#something something cracking up on the rocks

[mrspiastri]

✩ babbles and first words 🍼

pairing: lando norris x reader

cw: fluff, early parenthood, small fights, and baby fever warnings

wc: 3.6k words

an: wanted to write a second part to this, :)) ty for the req idea @cabbagescorp

The newborn months came in like a storm. Everyone had told them it would be hard: the books, the classes, the friends who’d already been through it. But no one could quite prepare them for the bleary-eyed, bone-deep kind of exhaustion that settled into their bodies during those first few weeks after Sophie was born.

She was beautiful. Perfect and endlessly fascinating. But she also didn’t sleep longer than ninety minutes at a time. Ever. Not in the middle of the night. Not during the day. Not in the car or the stroller or the bouncer that Y/N had read 1,200 glowing reviews about.

The house took on a strange rhythm. Day and night bled into each other until Y/N couldn’t remember what the sun looked like. Their once-tidy kitchen table was now a battlefield of bottles, burp cloths, and half-drunk mugs of tea. And Lando, usually composed, had dark circles under his eyes and milk stains on every single hoodie he owned.

Sophie cried constantly. And sometimes she screamed. The kind of scream that pierced through walls, through nerves, through reason.

It was one night, maybe around week five, that it happened.

Y/N stood in the nursery, swaying on tired legs, holding Sophie against her shoulder as she sobbed inconsolably into her mum’s collarbone. It was three in the morning. Again. The third night in a row where Sophie hadn’t slept more than forty minutes in one stretch.

Lando came in, moving slowly, eyes half-shut, hair a mess.

“Let me take her,” he said, reaching for the baby.

“No, I’ve got her,” Y/N muttered. “She just needs a few more minutes.”

“She’s been screaming for over an hour,” he said, rubbing his temples. “Maybe she’s hungry again.”

“She’s not. I fed her already.”

“But maybe she’s still hungry.”

Y/N turned sharply. “I said she’s not.”

Lando’s eyebrows shot up. “Okay. Sorry.”

She sighed, closing her eyes. “I just… I’ve been trying. She was calm for a bit. Then she just started again.”

“I know. I’m just saying maybe she needs something else. We could try a bath? Or maybe her reflux is acting up—”

“She’s not broken, Lando.”

“I didn’t say she was!” He snapped.

“You’re acting like everything I do isn’t enough!” Y/N’s voice cracked, and Sophie whimpered louder, reacting to the tension.

Lando stepped back, his jaw tightening. “I’ve been up with her every night too, Y/N. I’m trying just as hard as you.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, fighting tears. “Well, maybe your best isn’t working either.”

The words fell between them like glass shattering.

For a moment, the room was filled with nothing but the sound of Sophie’s cries.

Lando looked away first, running a hand through his hair. “I’m going to take a walk,” he said quietly, and left the room.

Y/N sat down in the rocking chair, heart pounding, shame and frustration rising in equal parts as Sophie cried against her chest. She rocked slowly and gently, whispering little nothings, but her own tears slipped down her cheeks before she could stop them.

She hated fighting with him. She hated feeling helpless. And most of all, she hated that she couldn’t make Sophie feel better, no matter how hard she tried.

It was twenty minutes later when Lando returned, his eyes a little clearer, a warm towel in one hand and a bottle in the other.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Y/N blinked, surprised.

He knelt beside her, gently brushing Sophie’s back with his knuckles. “I shouldn’t have snapped. I’m just tired. We both are.”

She nodded, her throat tight. “Me too.”

He shifted closer, placing the warm towel across Sophie’s back. “I passed the mirror in the hallway,” he said, half-smiling. “I look like I’ve been dragged through four tornadoes.”

Y/N let out a tired laugh. “You do.”

Lando looked up at her then, and his eyes softened. “You don’t. You look like her mum. Which is to say, kind of amazing.”

They didn’t say anything else for a while. Just sat there, close together, as Sophie slowly began to calm in the warmth of their shared presence.

Eventually, they managed to get her down in the bassinet, asleep at last, her fists curled like she was dreaming of clouds.

They curled into bed together, not even changing out of their worn clothes. Lando wrapped his arm around her, pulled her close, and kissed the top of her head.

“We’re going to figure it out,” he whispered into the dark.

“We’re already doing it,” she whispered back.

In the months that followed, things didn’t get easier overnight, but they got better.

Sophie learnt to smile first. A gummy, glorious smile that came one random afternoon when Y/N was bouncing her on the couch and Lando made a ridiculous noise.

Then, she started crawling, flipping onto her stomach and determinedly moving towards her parents. She was everything but calm, much like her dad.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, folding a small mountain of tiny onesies and baby socks. She was humming under her breath, watching Sophie out of the corner of her eye. Their daughter, now just shy of eleven months, had pulled herself up to stand using the edge of the couch and was gripping the fabric like it was the most important thing in the world.

She’d been doing that a lot lately, pulling herself up, cruising cautiously along the furniture, standing in place and squealing with excitement when she managed to balance for a few seconds .

Y/N had seen the signs. She knew they were close.

Still, she didn’t expect it to happen today.

Sophie let go of the couch for a brief second and clapped her hands together, giggling at her own bravery. Then she plopped back down onto her diaper-padded bum and crawled in that odd, determined way babies have toward their mum.

��Hi, my love,” Y/N murmured, reaching out to brush a curl from Sophie’s forehead. “Tired of standing?”

Sophie replied with a babble that sounded like “mamamamama” and shoved a stuffed elephant in her face.

Y/N smiled and kissed her daughter’s cheek.

Ten minutes later, Lando wandered in from the kitchen, sipping a smoothie and wearing the same hoodie his daughter had coloured up with marker three days ago. His hair was still damp from a shower, and he looked freshly awake, despite the ever-present exhaustion that hung around both of them like fog.

“Everything alright in here?” he asked, setting the cup on the table.

Y/N nodded. “We’re doing laundry and watching a nursery rhymes video compilation.”

“Of course. Essential for child development,” he said seriously, then grinned and flopped down onto the floor beside her, long legs splayed out in front of him.

Sophie perked up immediately, crawling toward her dad like he was made of light. He scooped her up and blew a raspberry on her neck, earning a shriek of laughter.

Then he set her down again, sitting upright just a few feet away from her. She wobbled on her knees, looking at him, then at Y/N, then back at him.

And then, she stood.

No hands. No furniture. Just a baby standing in the middle of the living room like it was nothing.

Y/N gasped, clutching Lando’s arm. “Oh my God.”

“Shhh, shh—don’t move,” he whispered, frozen in place.

Sophie stood there for a moment, uncertain. Her arms flailed for balance. Her mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ as she concentrated hard, brows furrowed, curls bouncing ever so slightly with her tiny tremble.

Then she took one step.

A pause. A squeal.

Then another.

And another.

Three whole steps; wobbly, wide-legged, magical, until she lost her balance and fell forward right into Lando’s lap.

The house exploded in joy.

