, why was she writing about him? A thousand questions were running through his mind right now.

Evan stands up straight again as he places the book onto the kitchen island. He leaned with his forearms onto the island as well as he turned the piece of paper multiple times, as if it was magically going to show something new.

He can’t open this, right? It’s someone’s private property. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to find this after all. Evan is in a fight with himself, but after minutes of debating and a hundred times turning the folded paper, he decides to open it. His heart was starting to race as he unfolded the paper and he let his fingers trace along the ripped off side of the paper.

Evan,

I don’t even know where to begin, I don’t even know if I will have the guts to send this to you. Maybe this letter will always stay in my diary. I have written this letter already a hundred times, but I can’t seem to find the right words. I have so many things to say, but yet, I can’t get them on paper. Everything I write down seems to be wrong.

Maybe it’s the feeling of seeing you with her, while I try to push my real feelings down. Only to see you happy. Because that’s what I want. I want you to be happy, because that’s what you deserve.

I wanted to be happy for you, when I walked into you and Taylor in the hallway. I wanted to tell you that seeing you and her together, didn’t do anything to me. But I’d be lying if I said that. The truth is… every time when I see you glance a smile at her or even holding her hand, a part of me is dying on the inside. I tried to put on a mask, and to turn into someone else every single time when I walked past you. But it just got harder from time to time.

It’s like I’m underwater, I’m trying to hold my breath and I’m not coming up until this all is over. But I’m suffocating. And that’s why I’m leaving Los Angeles.

I hate the way my heart makes a jump when you glance back at me, or the way my name falls off your lips. The feeling you give me by only standing there, and telling me it’s going to be okay. Or the way you somehow managed to become my lucky charm.

There’s a lot more I want to say… But I’m ending this letter. Because, how could you ever feel the same, we were just friends. Neighbors. Nothing more, right?

- (Y/n)

Evan let his free hand press against his forehead as he reads the last sentence of the letter he found. He felt so stupid, how could he be that stupid and miss all the signals…

______

(Y/n) grabs her cup as she takes a sip from her tea and writes down the last important thing from her study book. A sigh falls off her lips as she hears a knock on the door. She quickly places the cup of tea on the wooden dining table as she pushes the chair back and starts walking towards the front door. Another loud knock on the door was sounding through the apartment as the person in front of the door apparently became impatient. “Yeah yeah! I’m coming!” she spoke loud enough to reach the front door. “Jesus” she mumbled under her breath as she reached the door.

“Buck?” his name fell off her lips as she opened the door and she was once again drowning into those ocean blue eyes. The one she recognizes out of a thousand. “Hey” he simply said, as she leaned against the half open front door of her new apartment.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, with her eyebrows furrowed. How did he find out where she lived?

“I think you forgot something when you left Los Angeles” Evan says as he magically pulled out her book and held it up like it was some prize she could win. "My diary.." She sighs as a smile develops itself onto her face. He holds out her diary, waiting for her to accept it.

She gently accepts the diary he was holding in his hands, “How did you find this?” she asks as she opens the diary, scrolling through the pages, searching for the letter that was meant for Evan. “My new neighbor came to me. Claiming that he found something, and he wanted to give it back to its rightful owner. So he asked me to give it back, since I told him that I knew you.” he explains as a confused look was spread over Evan’s face, while hers looked like she was about to panic.

“Something wrong?” Evan softly asks her as she continues to hurriedly go through all the pages of her diary. A nervous laugh exits her mouth as the panic was written in her eyes and all over her face. “I’ve looked everywhere for my diary, there was something important in it” she said as she closed the diary.

Evan looked down at his feet, as he nodded. “You mean this?” Evan asks as he slid out the ripped piece of paper out of his pocket. The panic in her eyes remained as she saw what he was holding up in between his index and middle finger. “You found it” she sighed as she silently with only a motion asked Evan to come inside.

“You weren’t supposed to find that..” she mumbled as she placed her diary onto her dining table, which was covered in study books and notebooks. “And I suppose I wasn’t supposed to read it either?” he asks as she suddenly starts to close all of the books on her dining table.

The only sound right now sounding through the room were study books and notebooks which were closing. “(Y/n)..” Evan sighed as she closed another book with a bang.

He firmly placed his hands onto the book she wanted to close, as he tried to make eye contact with her. “When were you going to tell me this? or send me this?” he asks. (Y/n) doesn’t make eye contact with him as she stopped in her movement. “Never…” she mumbled, barely audible.

(Y/n) let go of the book as she turned her back to Evan. Both her hands were curled up in fists. She squeezed her eyes closed as she felt Evan moving closer to her. “That letter.. was only to vent. Nothing more, nothing less.” she says.

A scoff left Evan’s mouth. It wasn’t just a vent. Everything she wrote down on that piece of paper was real, every feeling, every emotion. “Why didn’t you tell me that Taylor and I were your main reason you left Los Angeles?” he straight to the point asked her.

She softly closed her eyes, trying anything to stop the tears from leaving her eyes. The silence was deafening. Evan didn’t want to start a war, he just wanted answers. He placed his hand onto her shoulder, to give her some comfort. “I wanted you to be happy, because you deserve that. But I couldn’t stay, because if I did it would’ve ruined me even more” her trembling voice said as she turned around to face Evan.

“You were one of the things that makes me happy. The way you make fun of me. Or the way you never fail to make me smile. Sometimes you’d make me nervous and I’d forget what I wanted to say or I would stumble over my words..” He says as he placed his hand on her upper arm. “You are the one that makes me happy.” He continued.

“Buck…” she sighed as she sobbed through her smile. “It’s okay” he said as he took a step closer to her, they were so close. He could feel her breathing tickling his skin, and hear her breathing become faster within the second.

“There’s something else you forgot in Los Angeles..” he panted as their foreheads touched and their noses were inches away from each other. “And I’m not talking about your diary..” he continued as he softly traced his thumb over her cheek to get rid of the tears.

“Buck I-” but without any warning, Evan’s lips crashed into hers, completely cutting off her sentence. Her chin was caught between Evan’s thumb and index finger, as her hand found its way to the back of his head, pulling his short curls.

This was the right person, with now the right time.

[inkedwithcharm]

The Sunflower Next Door | Kim Seokjin

Chapter 14 (Final) : “For All the Days After”

The calendar was starting to fill up with small handwriting, circles and color-coded reminders that felt both exciting and overwhelming.

Doctor’s appointment — Monday, 11AM.