Y/N covered her mouth, eyes wide and wet with sudden tears. Lando scooped Sophie up and twirled her in the air, both of them laughing.

“You did it! You did it, baby girl!” he shouted, grinning like a man who’d just witnessed a miracle.

Sophie giggled and clapped, clearly thrilled with herself, before immediately trying to wriggle free and do it again.

Y/N was already grabbing her phone, fumbling to open the camera. “She just walked. She walked, Lando.”

“I know,” he said, pulling Y/N into his arms with Sophie still wedged between them. “I saw it. I saw all of it.”

They sank back down onto the floor, tangled together in a heap of limbs and joy, with Sophie babbling and bouncing excitedly between them, clearly not understanding why her parents looked like they were about to cry and laugh and scream all at once.

🪻🪻🪻

Sophia, now officially Sophie to just about everyone, was toddling unsteadily across the living room floor in a onesie decorated with tiny orange ducks, her hair sticking up in gravity-defying wisps from the post-nap haze. She had one sock on, one sock off, and a plastic spoon clutched victoriously in one chubby fist. Her steps were wobbly, like a baby deer on a trampoline, but she was determined, charging toward Lando with the serious, dramatic focus only a ten-month-old could muster.

“Dadaaa,” she announced proudly as she stumbled into his legs, clinging to his jeans for dear life.

Lando, who had been kneeling beside the coffee table attempting to fix one of her musical toys, immediately dropped everything. His face lit up like it was Christmas morning. “Yes! That’s me! Dada is me!”

Sophia beamed up at him, cheeks flushed pink, drool glistening on her chin like it was the most fashionable accessory around.

“She said it again,” Lando said over his shoulder, looking toward the kitchen with wide eyes. “Did you hear her?”

Y/N was watching from the doorway, sipping a lukewarm coffee with the softest smile. “She’s said it four times this morning, babe.”

“Yeah, but this one felt really intentional. Like she really knew what she was saying.” He scooped Sophie up and kissed her cheeks noisily, making her giggle. “You said your first word! Again!”

“She also said ‘duck’ yesterday,” Y/N pointed out gently.

“Okay, yeah, but that isn’t as important.”

“You’re such a loser sometimes.”

Lando ignored that, because Sophie was now squishing his cheeks with her little hands and making high-pitched babbling noises that sounded vaguely like a monologue in an alien language.

“Oh my God,” he whispered dramatically. “It’s like she’s giving a TED Talk. It’s so cute.”

“Pretty sure she’s just asking for another biscuit.”

“Then I will give her ten biscuits. She deserves a whole bakery.”

Sophia let out a squeal of joy, flailing in his arms, which made Lando panic and adjust his grip like he thought she might catapult herself into orbit. Y/N walked over and plucked the baby spoon from Sophie’s tiny hand.

“What was she doing with this anyway?”

“No idea. She found it in the toy box and made it her mission,” Lando replied solemnly.

Y/N reached over to push Sophia’s flyaway curls back, then leaned in to kiss Lando’s temple. “You’re kind of the best dad, you know that?”

Lando turned his head to her, eyes softening. “I’m just trying to keep up. You’re the reason she’s this happy and fearless.”

Sophie, clearly sensing a quiet moment, seized the opportunity to dramatically gurgle into the space between them, startling both of them.

Lando grinned. “That’s my girl.”

Later that evening, after dinner (and an incident involving a sippy cup being hurled like a missile), Sophie was freshly bathed and wrapped in her favourite towel, a yellow one with a duck hood. She toddled around the nursery while Y/N tried to wrangle her into pyjamas, and Lando readied the bedtime book.

“Okay, duckling,” Y/N said, finally catching her and landing her on the changing table. “Pyjamas now. Please. For the love of sleep.”

Sophie responded by sticking her tongue out, giggling, and patting her own belly like it was a drum.

Lando peeked in, book in hand. “Did she do the belly thing again?”

“She did.”

He put a hand over his heart. “It kills me every time.”

When Sophie was finally zipped into her sleeper and snuggled in Lando’s lap, he read Goodnight Moon for the sixth time that week, complete with ridiculous voices and dramatic pauses that made her giggle and babble back. Y/N sat beside them on the rug, just watching the two of them. Lando’s hand cradled her little foot absentmindedly as he read, and every once in a while, he’d look at her like he still couldn’t believe she was real.

After the last page, Sophie blinked slowly and leaned her head against his chest, fighting sleep with all the might of a baby who didn’t want to miss a single thing.

“You can close your eyes,” Lando whispered. “We’re right here.”

And eventually, she did.

🪻🪻🪻

It was just past ten in the morning when Max arrived at the front door, looking only mildly panicked and about five per cent more rumpled than usual. He had his 14-month-old, Lily, in his arms, dressed in a soft lilac onesie and a matching knit hat that was slightly askew from her latest nap.

Y/N opened the door with a warm smile, holding a mug of coffee in one hand. Lando was just behind her, cradling Sophie on his hip.

“Thanks again for this,” Max said, shifting Lily a little higher against his chest. “Just a few hours. I’ve got a team meeting, and no one else could cover.”

“Of course,” Y/N said easily. “We’re happy to have her.”

Sophie perked up at the sight of another baby, eyes wide with curiosity as she leaned forward against Lando’s shoulder.

Lando chuckled. “I think Sophie’s already interested.”

Max handed Lily over with gentle hesitation, his hand lingering an extra beat. “She might cry when she realises I’m not around. Or she might not notice at all and just betray me completely. Either way, I’m preparing emotionally.”

“She’ll be fine,” Y/N reassured him, already bouncing Lily lightly on her hip. “Go. We’ve got this.”

Max looked between the three of them once more, nodded, and left.

The door closed, and the quiet lasted only a second before both babies locked eyes. Sophie, now seated on the living room rug surrounded by soft toys, blinked a few times at Lily as if trying to figure her out. Lily, laid gently next to her, looked just as curious. After a beat of silent baby inspection, Lily made the first move — a slow, uncoordinated reach that resulted in her hand landing directly on Sophie’s foot.

Sophie gasped dramatically, then let out a delighted giggle that sounded more like a hiccup. Lily responded with a squeal, and just like that, the two of them were babbling back and forth in completely incomprehensible but deeply enthusiastic tones.

“They’re talking,” Lando said quietly, crouched beside Y/N as they watched from the couch.

“They’re definitely talking,” Y/N agreed. “About what? I have no idea.”

The babies leaned toward each other, noses almost touching. Sophie gently smacked her palm against Lily’s knee, which made Lily let out a burst of laughter that sent her toppling sideways into a plush elephant. Unbothered, she flailed her limbs in what looked like applause.

Sophie squeaked and followed, rolling closer until they were lying side by side, cheeks squished together, giggling at absolutely nothing.

They spent the next hour like that, with Sophie and Lily crawling around the room like tiny adventurers. Sophie shared her favourite musical lion toy by dropping it gently into Lily’s lap, then immediately snatching it back with a suspicious look before offering it again, a bit more slowly.

Lily babbled in return, cheeks round and dimpled, her feet kicking like she was composing a song with just enthusiasm.

When it was time for their bottles, they sat side by side in their respective baby chairs, both swaddled in tiny blankets, clutching their bottles with both hands and occasionally turning their heads toward each other, eyes wide and sparkling.

Lando fed Sophie while Y/N gently helped Lily, and every so often, Sophie would stop drinking to let out a string of sleepy nonsense that Lily would match with a soft coo or blink.

By the time Max returned, both girls were asleep on the rug, lying opposite each other like a mirrored set. Sophie’s arm was flopped across Lily’s leg, and Lily had one fist curled loosely around the corner of Sophie’s blanket.

“They napped?” Max whispered in disbelief.

“They played. Then they conked out mid-conversation,” Lando replied, just as quietly.

Max crouched beside them, his eyes softening immediately. “Look at them.”

Y/N handed him a photo she had taken on her phone. “Don’t worry; we documented everything.”

He laughed under his breath, staring at the photo like it might be his new lock screen. “First playdate ever?”

“And a very successful one,” she said.

Max looked down at the sleeping babies again, Lily’s tiny nose brushing against Sophie’s knee, and smiled.

“Looks like they’re already ahead of us.”

🪻🪻🪻

The house was still and quiet in the soft blue hour of the morning, the kind of quiet that only existed before a party. Down the hallway, the nursery remained peaceful, Sophie still curled up in her sleep sack with her plush duck tucked under one arm.

Y/N stirred when she felt Lando gently tap her shoulder.

“Hey,” he whispered, crouched beside the bed, already dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants, hair unbrushed but eyes bright. “Come with me. Just for a second.”

She blinked, confused, then glanced at the clock. “It’s barely six.”

“I know. Trust me.”

She groaned lightly but sat up, stretching. “Is this about balloons? Did one pop?”

“No. No balloons. Just come on. You need shoes.”

A few minutes later, wrapped in her favourite cardigan and walking down the back steps into the garden with Lando’s hand in hers, she finally noticed the faint glow of candles flickering under the pergola.

There was a tiny round cake on the patio table, frosted in pale yellow with a single candle lit in the centre. Beside it, a wrapped box with a ribbon sat waiting.

She stopped in her tracks. “Lando…”

He gave her hand a little tug, tugging her closer. “I figured everyone’s going to be looking at Sophie all day, as they should. But before that happens, I wanted to say, Happy one year of being a mum.”

Her breath caught.

“You made it through sleepless nights, teething, pureed carrots in your hair, and a thousand loads of laundry,” he continued. “You sang lullabies at 2am and danced in the kitchen with her when she cried. You became her whole world. I know today’s about Sophie. But I wouldn’t have made it through this year without you.”

Y/N blinked rapidly as she looked at him, then down at the little cake.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” she said, voice catching.

He smiled softly. “I know. But I wanted to. Because it’s your day too.”

She leaned into him, burying her face into his chest for a second before he pulled back and nudged the box toward her.

“Open it.”

Inside was a necklace; gold, delicate, with a tiny charm in the shape of an ‘S’.

She touched it like it might dissolve under her fingertips. “Lando…”

“You can cry,” he said, grinning a little. “I’ll allow it. Just for today.”

She shook her head, laughing through tears. “I don’t deserve this.”

“I know you deserve more,” he said simply.

They sat together on the garden bench, splitting a slice of cake.

“Happy one year of being a dad, Lando,” she smiled as she leaned closer.

“Wouldn’t be one without you.” He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her impossibly closer.

“Well, if you weren’t so supportive and helpful, I’d be pretty shit at this whole parent thing. So thank you.”

He didn’t respond to her, just smiled and let his gratitude be conveyed through another spoonful of cake he fed her.

Later that morning, the living room slowly filled with the sounds of celebration; balloons tied to every chair, soft toys wrapped in cheerful paper, and family voices echoing through the kitchen.

Sophie, wearing a pale yellow dress with a duck print, sat like a tiny queen in her high chair, clapping her hands as everyone sang. She had cake on her nose and frosting in her curls within ten minutes.

Her grandparents snapped photos from every angle, with Lando and Y/N clapping along with her. Max brought Lily with him, who was equally excited about the cake.

Sophie babbled through it all, saying “Dada” and “Ake” to almost everyone and throwing a burnt-out candle at one point.

And in the middle of it all, Lando and Y/N moved together like they’d been doing this for years, lifting Sophie’s hands to help her clap, swapping bites of cake and little laughs.

At one point, as everyone chatted in the kitchen and Sophie napped upstairs after a long morning of overstimulation, Y/N leaned into Lando where he was sitting on the couch, Lily asleep in his arms now.

“Thank you for this morning,” she said softly. “It meant more than you know.”

He turned his head toward her, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. “You’ve given me everything. This was the least I could do.”

And when the day was done, and the balloons had deflated slightly, and the kitchen smelt like leftover sugar and fruit, they stood at the doorway of the nursery, watching Sophie sleep with her hands tucked under her chin.

Lando whispered, “One whole year.”

Y/N reached for his hand. “The best one. And only seventeen more to go.”

“Don’t make me cry again!”

baby sophie has my whole heart! a very rare part 2 was necessary!

[fic-girlie]

Hiiiii. I want to request a fic where oldman!Joel is sometimes struggling to get it up and keep it up with his younger gf so one day he manages to get his hands on some smuggled blue pills and take them. He doesn't tell reader but she notices later when he's rock hard and ready and even after he cums he's still up for more. She asks what happened and he insists "he's just craving her tonight". Multiple orgasms later he embarrassedly confesses to taking them magic pills 😏 reader is boneless and thinks that's nothing to be embarrassed about

Craving you

Pairing: oldman!Joel Miller x f!reader Summary: He takes a blue pill to impress you — you notice, love him anyway, and the next morning, he’s sore and all yours. Warnings: established relationship, explicit sexual content (+18), age gap (reader is in her 30's, Joel is in his early 60's), oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, p in v sex, aftercare, cuddling, soft morning

You notice it the moment he walks into the bedroom, the way his hand rests low on his stomach, thumb brushing over his belt like he’s nervous, restless. Joel always has a weight to him, that quiet gravity that makes everything he does feel deliberate — but tonight there’s something wound up tight under his skin. Something buzzing beneath the stillness. You’re curled up on the bed in one of his old flannel shirts, legs bare and warm under the throw blanket, and when he looks at you like that — like he’s starving — the pages of the book in your lap stop mattering.

He’s looking at you like he needs something more than he’s letting on. His eyes track up your legs, linger on where the shirt hangs open at your thighs. You smile slow, lazy, the kind of smile you give him when you're already thinking about what comes next, but there’s an intensity in his gaze tonight that’s different.

“Joel?” you ask, setting the book aside, shifting onto your knees with the blanket sliding off your legs. “You okay?”