Catering meeting — Wednesday, 2PM.

Dress fitting. Florist. Venue walk-through.

And in between them, Jin always made sure there was something simple too: movie night, ramen run, cuddle day, remember to rest.

You were currently sitting cross-legged on the living room floor of Jin’s apartment, your notebook open, hair still slightly damp from your morning shower, flipping through swatches of fabric and half-laughing, half-panicking.

“Why are there so many shades of white?” you groaned. “This one’s called ‘Morning Cloud’ and this one is ‘Whispering Moonlight.’”

Jin, lounging on the couch with his laptop, glanced at you and smirked. “Sounds like two members of a fantasy boy band.”

You laughed, tossing a pillow at him. “Should we just let you wear your favorite hoodie and call it a day?”

“Tempting,” he said, stretching. “But not when I get to see you walking down the aisle. I want the real thing.”

Your heart did a little flip — the way it still did whenever he said things like that so easily now, like he meant every word.

“You’re really taking this seriously, huh?”

He sat up, eyes on you. “Of course I am. I told you, when I do something, I go all in. Especially when it’s with you.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, smiling, eyes going back to the swatches. But your mind drifted—like it always did now—toward the quiet hope blooming in the corner of your heart.

Earlier that week, you had another checkup with Dr. Lee.

“Your numbers are responding,” she had said, cautiously optimistic. “It’s not a miracle, but the medication might be starting to work. Keep listening to your body. Keep resting.”

You remembered Jin squeezing your hand tightly in the car afterward, neither of you speaking at first. Then he looked at you and whispered, “I think we’re winning.”

And maybe you were.

Maybe that’s what healing looked like: not sudden or loud or perfect. Just one small good day after another.

That evening, after a lazy afternoon of decisions and indecisions, Jin cooked dinner — his comfort food go-to: soy-marinated grilled pork and steamed egg. He made you sit down with a glass of warm tea while he stirred, plated, and hummed under his breath.

“You’re humming again,” you teased from the table. “That means you’re happy.”

He looked over his shoulder with a grin. “I am.”

You helped clean after, washing side by side, bumping elbows occasionally. The quiet between you was soft and full, the kind of quiet that felt like trust.

Later, while the city lights flickered outside your window and you both curled up on the couch, Jin scrolled through wedding playlists.

“What about this one for the first dance?” he asked, playing a soft acoustic melody. You nodded, laying your head on his shoulder.

“I don’t need anything fancy,” you murmured. “I just want it to feel like us.”

Jin kissed the top of your head. “Then it already will.”

And sometime that night, just before bed, he turned to you in the soft dark.

“Do you still write in your diary?”

You smiled sleepily. “Sometimes.”

“Have you written about me lately?”

You turned toward him, reached for his hand in the dark. “Only every day.”

He squeezed back.

And you fell asleep like that — fingers laced, hearts hopeful, two people building forever quietly in between doctor visits and wedding folders.

The shop was bathed in soft golden light, mirrors lined like windows into another life, the kind of life you used to only dream about.

You stood in front of one now, slowly smoothing your hands over the delicate lace bodice of the wedding gown. The satin pooled around your feet like something out of a fairytale. For a moment, you didn’t move. You barely breathed.

“How does it feel?” your mom asked gently, voice filled with emotion.

You turned slowly, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “It feels… like I’m really going to marry him.”

She stepped forward and took your hand. “You are, sweetheart.”

Your stepdad and stepsister were waiting outside. Jin had offered to come with you, but you wanted this part to be shared with your mom first. And besides, he had his own task—making dinner reservations for both families.

“I still can’t believe you’re getting married in three weeks,” your mom whispered as she helped you adjust the veil. “But I also can’t think of anyone more deserving of this love.”

You smiled. “It’s been six months since he proposed, and I still feel like I’m dreaming.”

Later that evening, your small apartment was filled with laughter, scents of home cooking, and that gentle chaos that only comes when two families merge.

Your aunt had returned from overseas and insisted on helping with the preparations. Jin’s parents had arrived first, bringing beautifully wrapped gifts and warm hugs. It didn’t take long before your mom and Jin’s mom were exchanging recipes and laughing like they’d known each other for years.

Dinner was held in Jin’s apartment—he wanted to cook, and you helped where you could. There were no caterers, no formal plans. Just a lovingly laid-out table, soft music playing, and people who meant the world to you.

Jin placed a grilled sea bass dish in front of your mom and smiled. “She taught me how to make this,” he said, nodding at you.

“He’s been practicing for days,” you added with a grin.

“He’s going to make a great husband,” your stepdad said, half-joking, half-serious.

“I plan to,” Jin answered simply, meeting your eyes across the table.

After dinner, conversations drifted into wedding details. Seating charts. Weather predictions. The soft debate over whether Jin should cry at the ceremony.

Your aunt wiped a tear and said, “This isn’t just a wedding. It’s a miracle.”

Jin reached for your hand beneath the table and squeezed it gently. You smiled, even though your chest ached with the emotion of it all.

Later that night, after everyone left and you stood in the quiet of his apartment, Jin wrapped his arms around you from behind.

“You looked like an angel today in that dress,” he murmured, chin resting on your shoulder.

“You weren’t even there.”

“I don’t need to be. I already know.”

You turned to him slowly, heart full. “Three weeks.”

Jin kissed your forehead. “You don’t have to wait any longer. We’ve already been through more than most couples face in a lifetime. I’m ready.”

You closed your eyes. “Me too.”

And in that quiet, the only thing you could hear was your heartbeat, steady and alive, echoing the simple, profound truth in his words.

You were ready.

You both were.

You woke up to the warmth of sunlight trickling through the blinds, stretching lazily beneath the soft sheets of Jin’s apartment. The spot beside you was already empty, the faint smell of coffee and his cologne still lingering.

He’d kissed your forehead before he left, whispering against your sleepy skin, “I have a meeting. Be ready when I text you—I’ll pick you up later.”

You had no idea what he was planning.

By late morning, you found yourself tidying up, making tea, flipping through the guest list again for the wedding. But a quiet flutter stirred in your chest—he was up to something. You could always tell.

It wasn’t until 3:42 p.m. that your phone buzzed.

Seokjin: On my way. Dress comfy, okay?

You weren’t sure where he was taking you, but you followed his directions and got in the passenger seat with your usual light smile.

“Hi,” you said softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

He glanced at you and smiled. “Hi, sunshine.”