His jaw works as he steps closer. “M’fine,” he mutters, voice thick with something you can’t quite name. His hands move to his belt again, not unbuckling yet — just toying with the leather like it’s anchoring him. Then, after a long pause, he says it low, under his breath, “Just...cravin’ you tonight.”

That line would be charming enough if his voice weren’t so gruff, almost tense. Your eyes narrow slightly as he finally undoes the belt, hands moving quicker than usual, urgency tightening his movements. He’s already hard when he pushes his jeans down, thick and flushed, bobbing up against his stomach in a way that makes you blink.

Usually Joel takes his time. Usually you have to touch him, warm him up slow, coax the arousal into something steady. He’s been open with you about how age has changed things — how sometimes it takes longer to get hard, how sometimes he doesn’t stay that way without help. You’ve never minded. You love him, not his dick. But tonight he’s standing there already full and heavy and rock-fucking-hard, like he’s been worked up for hours without touching you once. Your eyes flick down again, curiosity blooming.

You crawl closer on the bed, reaching between his legs with gentle fingers. “Jesus, Joel…”

He hisses in air when your hand wraps around him, thick and pulsing. His cock jumps a little in your grip, and he grabs your wrist without meaning to, thumb pressing hard into your skin like he’s trying to keep himself grounded.

“Fuck, sweetheart, I—” His voice cracks around the edges.

You stroke him slowly, just to feel how ready he is, how he doesn’t even twitch from sensitivity. “You sure you’re okay?” you murmur again. “You’re…already this hard?”

He looks down at you like he’s weighing something — not fear, but something close. Shame? Guilt? But then he leans forward, catching your mouth in a rough kiss, and when he speaks again, it’s against your lips.

“Told you,” he says, “I’m just cravin’ you.”

You’re too distracted to press him further. Especially once he pulls you beneath him and kisses his way down your body like a man on a mission. You’re bare for him in moments, thighs pushed open, and he doesn’t tease this time. Doesn’t take his time with lazy fingers or soft praise. His tongue is on you in seconds, and when he licks you — slow, deep, deliberate — it hits so hard your back arches off the bed.

He devours you with single-minded focus, like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. And when you come — crying out, thighs trembling around his face — he doesn’t stop. Not for a second. He keeps going until you’re writhing, too sensitive, shivering, and only then does he move up to kiss you, mouth slick with you.

When he presses into you, he groans like he’s finally home. Like this is what he’s been waiting for all fucking day.

And God, he feels different. Not just harder. He lasts. He moves with that same slow, grinding rhythm that always makes you feel full, but this time he doesn’t falter. No pauses. No struggle to stay hard. He holds your hips and fucks you through every wave like it’s easy — like he’s twenty years younger and desperate to wear you out.

You come again before he does. He doesn’t even slow down.

And when he finally groans low in your ear, thrusts deep and comes inside you, his breath hitching and body shaking, you wait for him to soften — for the usual gentle winding-down. But his cock stays thick and twitching inside you, still pressing into your walls like it’s hungry for more.

You blink.

Joel is panting above you, sweat clinging to his hairline. His body is trembling just slightly, like it took a lot out of him. But his cock is still hard, hot and heavy and leaking inside you, and his hands are moving again. Up your thighs. Over your hips.

You touch his cheek gently. “Joel.”

He swallows hard. Doesn’t meet your eyes.

“Joel…baby. What’s going on?”

He brushes the hair back from your face, kisses your forehead like nothing’s off. “Just…told you. Cravin’ you.”

“Bullshit.”

That makes him smile. That crooked, sheepish grin that always betrays him.

“Joel,” you say again, soft but firm.

He sighs. Then mutters, barely audible: “Got a hold of some…pills.”

You blink, heart thudding. “Like…blue ones?”

He nods. “Someone was tradin’ ‘em in town. Kept ‘em for a while. Just thought…maybe it’d help.”

You pause. Then laugh — not cruelly, not mockingly. Just soft and breathless and utterly charmed. “Baby,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him close again. “You think I’d be upset about this?”

He shifts above you, clearly unsure. “Didn’t wanna make a thing outta it. Didn’t wanna admit I needed—”

You shut him up with a kiss. Long and slow. Then you grind up against him, feeling how he’s still thick inside you.

“You don’t need them,” you whisper, pressing kisses to his jaw. “But damn, I’m not complaining.”

He groans low, mouth dragging over your neck. “Still want you. Still need you.”

“Then take it,” you murmur, your hands clutching at his back. “Take all you want, Joel. I’m yours.”

And he does.

He fucks you again like he’s been waiting a lifetime for it. Fucks you until you’re crying out his name, until your voice is hoarse and your legs are shaking and your body is too wrung out to move. You don’t know how many times you come. At least once more with his mouth. Twice more on his cock. Every time you think he’s spent, he keeps going — slow and firm, whispering how good you feel, how much he needed this, needed you.

When he finally, finally softens and rolls over beside you, you’re both drenched in sweat, trembling, breathing like you just ran through the mountains. You drape yourself across his chest, boneless, utterly ruined.

Joel strokes your back gently. “You okay?”

You hum. “I’m perfect. You?”

He lets out a sheepish chuckle. “Think I’m gonna need a week to recover.”

You grin, nuzzling closer. “Worth it.”

And when he murmurs “yeah” against your temple, pulling you in tight, you know this wasn’t about pills. Not really.

It was about you — the way you still make him feel alive.

——

The light creeps in slow through the half-open blinds, casting pale grey stripes across the bed, across your skin, across the soft rise and fall of Joel’s chest where it lies half-covered by the crumpled edge of the sheet. It’s early, too early — the kind of stillness that only exists before the birds stir, before the neighborhood creaks awake. The silence is almost sacred, muffled and tender like the inside of a held breath. And beside you, Joel lies in a state of half-conscious ruin, body sprawled, mouth slightly parted, brow furrowed like even in his sleep he’s feeling the weight of what the two of you did to each other last night. The smell of sweat and sex still clings to the sheets, a warm, earthy imprint of all the places he touched you, claimed you, gave you more of himself than you thought one man possibly could.

You’re the first to stir, but even the simple act of moving your leg sends a sharp little reminder zipping through your thighs — a deep, warm ache that makes your breath hitch. You feel like you’ve been wrung out, squeezed dry, your entire body humming with a kind of sleepy soreness that’s more intoxicating than painful. It’s not just the sex — though that alone was enough to leave your bones like jelly — it’s the way he loved you last night. Relentless and reverent. Like he couldn’t get enough of you. Like you were the answer to something he hadn’t even realized he’d been aching for all his life.

And now, the man himself lies still and limp beside you, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes, the other resting on his stomach like it’s the only place he can manage to put it. You watch the rise and fall of his chest, the slow wrinkle of his nose as he shifts in his sleep and lets out a deep, gravelly grunt that sounds like the very definition of regret.

“Joel?” you murmur softly, leaning in close, brushing your lips just below the sharp edge of his jaw. “You awake?”

“Mmgh,” he groans, the sound rough like he hasn’t used his voice in years. He blinks one bleary eye open, squinting toward the light. “Barely.”

You laugh, burying your face in his shoulder for a moment before pulling back to look at him. “You sound like someone ran you over with a horse.”

“Feel like it too,” he mutters, voice so dry and low it’s practically sandpaper. “Christ almighty, what the hell did you do to me?”

You grin. “Me? You’re the one who went full damn stallion. Four rounds, Joel. And that fifth one… I think I saw the light.”

His hand lifts weakly to cover his face again as he groans, this time with the weight of his embarrassment. “Don’t remind me. I ain’t got the strength to be humbled right now.”

You push yourself up onto one elbow, looking down at him with warm amusement. He’s flushed beneath the scruff of his beard, faint little stress lines bracketing his mouth, and despite everything — the sore muscles, the overspent body — there’s still something so deeply satisfied in the way he’s laid out, like a man who won the war but has absolutely nothing left to give. You let your hand drift down his chest, brushing softly over the worn muscle.

“I mean… you could’ve told me,” you say gently, tracing a small circle over his stomach. “That you’d taken something.”

He exhales through his nose, eyes still closed. “Didn’t wanna make a thing of it.”

You smile, pressing your lips to his shoulder. “It was never about the pill, Joel. It was about you. The way you looked at me, the way you touched me, how you couldn’t get enough even when you were shaking. That didn’t come from a little blue capsule.”

His eyes open again, just barely, and he shifts to glance at you with a soft, wrecked expression. You see the honesty in it, the tender vulnerability he’s never quite been able to hide from you when you’re like this — when everything’s quiet, and raw, and real.

“I just wanted to give you more,” he says after a beat, voice low, words slow like he’s thinking through every one of them before speaking. “Sometimes I look at you and I wanna do everything. But my body’s…” He grimaces, gives a soft, bitter chuckle. “Well. She don’t always listen like she used to.”

Your chest aches for him, for the quiet truth in that confession. You curl your fingers into his hair, scratching lightly at the back of his scalp as you lean down and kiss the corner of his mouth, slow and lingering.

“You gave me everything,” you whisper. “Every time. Doesn’t matter how many times or how long or how hard. It’s always you. I always want you.”

He makes a sound then — something half between a breath and a sigh — and you feel him melt a little under your touch, his body surrendering to the softness, to the comfort, even through the soreness. And when you pull back and nudge his arm off his face, he lets you, his hand falling limply to the bed beside you.

“I think I fucked myself stupid,” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded.

You grin, hand brushing over his hip. “You did. And now you can’t move. Congratulations.”

He snorts weakly. “You’re real smug for someone who could barely stand after.”

“Yeah, well, I’m younger. I bounce back.”

His groan is long and dramatic, and it makes your heart bloom with affection. You watch him shift, wincing as he tries to stretch his legs. “Even my fuckin’ toes hurt.”

You laugh and kiss him again, this time slower, longer, your fingers slipping through his silver-threaded hair. “Stay here. I’ll make you coffee. Breakfast. Whatever your poor broken body needs.”

He reaches up, barely, and tucks a hand around your waist. “Just need you, darlin’.”

And that — the rasp in his voice, the softness behind it — that’s what gets you. You press your forehead to his, eyes closed, your body still aching in places only he knows how to reach.

“You’ve got me, Joel,” you whisper. “Always.”

And when you slide out of bed, wearing his wrinkled shirt and nothing else, he watches you go with a lazy smile that says he might not be able to move — but his heart is still full, still hungry, still completely and totally yours.

[gwennkoi]

Sightings of the Pale Widow are cataloged by the newspaper, and there is a little board they keep to show to haunting tourists alongside particularly famous sightings. Each new year, the uniformly covered map is archived away, and a new one is brought out. It was the same every year.

Until Bob moved to town.

The map slowly started to fill in over the year, as per usual, but there were a few blank spots that refused to receive sightings. As the weeks fell off the calendar each month, three places that were usual haunts of the Pale Widow went unvisited. Something was repelling their urban legend in a way that holy water and consecration had yet to affect.

The first anomalous locale was centered on Debbie's Diner, a local eatery so old that no one was sure who the original Debbie was as it had passed hands more times than locals could remember. The newspaper had a popular old clipping about how a pair of newlyweds saw the Pale Widow staring through the window at them while they were eating dinner. When one of the men ducked under the table and his husband looked away from the glass for an instant, the Widow was gone without a trace. Similar stories keep being repeated year after year until now.

The second was centered on the southwest corner of the park, which locals generally only visited during the day due to the legends. The only nighttime park patrons tended to be teenagers responding to a dare or test of courage challenge. The Pale Widow supposedly appears in the center of the park next to the ancient standing stone during the new moon when the sky is at its darkest. Most locals have a story about seeing her face covered in a tattered veil on a moonless night while they were scared and alone in the park. This year? Nothing.

Last is the old pharmacy on Main Street, which recently got converted to an ice cream parlor by a transplant from out of state. Old records say that there was actually an apothecary in virtually that same location when Main Street was a dirt cart path that took you from Rock Ridge to the east out to Scosdale to the west. The old pharmacy stayed at almost the geographical center of the town as it grew like a star following the crossroads that formed over time.

And then Bob bought the old pharmacy. He came into a moderate sum of money, never quite explained how, and decided to move somewhere quiet where he could be his own boss. Bob and his fluffy mutt of a dog, Mercutio, live in a flat above the ice cream shop. They eat dinner at Debbie's every night, and then he takes the dog over to the park to run around a bit while Bob doomscrolls through his phone from the bench and absent-mindedly lobs a ratty tennis ball for Mercutio to fetch.

It had to be a fluke. It's just a sampling error that showed up one year. It had surely happened in the past. Or, perhaps, locals had started avoiding reporting stories of the Pale Widow since the advent of social media. There's also the possibility that a few locals have been trying to silence reports so as not to have reports of their establishments being considered haunted. Except being haunted was great for business with the tourists.

The only constant in all three locations was Bob. But, surely, next year, things would go back to how they were.

Except they didn't.

Another circle free from sightings appeared on the map around the local gym. The building used to be a brewery back in the 1800s which held boxing matches originally between workers who were having disputes, but later became a healthy side hustle for the owner to sell pints and make a fistful of dollars managing the gambling. All of that got closed down when one of the fighters died in a fight, and the teetotaler mayor used it as an excuse to crack down on the brewer.

Bob had purchased a membership and tried to get over there a couple of times a week. There were now four spots in town that the Pale Widow refused to haunt any longer.

The Pale Widow has been a terrifying urban legend for centuries, haunting and traumatizing a small town. The only thing she's terrified of is... a regular dude named Bob.

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

──── YOU USED TO LOVE ME . ↳ one shot // also part of the no doubt series !

✎ᝰ .ᐟ aka jake's #1 hater is...his own girlfriend?