The ride was quiet at first, a comfortable stillness. He held your hand on the gear shift, his thumb rubbing small, absent circles against your skin.

“Are we… going far?” you finally asked, watching as the city melted into quieter streets, greener scenery, open skies.

Jin only smiled and replied, “Not far. Just… forward.”

You raised a brow. “What does that even mean?”

“You’ll see.”

When the car finally slowed and pulled into a paved driveway surrounded by stone fences and hanging lights, your breath caught.

The villa before you wasn’t just stunning—it was storybook-level beautiful. A soft beige exterior, large bay windows, white curtains swaying gently in the breeze. There was a front porch with a swing. To the side, a small but lush garden bloomed—lavender, mint, small rows of potted herbs, and even a little patch of earth that looked untouched.

Your chest tightened with wonder.

“Jin…” you said quietly, stepping out of the car, heart already racing. “What is this place?”

He walked around the car and held your hand, gently tugging you forward toward the front steps.

“It’s ours,” he said. “If you want it.”

You blinked. “Ours?”

“I’ve been looking for months. Something near the city, but peaceful. Somewhere quiet enough for you to breathe but close enough for me to get to work. Somewhere you can still plant things. Somewhere warm. Somewhere safe.”

You looked up at him, stunned, silent.

“This house is for after the wedding,” he continued, voice softer now. “For all the days that come next. I want a place where you can keep being you—where we can keep living, keep healing.”

You stepped into the garden barefoot, your fingers grazing the rosemary stems, your eyes watering from more than just the sunlight.

“You even left a spot for planting,” you whispered.

He smiled, proud. “Of course I did. You said your hands always feel at peace in the soil.”

Tears stung your eyes.

“It’s perfect,” you whispered. “It’s… too much.”

Jin stepped forward and took your face in his hands, brushing your cheek with his thumb.

“It’s not too much. It’s what you deserve. It’s just a house, but I want it to be our home. Wherever you are… that’s home for me.”

You let yourself cry then, quietly, as you leaned into him.

“I thought you were just taking me out for ice cream,” you mumbled against his chest.

He chuckled, wrapping his arms around you. “Yeah, well… I wanted to give you a future instead.”

Later, the two of you sat on the porch swing, barefoot, sharing a single mug of tea you made in the new kitchen.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, watching the sun begin to dip.

“I can already imagine mornings here,” you murmured. “With you, and a tiny garden, and maybe a cat that refuses to listen.”

He laughed. “And maybe one day, if you want, a small voice calling for us down the hallway.”

You looked up at him, eyes wide, heart full.

He met your gaze and smiled. “There’s no rush. Just… saying. This is where I want to build everything—with you.”

And you knew, right then and there, even more than before—

You were already home.

The days were moving faster now.

One week left until the wedding, and the air around you felt different—not rushed, not chaotic, but suspended in something tender. Like the universe was holding its breath with you.

You were still staying at Seokjin’s apartment while the final touches were being done on your new home. Every morning started the same: his sleepy voice calling you “sunshine,” your shared mugs clinking, his fingers brushing against yours as you reviewed seating charts, flower samples, or cake options.

But beneath the surface of all the joy and planning, there was something else quietly settling into your chest.

You could feel it the moment you looked in the mirror.

You were healing, yes. Dr. Lee said the new treatment was working. Slowly. Your bloodwork had shown signs of responding. But even with hope blooming in your heart, the memory of uncertainty still sat like a shadow behind your smile.

Some days you woke up and felt lighter than ever. Others, your joints ached, your breath was short, and your muscles tired before noon. But Jin never once looked at you differently. Not even now.

And maybe that’s what scared you most.

Later that night, Jin found you curled up under a blanket, still in your pajamas even as the sky turned gold from the city lights. He didn’t ask questions. Just walked over, leaned down, and kissed your forehead.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded. “Just… thinking.”

“About the wedding?”

You shook your head slowly. “About life. After it.”

He sat beside you, pulling your legs onto his lap, warming your feet with his hands.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he said gently. “Not with me.”

That’s when the tears finally slipped past your lashes.

“I’m scared, Jin.”

He didn’t speak. Just let your words come.

“I’m scared because I want all of it. The mornings in the house. The garden. A small cat that hates baths. I want our first anniversary. A boring Sunday. The stupid fights over who forgot to buy milk. I want a future.”

“You can want that,” he said softly.

“But what if…” Your voice trembled. “What if my body says no? What if you wake up one day and I’m not the same?”

Jin leaned closer, his forehead against yours.

“Then I’ll love you differently. Not less.”

You swallowed hard.

He continued, “If you’re sick, I’ll hold your hand. If you can’t walk, I’ll carry you. If you forget everything, I’ll remind you every single day who you are to me. You don’t have to promise me forever. Just promise me today. And when tomorrow comes… we’ll do it again.”

You buried your face in his shoulder. And for a while, he just held you—his warmth stronger than any fear, any what-if, any ache.

The next morning, you woke up before him. The city hadn’t yet stirred. You sat quietly at the edge of the bed, watching him sleep, hand resting near your pillow, hair messy, lips slightly parted.

You’d never seen anything more beautiful.

You reached for your notebook.

And on the last page you wrote:

“You’re my dream come true,”

The sky looked like it knew.

Like the clouds had softened, and the sun had waited—paused in reverence—for the beginning of something sacred.

It was your wedding day.

You sat before the mirror, surrounded by white silk, soft curls framing your face. The makeup artist had just stepped out, leaving you alone for a moment. You stared at your reflection, but all you could see was how fast your heart was beating.

A quiet knock pulled you from your thoughts.

“Come in,” you said gently.

It was your mom.

She stepped in slowly, hands folded in front of her, her eyes instantly welling up the moment they landed on you.

“You look like a dream,” she whispered.

You gave a small laugh, but it trembled. “I’m nervous.”

She came closer, kneeling beside you.

“I know, baby. But look at you…” She held your hands. “You’ve already been through so much. And here you are—brighter than ever. You’ve already survived storms. This,” she smiled, “this is the sunrise.”

Your eyes flooded with tears, and you held onto her tightly.

“I just… I want to be okay. For him. For this.”

“You are. And whatever tomorrow brings, love like that?” She placed a hand on your heart. “It’ll carry you.”

Meanwhile, in a different room, Jungkook was helping Seokjin with his tie.

“You’re shaking, hyung,” Jungkook smirked.

“I’m not,” Jin replied, fumbling with the cufflink.