── sim jaeyun x f!reader ౨ৎ wc. 749 ⌗ fluff, crack, rom-com, yn bullies jake, jake still loves her, skinship, cuddles, slice-of-life

↳ IMPORTANT NOTE .ᐟ ── this is part of my no doubt series ─ a sequel series of short drabbles that take place after the events of my fic no doubt, and show jake & reader's relationship throughout their first year together (& how jake wins her trust & love back hehe) ── THIS CAN BE READ AS A ONE-SHOT, however, there will be some easter eggs if you've read no doubt before!

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── IM SORRY IF THE TITLE MISLED YOU into thinking this was going to be angsty...WHOOPS ! no angst here,,,just lots & lots of downbad loser!jake and annoying cuddles to remind me how single i am !!121!#!$Y@*3723 (totally not crashing out) anywhoozers the next part is the last official part everyone.....·°՞(¯□¯)՞°·. & also! happy comeback era :D

“Babe.”

“No.”

Jake blinks from his spot on your couch.

“Hey, wha—I didn’t even say anything yet.”

You don’t move from where you stand in the kitchen, arms crossed, staring at him with the look of a girlfriend who has seen some things, “Because every time you call me like that, you either ask me to do something insane. Or stupid. Or both.”

Jake feigns a gasp, holding his chest like you just eternally wounded him, “I am deeply offended. Since when have I—”

You lift a brow.

He stops. Blinks once.

“Okay, fine. But this time, I’m serious.”

You peer your eyes at your boyfriend—sprawled all across your couch, hair a tragic mess, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, his limbs haphazardly hanging off the couch.

And unfortunate for you—

You love him. Severely.

“Alright,” you exhale, abandoning the lunch you were prepping on the kitchen island and walking over. “What is it?”

Jake looks up at you from where he’s draped on the couch, then—a small smile plays on his lips.

Oh no.

He points at the floor—right next to where you stand—dramatically.

“I dropped the remote. It’s all the way over there.”

You blink at him.

You follow his gaze.

Then you blink at the remote.

Which is. Literally. Three inches away from his fingertips.

“You—” you start, then cut yourself off—because you need a second to physically restrain yourself from throwing something at him. “Jake.”

“Yes, my love?”

“I’m a second away from punting it even further across the room.”

Jake pouts.

“So mean.”

“I'm—” you take a deep breath, genuinely at a loss for words. “Why can’t you pick it up?”

“I’m so comfy,” he whines, fingers reaching out but barely grazing the remote.

“I can’t stand you.”

“Yes, you can,” he smiles sweetly, his arms now moving to reach for you instead. Then—

He grabs your wrist and yanks you right on top of him, trapping you in his arms before you can protest.

You let out a yelp, half-laughing, half-screaming, “JAKE—!”

“Shhhhhh,” he coos, his hands already patting your head as he nuzzles his face into your hair. “No more talking. Just cuddles.”

You squirm, wiggling in his grip, but the smile remains bright on your face as his arms stay locked around you, his warmth suffocating you in the best way possible.

“Sometimes I genuinely wonder if you were starved of affection as a child,” you mumble jokingly as you manage to wiggle enough to grab his cheeks in your hands. “So desperately adorable.”

He gasps again, “Wow. Bullied by my own girlfriend. Twice. In one day.”

“Oh my god.”

“You used to love me,” he sniffs, closing his eyes theatrically and turning his face away from yours. “Now…now you just berate me.”

You roll your eyes dramatically, poking his cheek before laying your head back onto his chest, “I still love you. I just…also want to throw you into the sun sometimes.”

Jake perks up instantly.

Ignores the solar threat.

“You love me?”

You blink.

“No. Jake. Not this aga—”

“YOU LOVE ME!”

His arms snake back around you as he rocks you in celebration, like he just unlocked a new life achievement.

You’re laughing again, your words of protest muffled as he shakes you back and forth joyfully within his arms.

“You never say it first, this is like—” he pauses, his eyes shining with literal gold specks in them, you confirm, “—this is life-changing. This is monumental. I’m never recovering.”

“Okay, okay, we get it,” you groan against his hoodie, lifting your head up slightly to look at him again.

He grins back at you. Smug. And stupidly gorgeous.

The kind of face you hate to love and love to hate and also just…love.

And then—

“One more time.”

You sigh.

You’re not surprised.

Jake’s lips form a slight pout.

“…Please?”

Then your chest does that thing it always does whenever you see Jake. That warm, stupid, traitorous thing that you love.

A small smile grows on your face. Then, you lean in, kiss his nose.

And whisper—

“I love you.”

And you think he lets out a literal squeak.

A squeak, a squeal, then a squeeze as he promptly rolls over, dragging you with him until you’re both buried in the couch cushions.

“Mine, mine, mine,” he mumbles, peppering kiss after kiss to your forehead, your temple, your hairline. “So, so mine.”

And you laugh endlessly—helpless, doomed, and utterly gone.

The remote never sees the light of day.

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@bluxjun @ki2rins @why-did-i-just-do-this @favoritten @lovialymisc @xylatox @vivimura @leehsngs @puma-riki @lezzleeferguson-120 @enhaprettystars @laurradoesloveu @sievenderz @somuchdard @kristynaah @hinryh @ltfirecracker @lov4hoon @taeheexx @niyzu @chunkzdeluluwife @jakeflvrz @fangirl125reader @0429jw @dreamy-carat @yuons @thestarinstarbucks @miszes @llearlert @ppeachyttae @hoomin10 @teddybeartaetae @tanisha2060 @therealmrsbahng @beomgyu-bears @ikeulove @jiyeons-closet @youngheejay @wxnderingthoughts @fuevrois @soobundle1009 @isoobie @enhypenova @zoemeltigloos @lizdevorak @deluluscenarios @bloomiize @hasuyv @ijustwannareadstuff20 @veilstqr @dreamiestay @jakeyyyjakexoxo

[cherrypickedchaos]

Grease and Ghosts

A lost love. A shared past. A garage full of memories. Can they race back to each other before it’s too late?

Genre: smut, slow-burn reunion romance, angsty vibes, small-town grit, forbidden-yet-inevitable love, erotic literature, yearning, established relationship, grief, mechanic! f x Oscar.

NSFW warning: 18+... Oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, praise kink - if you squint.

Inspired by Northern Attitude by Noah Kahan

The garage was warm, but only just. The little space heater hummed somewhere by the desk, struggling against the December cold creeping through the warped garage door. Oil stained the concrete as metal clinked against metal. A faint scent of burnt rubber and coffee lingered in the air, the ghosts of a hundred late nights. In the corner, a battered radio whispered an old song she didn’t really hear, classic rock, just like her dad.

She was halfway under an old Citroën, turning bolts that didn’t want to turn. Her hair was full of dust and a smear of something dark on her cheek. She wiped it with the back of her sleeve and muttered to herself.

"Come on, you stubborn—"

The bell above the garage door jingled once.

She didn’t look up. Customers always came in cold and awkward, like they were afraid they’d catch grime just by standing too close.

"Be right with you," she called, voice muffled.

A beat of silence.

Then a voice.

"Heard a Citroën throwing a tantrum and figured this has to be Sparks’ garage."