“You are,” Jungkook laughed. “It’s cute.”

Jin huffed. “I’m about to marry the love of my life. I’m allowed to be terrified.”

Jungkook stilled, watching his friend.

“You really love her.”

Seokjin didn’t hesitate. “She’s it. The one I didn’t believe existed until I met her.”

Jungkook gave him a grin that softened. “Then let’s get you married.”

The ceremony was held in a glass garden overlooking the ocean. A soft breeze carried the scent of jasmine and sea salt. Guests murmured and turned as the music began.

And then…

You stepped out.

Time stilled.

Jin couldn’t breathe.

You were walking toward him, veil glowing in the sunlight, eyes glassy with emotion, and he swore in that moment, everything he had ever lost made sense—because they all led him to you.

You met him at the altar, your fingers brushing his as you took each other’s hands.

Tears clung to your lashes, but your voice was steady.

“Hi,” you whispered.

He smiled, eyes never leaving yours. “Hi.”

The officiant began, but neither of you heard the words clearly. Just each other.

Your vows came, quiet and trembling:

“Before I met you, I thought I had made peace with a quiet life. I thought love was something that belonged to people who were whole, who didn’t live by test results or hopeful prayers.

But then I met you. And you didn’t rush me. You didn’t ask for anything except the truth of who I am—on my good days, and the ones where I didn’t feel like sunshine at all.

You saw me, not as fragile… but as real. And with every note I left, and every word you never said but somehow still meant, I began to believe that maybe I could have this.

Not just love…

But a future.

So today, I give you everything. Not a perfect version of me, but a true one. A heart that still gets scared, but chooses you anyway. A soul that found its match in your quiet strength.

I promise to love you when it’s easy—and when it isn’t. I promise to wake up every day and say thank you for you.

And if tomorrow is uncertain… then I vow to love you harder today.”

Your voice cracked. But you kept your gaze on him. And you smiled through tears.

He took your hands gently.

And then Seokjin spoke.

“I’ve lived most of my life trying to stay in control. I kept my days sharp, my emotions folded, my heart… untouchable.

And then one day, you knocked on my door. Literally.

With a note.

And I remember thinking: who is this girl who smiles at strangers, feeds birds in the park, talks about the sky like it’s her friend?

I didn’t know then… that you’d become the center of my universe.

You softened me. Not because you asked to. But because you are softness. You’re light in all the places I had turned off.

And now, I can’t imagine a world without your voice, your laugh, your stubborn hope.

I promise you this—no matter what life brings, I’ll hold your hand through it.

I’ll make you laugh on the hard days. I’ll carry your silence when you’re tired.

I will love you in the quiet and in the chaos.

Because you’re not just the love of my life.

You’re the reason I believe in second chances, in healing, and in forever.

You’re my miracle. And you always will be.”

You both were crying now.

But it was the beautiful kind—the kind that came from being seen, chosen, and deeply loved.

When the officiant spoke those long-awaited words—

“You may now kiss the bride.”

—he didn’t hesitate.

He kissed you like a man who had spent his whole life waiting for this exact moment.

The sun dipped low, casting everything in a golden glow.

The ceremony was over, but the love still lingered like a warm breeze. Guests were now gathering at the garden reception—white lights strung through trees, a gentle melody playing, tables decorated with sunflowers and soft linen. Everything looked like a dream. No—it felt like one.

You stepped into the reception, hand in hand with Seokjin—your husband now. And the applause erupted.

Cheers. Laughter. Tears.

You couldn’t stop smiling.

Jungkook, in a crisp suit but still somehow chaotic in energy, tapped his glass dramatically.

“Ladies and gentlemen, as the very handsome best man and semi-emotionally competent brother from another mother, I have something to say.”

Everyone laughed.

He looked at Seokjin. Then at you.

“But seriously, hyung, I’ve never seen you like this. You used to be all ‘business, deadlines, no time for lunch’—and now look at you. Soft.”

The crowd laughed again, but Jungkook’s smile gentled.

“She changed you. But not in a way that made you someone else. She brought out the best in you. And you—” he turned to you, raising his glass, “—thank you for loving him. You’re his light. And now… both of you are home.”

You held back tears. But Seokjin’s grip on your hand tightened.

Your mom pulled you into a hug that didn’t want to let go.

“You look so beautiful. Just like your real self again.”

She tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, her voice soft. “He’s a good man. You’re going to be okay.”

Your stepdad clinked glasses with Seokjin.

“You’re not just gaining a wife,” he teased, “you’re inheriting an entire countryside full of chickens.”

Seokjin laughed—genuinely—and you could tell… he loved them already.

Your stepsister hugged you from behind.

“When I get married, I want it to feel like this.”

When the music shifted, Seokjin offered his hand to you.

“May I have this dance, Mrs. Kim?”

You giggled, taking it.

Under string lights, surrounded by laughter and quiet gasps of happiness, you swayed to the melody. It wasn’t choreographed. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real.

He leaned in close.

“You okay?” he whispered, always checking.

You nodded, your cheek brushing his. “More than okay. I’m yours.”

The reception had faded into a hum—guests drifting off, fairy lights still glowing like fireflies clinging to twilight.

Your heels were off. Your hair had loosened from its perfect style. The delicate pearls at your ears caught the last glimmers of the moonlight. And Seokjin… he was still holding your hand like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.

He opened the door to the private villa, hand on your back, gentle. Protective.

You stepped inside.

Everything had been set up for you. Candles flickered across every surface, their light soft and golden. A bouquet of sunflowers stood in a vase beside the bed—your favorite. His favorite to give.

You turned around to face him.

And he was already looking at you like he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment.

“You’re really mine now,” he whispered.

“I always was,” you said, voice barely audible. “From the moment I left that first note on your door.”

He smiled, walking toward you.

“But tonight,” he added, “I get to say something I’ve been waiting to tell you again and again…”

You tilted your head. “What?”

He held your hands, kissed your knuckles slowly.

“That I love you. And not the kind of love that fades when things get hard. But the kind that stays. The kind that fights. The kind that waits.”

Tears welled in your eyes.

“I thought I wouldn’t get to have this,” you admitted softly, voice trembling. “There were days I was afraid to dream.”

“And now?” he asked, cupping your cheek.

“Now I know dreams can be real.”

You changed out of your gown, slipped into the soft silk robe your mother had given you that morning. Seokjin changed, too—but the moment he saw you, he paused. Not because of what you wore, but because of the look in your eyes.