Everything in her went still. Not just the voice. The name. No one had called her that in years. Not since…

She slid out from beneath the car slowly, one hand still gripping the wrench. Her heart knocked once against her ribs, then waited. The wrench in her hand suddenly felt too heavy, like it remembered him too.

He stood in the doorway with his hands in the pockets of a coat too clean for this place. Taller than she remembered. Older. His hair was shorter, but his mouth was still a straight line. Same boots. Same dark eyes.

"You’re back," she said. It came out quieter than she intended. Not quite a question, not quite a statement.

"It’s Christmas," Oscar replied, like that explained something.

She nodded. Calm on the surface. Only there.

"You’ve never come back for Christmas before."

He didn’t answer. His eyes wandered the space like he was trying to measure what had changed. Or maybe what hadn’t.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The sun sagged low behind the trees, throwing long shadows across the cracked old kart track. The air stank of petrol, burnt rubber, and over-fried chips from the greasy stand by the entrance. Her dad’s truck was parked nearby, dented and loyal, with tools spilling out the back like it always had something to fix.

She stood stiff in the middle of it all, fourteen, maybe fifteen, swimming in racing gear a size too big. The gloves didn’t fit. The helmet slipped when she moved. She could barely see over the wheel.

Oscar leaned on the fence with his usual smugness, arms crossed, helmet dangling from one hand. He’d already finished his lap, loud and fast, chewing up the track like he owned it.

“Sure you want to do this, Sparks? Not too late to back out and keep your dignity.”

She glared, even if her knees were shaking. “I want to try.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Suit yourself. Just don’t cry when I lap you.”

Her dad called over, half-amused, half-warning. “Knock it off, Oscar. Let her drive.”

The kart hissed as she climbed in. The seat was cold and unwelcoming. The harness snapped shut with a sound too final. When the engine stuttered to life beneath her, it felt like being strapped to a jackhammer.

She nearly stalled pulling away.

The first lap was a disaster. Jerky acceleration. Clipped a cone. Took the corner like she was aiming to plow through it. She could hear him laughing somewhere behind her.

“You’re not supposed to be good at this!” he yelled as he zipped past.

Her cheeks burned. She tightened her grip on the wheel until her knuckles ached.

“I’m just getting started,” she muttered through gritted teeth.

Second lap, smoother. Third, tighter. By the fourth, she wasn’t thinking. She was feeling it. The turn before the back straight. The way the engine kicked up just before it screamed. The little tremble in the left tire she hadn’t noticed before but now anticipated like a sixth sense.

On the fifth lap, she passed him.

She didn’t plan it. She just caught him easing off the gas too early on the final corner, and she surged past, tires screeching, heart thudding so loud she couldn’t hear the engine.

She hit the finish line a full second ahead.

Oscar rolled to a stop beside her, helmet under his arm, sweat in his hair and shock in his grin. He blinked. Then barked out a laugh, the short, sharp kind he did when something actually surprised him.

“Okay,” he said. “That was… not bad.”

She climbed out, helmet under one arm, eyes bright and confused. He was still staring at her.

“What?”

He didn’t answer, just kept smiling.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

That only made him smile wider.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The rain had stopped sometime in the night, but the damp clung to everything, to the air, to the walls, to the soft knock of Oscar’s boots against concrete. He was already there when she arrived the next morning, leaning against the garage door with two coffees and the look of someone pretending not to feel the cold.

She didn’t ask how long he’d been waiting.

“I got the one that isn’t sweet,” he said, holding one out like a peace offering.

She eyed it, then him, then took it without a word. It was the kind of thing you did when you still knew someone’s order. The kind of thing that shouldn’t still be true.

She set the cup down on the workbench without drinking. Then crouched by the rusted-out sedan she’d been fighting with since Tuesday. The front suspension was shot and the bolts refused to move, as if the car had grown roots overnight.

He watched her work, hands in his jacket pockets. She could feel his gaze, light and constant, like static.

“You’re still doing everything yourself?” he asked finally. “No apprentice, no kid from the high school shop class?”

“I don’t like people in my space.”

Oscar gave a small snort. “Yeah. That checks out.”

She didn’t look up. The wrench groaned as she forced it left.

“Jet lag,” he added after a beat. “Didn’t know if you’d be here this early.”

“I usually am.”

He smiled. “Some things really don’t change.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

There was a long pause. She tugged another bolt loose with a satisfying metal shriek. He didn’t flinch.

“Still staying with your mum?” she asked, casual but not careless.

“Yeah. Delaney Road.”

A pause. Then, lighter: “Festive as ever.”

She grunted. “Must be hell.”

“Close enough.”

He didn’t elaborate. She didn’t push.

The silence stretched between them, not quite comfortable, not hostile either. Like the aftermath of an argument neither of them ever actually had.

Oscar shifted his weight. His fingers tapped absently against his paper cup.

“Still smells the same,” he murmured. “Grease and instant coffee.”

She glanced up, only briefly. “Guess some things don’t change.”

He didn’t answer, his mouth smirking, drifting through the garage like he was walking through a dream. Slow, deliberate. Hands still in his pockets. His eyes moved from one thing to the next, pausing, like he expected each corner to remember him.

He stopped at the old pegboard above the tool bench, where every socket and spanner had its own chalk outline. A few spots were still labelled in her dad’s handwriting. The paint had faded, but the scrawl was unmistakable.

Oscar leaned closer, squinting at a note scribbled in the corner. “Still sorting by chaos theory, huh?”

She didn’t look up. “It’s efficient if you understand it.”

“Sure, it is,” he muttered. “Just a two-move puzzle. Where the first move is giving up.”

She snorted, quiet and unwilling.

He kept going, fingers brushing the top of the ancient radio, still held together with black electrical tape where the antenna had snapped. He turned the knob slightly, and the volume nudged up, a raspy old voice singing over sharp guitar and muffled drums. Something raw and old-school, all grit and growl.

He smiled faintly. “Still stuck on your dad’s rock station.”

“You’re the only one who ever minded it.”

He glanced over at her. “He never gave me hell for changing it.”

She kept her head down, tugging the hood lower. “That’s because he said it built character.”

Oscar gave a quiet laugh. Not much of one. Just enough.

The old coffee tin was still there too. Half full of washers and screws. He picked it up, shook it gently, then set it down again. Every corner of the place was like that. Alive but still. Like the garage had kept breathing after everyone else had left.

“You looking for something?” she asked finally.

He turned, caught off guard. “No. Just… remembering.”

She gestured toward the rolling cart. “If you want to be useful, sort those by size. The metric ones. Top tray.”

He blinked. Then gave a short, almost theatrical sigh. “You always did know how to delegate.”

But he moved toward the tray and started sorting, bare hands, slow and methodical. She watched him from under the hood, only briefly. He still knew what he was doing. Still worked in silence when it counted.

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. The music buzzed low. Tools shifted. Somewhere outside, a bird scratched against the sheet metal roof.

It was almost easy.