“I’m not nervous,” you told him. “Just… full.”

“Of what?”

“Love. Peace. Hope. You.”

He walked to you slowly. Touched your shoulders, forehead resting gently against yours.

Then he wrapped you in his arms and whispered, “I will spend the rest of my life making sure you never have to live without any of those things again.”

You stayed there for a moment. Just breathing.

And then he kissed you.

It was soft and full—like the stars had melted into your skin. Like every note you left at his door had led to this.

You moved together slowly. Carefully. Hands mapping familiar skin now wrapped in forever. His lips whispered promises into your shoulder. Your fingers held him like a prayer. There was laughter. There were tears. There was the kind of silence that only belongs to people who truly, deeply love.

Afterward, you lay in bed with your head on his chest, drawing lazy circles on his skin with your fingers. His arm was around you, heart beating steadily beneath your cheek.

“You’re not just the girl who left notes,” he said sleepily. “You’re my miracle.”

“And you’re the man who read them all.”

Outside, the night stretched on.

But inside, the two of you had already found morning.

A new beginning.

A forever you never thought would come—but did.

And in the quiet of that last page, you whispered a promise to yourself:

If tomorrow comes, I’ll still choose this.

If tomorrow doesn’t, then let today be enough.

And as your eyes finally closed, wrapped in Seokjin’s warmth, you knew—

You were loved.

Completely.

Endlessly.

And always.

[aylacavebear]

Bloodlines & Fate Chapter 22

A/N: Tonight is my graduation walk. I'm so excited. So, ya'll are getting a celebratory chapter posting today. Enjoy. <3

Being Touched should have been a blessing—a mark of honor in your lineage, celebrated by your pack since childhood. But to you, it's always made you feel like an outsider, never really fitting in anywhere. Yeah, you had your best friend Jess, but for you, something always felt like it was missing. The land your pack runs on during the full moons brings you a sense of peace you don't fully understand, at first.

Paring: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader/You

Word Count: 4723

Warning: Angst, Fluff, You might need some tissues, Things are still a little overwhelming for the reader, she's got a lot to learn now, Dean being an utter sweetheart, Upcoming shift worries.

A/N: Professor Robert Zimmerman is based off of The Doctor from Star Trek Voyager, as I absolutely love that character. Alaric Saltzman is from The Vampire Diaries.

A/N: It's my first attempt with an A/B/O fic, be gentle, please. I hope you like it. Not sure how many chapters this will be yet.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 22

The scent of coffee hit before your eyes ever opened—rich and earthy, cut with the warm sweetness of cinnamon and something sharper, darker. Leather. Smoke. Pine.

Dean. His scent was on everything now, always comforting, always grounding.

You stretched slowly beneath the soft blankets, muscles warm and loose from sleep, but there was a coil of tension buried deep beneath your ribs—tightly wound and unspoken. Your wolf stirred, not anxious, just… aware.

The hum of the coffee maker in the kitchen was rhythmic and low, a steady percussion against the quiet rustle of the trees outside. A bird chirped once. Then twice. The porch creaked faintly with familiar steps, too light to be Dean’s. Jess.

You rolled onto your side just as the bedroom door cracked open. Dean’s voice floated in before you saw him.

“She’s still asleep. Don’t you dare let Jess in here with cold feet.” “Too late,” Jess grinned, breezing past him with two mugs in her hands and her hair tucked up in a messy knot. “Already here, and I brought peace offerings.”

You chuckled sleepily, slowly sitting up as she plopped onto the bed beside you, handing you a mug. The heat seeped into your hands, the aroma almost as warm as the way her scent wrapped around you. There was a new thread in it this morning though—concern, tempered with tenderness. Not overpowering, not invasive. Just present.

Dean trailed in behind her, hair still damp from a shower, t-shirt clinging to his chest, sweats riding low on his hips. His eyes scanned you like they always did first thing—quiet check-ins without the need for words. He nodded toward the door just as his eyes caught Jess’s; her exaggerated pout pulled a faint smirk to his lips.

Jess gave you a gentle hug before heading out of the room. Something about it lingered. You could tell something was up, and part of you hoped they weren’t soft-stepping around you just because of today.. 

“You slept hard,” Dean murmured as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Didn’t feel like it,” you admitted around a yawn. “My wolf didn’t stop pacing.”

Dean didn’t answer, just hummed low in his throat and ran a hand down your arm, grounding. Calming. His touch helped quiet the restless shifting just beneath your skin.

By the time you made it to the kitchen, Sam was already there, sleeves rolled up, barefoot, flipping pancakes with a relaxed kind of grace that only made sense on him. The scent of maple syrup drifted in lazy curls from the open bottle beside the griddle. His scent—cedar, sandalwood, and the faintest undercurrent of something like saltwater—was steady as ever, and just like Jess, there was something new in it today.

Reassurance.

You weren’t even sure how, but you felt it—like a note hummed low and soft beneath a melody. All three of them knew. You didn’t need to speak it aloud.

“Pancakes?” Sam offered, eyebrows raised.

You nodded, sliding into your usual seat at the table as Jess dropped into the chair beside you. Dean took one across, his foot finding yours under the table like it belonged there.

The conversation stayed light—weather, progress on the new cabin, a funny story Jess had overheard on campus that made Sam roll his eyes and Dean snort into his coffee. You laughed alone, even as something tightened in your chest.

Dean’s hand reached across the table, fingers brushing your wrist before curling gently around it. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t say anything. But his thumb traced slow circles against your skin. A touch to anchor you.

“You smell nervous,” Jess said gently, not unkind.

You blinked and glanced at her. Her voice hadn’t carried judgment, only familiarity.

“I am,” you admitted quietly.

“That’s okay,” Sam said, flipping another pancake. “We’ll all be there with you.” And just like that, the morning began to shift—toward something quieter, deeper.

By the time the coffee pot ran dry and breakfast had been cleaned up, the cabin had settled into a familiar rhythm—the kind that came easy with people who moved around each other like second nature.

Jess hummed as she packed away the dishes, her scent bright with wildflowers and calm. Sam had taken up post at the table, flipping through something on his laptop, his scent sharper, focused. Dean was at the stove, finishing off the last of the bacon, and the faint crackle of grease filled the quiet spaces between their voices. 

You’d reached for plates, but Dean steered you gently toward a chair instead, his hand warm at the small of your back, scent wrapping around you—pine and quiet insistence, a little firmer than usual. You hadn’t pushed back. Not really. But it left something unsettled in your chest, the way they all seemed just a little more careful this morning.

Even the silence between conversations felt padded.

You nursed your second cup of coffee, eyes drifting toward the window. The sunlight shimmered through the trees, dappling the cabin in gold. The woods moved lazily in a breeze you couldn’t quite feel. Your wolf stirred faintly, like it knew something was coming—even if you still didn’t know what it would feel like. The shift. The moment.

Every time you tried to picture it, your mind caught on the invisible threshold—where skin gives way to fur, breath becomes howl. Even your wolf felt uneasy. Jess had told you it wasn’t painful. Dean had shown you that it could be easy, fluid. But none of it erased the slow thrum of nerves that had started coiling low in your belly like a second heartbeat.

You tried to ignore it. Distract yourself with little things.

Sam offered to go over the cabin furnishings list he and Jess had been working on—what would come from who. It helped, for a while. Jess pulled out a sketchpad, curling up beside you with idle doodles that looked suspiciously like a rough version of the new garden layout. Dean moved between rooms, sometimes pausing to lean against a doorway, just to look at you. His scent kept brushing your senses, warm pine and smoke with a new undercurrent—something quieter. He was holding back, too. You could feel it.

The porch beckoned around noon, the cabin growing just warm enough to make the open air appealing. Dean brought out lunch on a tray—sandwiches, sliced fruit, a pitcher of water. Jess threw a blanket over the bench seat, just in case the breeze picked up.

You sat with your knees tucked beneath you, sandwich heavy in your hand, each bite a task instead of comfort. The sun filtered through the trees in golden strands, the air cool enough to make the glass of water sweat in your hand. Everything was calm.

Too calm.

Dean sat beside you, close enough that his thigh brushed yours. Jess settled across from you, legs tucked beneath her. Sam leaned back in one of the porch chairs, elbow on the armrest, watching you with those soft, thoughtful eyes he always wore when he was treading carefully.

You knew that look. You knew all of their tells by now.

“You’re all tiptoeing,” you said quietly, not accusing—just honest.

Jess’s brow lifted, a sheepish smile tugging at her mouth. “Maybe a little.” Dean didn’t say anything right away. Just reached for your hand, fingers threading through yours like muscle memory, his thumb tracing silent reassurances across your knuckles. His scent steadied, grounding.

“Figured you’d tell us if you wanted to talk,” he said.

You swallowed, throat tighter than it had been all morning. “I don’t know what I want.”

“That’s fair,” Sam said quietly. “We just didn’t want you to feel alone in it.” There was a pause, the kind that comes before something honest. Jess set down her sandwich, brushing crumbs from her fingers.

“What can we do to help?” she asked softly.

They’d all shared their first shifts with you before, and you’d seen Dean shift in front of you on the last full moon. The logical part of your brain knew how it worked. The emotional part, however, couldn’t seem to let go of the worry, and neither could your wolf.

“How did you get past being worried about how to do it?” you asked quietly, your focus more on the sandwich in your hand than anywhere else.

For a long moment, no one answered. Then Dean’s voice broke the quiet. “Our packs were there. We didn’t feel alone.” His thumb still brushing over yours, slow, grounding. “What would help you with that?”

That lump tightened in your throat again, realization dawning on you. “Stop tiptoeing,” you said with a small smile as you looked up at him. “I’m not a porcelain doll. And I’m not a snake, coiled and going to strike.”

The tiptoeing stopped.

Not all at once—but like ice thawing under steady sun, the tension slowly melted from the edges of the day. Dean pulled you against him, closing the small space between you. 

“Wasn’t tryin’ to treat you like glass, sweetheart,” he murmured into your hair.

You sighed, letting yourself soften against him. “I know.” Conversation slipped back to the list of furnishings. Easy. Simple. A low-stakes rhythm that smoothes over what had come before. You chimed in, but mostly you watched Jess and Sam—the way they moved together. The teasing. How she poked at him just to make him laugh. How he let her win little arguments, just to see her eyes shine with triumph when she smiled. Then came the inevitable debate over dishware. No one could agree, and suddenly, you were the tie-breaker.

“Umm…” You gave each of them a glance, a smile tugging at your mouth as you considered. “How about two from each set, and we pack the rest away? That way, it’s our own set.”

None of them had considered that—two large plates, two small plates, two bowls, two cups—from each collection forming something entirely new. Dean hummed in approval. “I like it.”

And just like that, things felt normal again. The ache of worry a little less.

Your wolf didn’t vanish, didn’t fully settle—but she eased, like curling into warm grass just beneath your skin. Still alert. Still wary. But relaxed with her pack. She knew Dean—knew him. Sam and Jess, she was still learning. Jess was easier—woven through nearly every memory you had. Sam was new, but he didn’t feel like danger. He felt like enough.

The afternoon passed like that—laughter breaking like sunlight through clouds, the porch humming with casual movement and overlapping voices. Dean pulled you into the kitchen at one point under the excuse of grabbing something, but you knew it was just to steal a tender kiss and hold you there for a second, arms around your waist, scent grounding you both.

“You good?” he murmured into your hair.

You nodded, pressing your face into his chest. “Getting there.”

—------------------

Dinner came together with that same sense of shared rhythm—like a dance none of you had to choreograph. Dean seared thick steaks out on the grill, the scent of char and meat curling through the open windows. Jess threw together roasted potatoes and a big leafy salad with fresh herbs. Sam—despite complaints—was put in charge of slicing bread and keeping Jess from sneaking bites before everything was ready.

By the time the sun had begun setting, gold bleeding into amber, the four of you were gathered on the porch again—plates balanced on laps, legs tucked under blankets, conversation buzzing.

Sam had pulled his chair closer, and it surprised you how natural it felt. You’d barely spent time around him before. The months of summer, your scent had still been wrong—off-putting, hard for him to be near. He’d kept his distance. But now… now there was nothing in his posture but easy calm. Like he knew you.

Maybe he did. Maybe the Jess-shaped channel between you had done more than you thought. She’d talked about him. He knew your scent now. The real one.

As if he could sense your thoughts, Sam’s eyes met yours. “She talked about you. A lot,” he offered softly, sincerity shining in his eyes.

He was like a gentle giant in your eyes. “She talked about you a lot, too,” you chuckled softly, realizing curling warm in your chest. Jess had been like a sister to you her whole life—but she had also helped the bond between you and Sam.

After dinner, the light began to shift as the sun dipped lower. The sharp golden hues of before gave way to cooler blues, the air shifting as twilight edged in. But there was no heaviness—not yet.

Jess dragged you onto the porch swing and piled a blanket across your lap. Dean came up behind you, strong hands kneading gently at your shoulders. Sam was inside, finishing up the dishes. A light breeze rustled through the trees, and Jess curled into your side, like she always had, head on your shoulder, legs tangled with yours under the blanket.

Your wolf stirred again. Quiet, curious.

This is pack, she whispered.

You didn’t have to do anything. Didn’t have to hold yourself up or pretend you weren’t nervous. You just had to be here. With them.

Dean leaned against the porch railing in front of you, eyes fixed on the horizon like he could feel the moon starting to stir in the sky. You followed his gaze, watching the sun sink lower, into the trees. It would be soon.

But for now, it was enough to just sit here, surrounded by the quiet comfort of your pack, Jess snuggled against your side, grounding you in a way even Dean couldn’t quite manage in this moment.

Dean didn’t miss how naturally Jess fit against your side, or the way your wolf responded—settled, content. He’d been tracking it all day, the subtle exchanges, the ease between you and them. In any other pack, he might’ve bristled at it. Alphas didn’t usually like their mates being comforted by anyone else, let alone another alpha. It stirred possessive instincts, drew hard lines in the sand. But not here.

Not with Sam. Not with Jess.

His wolf didn’t snarl or stiffen. It watched, steady and still, before giving a low, satisfied huff—like it approved of how they cared for you. Like it recognized something in them. Something safe. Familiar.

This was pack. The kind that didn’t need posturing or rank to hold together. The kind that moved like breath—shared and steady, each piece keeping rhythm with the others.

When Sam emerged from the cabin, Dean stepped in front of you, hand outstretched. “It’s time.”

—----------------

The walk to the arch felt quieter than it should’ve. Not in sound, but in weight. The kind of quiet that wraps around you and sinks in deep. The last time you had made this walk, it had been to meet Dean—before he’d claimed you, before everything had changed. And tonight, it would be where you shifted. Where your wolf would feel the earth beneath her paws for the first time.

Twilight had deepened, but the path was familiar—worn soft beneath your feet from years of walking it. Tonight it would hold a new memory. A new beginning. The hush of the forest wasn’t empty; it breathed all around you in the rustle of leaves, the distant hoot of an owl, the occasional snap of a twig under someone’s heel.

You and Dean walked in step, fingers intertwined. His thumb traced slow circles over your knuckles, grounding you without words. Every so often, your wolf stirred—nervous, unsure—and that small touch was enough to soothe her. Just enough to keep going. She was so close now. Closer than she’d ever been before. Closer than you thought possible.

Behind you, Sam and Jess mirrored your rhythm. Their hands clasped, arms brushing every now and then, their silence filled with glances and unspoken conversation. They hadn’t asked where you were going, hadn’t needed to. They followed because they knew—instinctively—that this wasn’t theirs to lead.

You breathed in, the scent of pine and cool earth, noting the absence of wildflowers that had been there before. Autumn had tucked them away. The forest was familiar, but it felt different tonight—charged, expectant. Not ominous. Just… waiting.

Up ahead, the familiar ancient stump still stood in the clearing, the same silent sentinel that had witnessed everything unfold between you and Dean before he and his wolf were one. Dean gave your hand a subtle squeeze. It was his first time walking here from this side. You looked up, following his line of sight to where his green eyes had met yours for the first time.

Back then, there had been a ten-foot-tall chain link fence keeping the lands and packs separate. You on one side, him on the other. That felt like another life. So much had changed and shifted since then.

The archway held more to you and Dean than anyone could ever understand, ever know. His hand slipped from yours only to light the lanterns—two on each side. You understood a little more why the packs had decided to have storage under the two bench seats that sat five feet apart, attached to either side of the arch—a place for clothing during the shift, not just blankets.

You heard Jess inhale softly beside you. “Oh, wow.” Sam stepped up beside her, his eyes roaming the structure, the benches, the way the space felt like more than anyone had words for. His gaze landed on the center, how the arch had been built directly over the line where the two territories met. Walking through it from one land to the other. “This is where you two met?”

A nostalgic smile found Dean’s lips as his eyes landed on you. “Yeah,” he whispered, but that word felt deeper.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Your chest was tight, and your throat burned. Because it wasn’t just where it had started—it was where everything had changed. Where the old boundaries had fallen, and something new had begun. Where you learned you weren’t alone and never would be again.

The arch wasn’t just a marker. It was a promise. Woven wood, one part Winter, one part Winchester. One part you, one part him.

Dean led you forward, slow and reverent, guiding you beneath the arch. The benches sat on either side, space between them, a gentle echo of the moment you’d stood on opposite sides of the divide, unable to get closer.

Back then, being this close to the border had been forbidden. A law set in place by both packs a long time ago. Neither of you knew then what might have happened had someone found out that you’d been meeting in secret, breaking a sacred truce between your packs. But now, that law was gone, no longer needed.

You stood in the center, Dean’s hand in yours, the lantern light brushing over his profile, gilding the lines of his face. His expression was soft, but his jaw worked like he was holding something back—maybe awe, maybe memory. Maybe the instinct to wrap you up and hold you close before anything could pull you away.

Your wolf pressed against the surface, just beneath your skin. She could feel it—what this place meant to you, to him—the memories woven into the earth beneath your feet. She didn’t retreat this time. She tried to stretch within you, feeling the confinement of your human form.

Jess moved first, stepping forward to trace her hand along the edge of the arch. “This is beautiful,” she whispered.

Sam joined her, his voice low. “Feels like it belongs here. Like it was always meant to belong here.” Dean chuckled under his breath, but his eyes were still on you. He reached up, cupping your cheek, thumb brushed tenderly along your skin. “Seemed like the right place for your first shift.” Your throat constricted as the tears came—gentle, quiet, nothing sorrowful. There were no words to describe the feeling that spread through you while tangling itself around your chest. Unable to respond, you threw your arms around him, burying your face in his chest.

He held you without question, one hand cupping the back of your head, the other resting at your lower back. Jess leaned into Sam, their fingers still laced together as they watched the moment between the two of you. A moment that didn’t need words.

The last lights of the day faded, surrendering to the darkness of night. Soon. 

Dean pulled back, just enough to cup your cheek again, looking down as his thumb brushed away a stray tear. This place was going to hold a lot of meaningful moments for the two of you, and somehow, you both just knew that without having to speak it aloud. You could feel it now, humming through you, along every nerve, every cell of your body—the pull of the full moon. Not painful. Just insistent. Calling to her in a way you felt and almost understood. He felt your wolf stretch again, beneath your skin, feeling confined within your form.

Dean leaned close, breath tickling against your ear. “You ready? You let out a shaky breath, slow and measured. Ready was a relative term. You closed your eyes, let your senses stretch out. The warmth of him against you. Jess’s steady presence nearby. Sam’s quiet stillness. The scent of the forest and lantern smoke.

Your wolf didn’t retreat. Not this time. She listened, stretched, pushed against the confines of your skin. The way the moon called to her calmed her, allowing her natural instincts to come forward.

The sky darkened into a curtain of violet and ink, and as the stars blinked to life above the trees, the hush in the clearing deepened. The air hummed with anticipation—not nerves, no. This was something older. Something sacred. The knowing that the full moon would rise, the shift would come, and you were about to step into something etched into the marrow of your bones.

Dean’s hand settled on your shoulders, warm and steady. You didn’t flinch. You knew he was there before he touched you—could feel him in that space where your soul recognized its other half. He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t have to. The bond pulsed between you, as steady as your own heartbeat, deeper with the nearness of the shift.

His hands traced the line of your arms, stopping at your wrists like a question. You breathed deep, nodding, small and certain. When you lifted your eyes to his, everything inside you stilled. There were no words for how he looked at you in that moment.

Dean stepped closer, moving into your space, shielding your body from view with his own. Sam, already facing away, helped Jess lift her shirt over her head with quiet familiarity. It wasn’t awkward. There was nothing clumsy about it. Just reverence—the kind of silence that wolves fell into when bonds ran deeper than most understood.

Dean’s fingers slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, slow and sure. He didn’t rush. Each inch he revealed wasn’t just skin—it was trust, exposed and unguarded. He eased the shirt over your head like you were fragile, breakable. You weren’t. But the care steadied you more than anything else.

He crouched, his knuckles brushing the bare skin of your stomach as he undid your jeans. His eyes flicked up, silently checking in. You nodded, smiling tenderly. The jeans joined your shirt on the bench behind you, and Dean rose, stepping in close, his body a barrier between you and the world.

And then you reached for him.

Your fingers curled into the hem of his shirt, pulling gently. He let you, watching you instead of what your hands were doing. When you slipped your palms beneath the fabric, finding bare skin, it was like touching fire that doesn’t burn. Warmth bloomed across your chest, deeper than desire—anchoring, yours.

You took your time after lifting his shirt, even as he ducked for you to do so. That crooked smile, soft and knowing, teased his lips as your fingers traced the lines of his chest. The reverence of your touch reflected back to you by emotions swimming in his eyes.

Your wolf stirred—still beneath your skin, but calmer now. The confines of your human form no longer feeling claustrophobic, pressing in from all around her.

“There you are,” Dean whispered. “There’s my omega.”

You felt her respond—your wolf—reaching for his. There was no hesitation, no fear, no caution. She trusted him in a way you could only feel, never explain. It was your turn to move with her now, into her, together as one. Dean’s wolf met her with patience and pride, with that quiet strength he always had with you. 

Behind you, a soft thud of the bench seat settling back in place. Sam shook out one of the blankets before guiding Jess to sit with him. Then he pulled another around them, keeping the chill of the autumn air from kissing their skin.

Dean wrapped his arms around your waist, guiding you down to the blanket he’d laid out earlier. The moon hadn’t quite lifted past the horizon. You had minutes—heartbeats, really, but you’d take every one. He drew you between his legs, pulling your back against his chest, his hand over the frantic rhythm in your chest.

“Breathe with me, omega,” he murmured, voice low and rough against your ear. “Like when I claimed you.”

The memory flashed through your mind. The shattered mug. Him at your side on the floor when your wolf was still learning, still experiencing. And now, slowly, you let the rhythm of how his chest rose and fell against you, guide your own breaths.

But, it wasn’t just you breathing anymore. Your wolf was breathing with you, as one. 

“Good girl,” Dean purred, nuzzling his cheek against yours.

The nervousness of the shift slipped away, bleeding from every muscle until all that remained was the warmth of him behind you, his hand still over your heart, no longer racing under his palm. Now, just a steady rhythm that matched his own.

The moon barely crested the horizon like a silent drumbeat.

You felt it with her, the pull to shift. Like a tide rising inside you, pulled by its ascent and ancient memory. Your bones didn’t ache—they sang. Not with pain, but knowing. Coiled, waiting.

Dean’s breath was a whisper behind your ear. He was waiting for you, letting you shift first, being the anchor you needed. “That’s it, omega,” he breathed. You leaned into it. Into him.

The world sharpened at the edges.

The wind through the trees sounded different—not louder, just clearer. You could hear the flutter of a bird shifting in its roost a dozen trees away. The steady rhythm of heartbeats behind Dean. Sam and Jess. They, too, were letting you shift first.

And the scents.

Smoke. Pine. Leather. The iron-tinged breath of earth and moss.

Dean.

The scent of him bloomed in your senses like sunrise through fog. You’d never known what it truly meant to smell someone until now. It wasn’t just olfactory. It was visceral. Instinctual. Every part of you recognized him—not just as your Alpha. As your mate.

Your wolf surged at the recognition.

She didn’t claw or tear—she rose, stretching through your limbs with a grace that stunned you. There was no fear in her. No doubt. Only yearning. Her thoughts weren’t words, but you felt them, and they mirrored your own:

Safe. Pack. Family. Home.

Your fingers curled over Dean’s forearm. You didn’t know if it was you or your wolf seeking that anchor. Maybe it didn’t matter anymore.

A shift inside you—like the tide pulling out before the wave crashed in. You gasped, hand pressed against your chest as your heartbeat echoed from somewhere deeper. Dean didn’t speak, but his hand slid to your ribs, grounding you with gentle pressure.

And just like that—you felt her push a little more, stretch a little further.

Tension built in your spine, muscles pulling taut like bowstrings. You tipped your head back, eyes slipping closed, breathing in the night around you. Dean pressed his lips to your temple, his voice barely audible.

“Breathe into it, omega. Stretch.”

And you did.

You let go, stretching with her, finally aligned as one.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 23

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