He was reaching for a socket when he saw it.

Top shelf. Behind a jar of miscellaneous bolts and a rusted tin of copper wire. The frame was angled slightly toward the wall, half-hidden, like it had been set down in a hurry and never moved again.

He froze.

The frame was still the same one. Silvered edges, slightly tarnished. Square and heavy in the hand. He remembered it well. He had seen it a hundred times on the wall near the back office, framed perfectly by light in the late afternoons. Back then, it held a photo of the three of them. Her dad in the middle, grinning under his ball cap. She was maybe thirteen, holding up a tiny trophy with both hands, cheeks red with sun and adrenaline. Oscar stood next to her, making a peace sign with motor oil on his sleeve.

Now it held nothing.

The glass was cracked in one corner. Not shattered, just a fine spiderweb fracture that reached toward the centre like it had been hit once by something small and sudden. The dust around the frame suggested it had been sitting there for a while. But the glass was clean. No smudges, no fingerprints. Like she still touched it sometimes. Like she still moved it. Just not enough.

He picked it up gently.

Behind him, the soft sound of a ratchet stopped.

He turned it slowly in his hands, thumb brushing the crack. His voice, when it came, was quieter than before. Not hesitant. Just careful.

“That always been empty?”

She didn’t answer right away. When she did, it was flat. No weight behind it.

“No.”

He didn’t ask what happened to the photo. Didn’t ask why she had taken it out or what it had meant to her to leave the frame behind. She didn’t offer.

He set it back exactly where it had been. Angled toward the wall. Then turned back to the tray of bolts and kept sorting.

She didn’t move for a while after the sound of him setting the frame down. Just stayed crouched beside the car, her hand resting on the axle like she had forgotten what she was doing. The silence had stretched again, but this one felt different. Tighter. Denser. Like the kind you hold between your teeth.

Oscar glanced over but didn’t speak. His fingers worked slowly, sorting washers into neat lines on the tray. It wasn’t about helping anymore. He just needed something to do with his hands. He wanted to ask.

Why here? Why still this place, this building full of ghosts? Why had she taken the photo down but kept the frame like a shrine to something neither of them could name?

She hadn’t changed much. Maybe a little sharper around the eyes. Maybe quieter. But her hands still moved the same way when she worked. Her jaw still clenched when she focused. The way she held herself, stubborn, grounded, full of heat she refused to show, that hadn’t changed at all.

He wondered if she thought about it. About that photo. About the night he left. About what would have happened if she had come with him instead of staying. If they had left this garage together, would she still be reaching for busted bolts with scraped knuckles in the middle of winter?

Would he still be unravelling behind a smile in front of every camera in the paddock?

He looked at her again. Still no eye contact. She hadn’t looked at him properly since he arrived. He tried to say something. Cleared his throat. The words didn’t come.

So, he went back to sorting. One washer at a time. No hurry. When the tray was full, Oscar stood and stretched. His joints cracked louder than they used to.

She was still under the car, but her focus had slipped. The ratchet stayed in her hand. She wasn’t turning it.

He walked past her on the way to toss a rag into the bin. Didn’t stop. Didn’t linger. Just glanced once, on instinct, toward the shelf.

The frame was still there. Still empty. Still cracked.

He hesitated.

Then reached up and gently turned it face down.

The movement made her head lift, just barely. She saw it. She didn’t say anything at first.

Then: “You’re just visiting?”

He stood still for a moment. Like he wasn’t sure what to say. Then nodded once.

“Yeah.” He paused in the doorway, hands in his jacket pockets again. The same posture he’d had yesterday, but it felt different now. “Just visiting.”

The door creaked as he let it shut behind him.

She stayed where she was, eyes on the tray of tools he had left behind. Neatly sorted. Every piece in its place.

She flipped the frame back over a few minutes later.

Didn’t look at it.

Just set it upright, facing forward again.

And kept working.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The sun spilled in through the open garage doors, slicing through the floating dust and laying gold across the concrete. The air smelled like grease, motor oil, and the lemon soap her dad always kept by the sink but never used. Music buzzed from the old radio on the shelf, the volume too high, the bass a little blown out. Something with twang and grit and an unapologetic guitar solo.

Her dad stood by the coffee pot, humming off-key and tapping a socket wrench against his palm like a conductor. His mug was chipped, stained darker on the inside than out. He looked happy.

Oscar was elbow-deep in the side of his kart, legs sprawled, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hands stained with oil. The kart should’ve been a quick fix. He had come in early that morning for something simple, throttle lag, or maybe a stubborn plug. Now it was four hours later, and the engine was halfway out, and he hadn’t even tried to leave.

She stood across from him, holding the parts tray. Narrowing her eyes at the mess he was making.

“That’s the wrong socket,” she said.

“It is not,” Oscar shot back, already forcing it.

“It doesn’t even fit.”

“It fits enough.”

She rolled her eyes and turned to the drawer set. “No wonder you break everything.”

“I don’t break everything. I make bold choices.”

“You make poor ones.”

“Bold ones.”

Her dad chuckled without looking. “Same thing at your age.”

Oscar grinned like he had just been handed a medal. “Thank you.”

“Wasn’t a compliment.”

She passed him the correct socket. He took it, their fingers brushing just barely, and for half a second neither of them said anything. His smile faltered. She looked away too fast.

“Try not to strip the bolt this time,” she said, sharp again.

“Wow. Just when I thought we were bonding.”

“Keep thinking.”

Across the room, her dad shook his head, still smiling. He leaned over the coffee pot and muttered loud enough to be heard, “You two gonna fix the car or stay there long enough to get married under it?”

Oscar’s hands slipped. “What?”

Her head jerked up. “Dad.”

He was already sipping from his mug, totally unfazed. “Nothing. Just making conversation.”

Oscar cleared his throat and went back to work. The tips of his ears had turned pink. She was glaring at her dad like he had committed war crimes. Her dad only raised his eyebrows and wandered off to the back shelf, still humming along with the music. When the guitar solo kicked in, he whistled under it, off-key and enthusiastic.

Oscar swatted at a fly buzzing near his ear and bumped the tray. A wrench clattered to the floor.

“That’s strike three.”

Oscar blinked. “Three? What were the first two?”

“The socket you forced, the bolt you cross-threaded, and now the wrench.”

“That socket fit. Spiritually,” he retorted with a grin on his face.

“You’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me. I’m unpaid emotional labour.”

She bent to pick up the wrench and flicked a rag at his face on the way back up.

He caught it. Barely.

“You’re assaulting a teammate,” he said, dramatic.

“You’re not my teammate.”

“Yet.”

She snorted, but there was a smile under it. Her dad caught the sound and shouted from the other end of the garage, “If you two are done flirting, I got brake pipes back here with your names on them.”

Oscar called back, “We are never done flirting.”

She smacked his arm with the rag again.

Her dad cackled, a big laugh, full of breath. The kind of laugh that shook the walls and stayed in the corners long after the noise was gone. The kind of laugh you don’t know you’ll miss until the day it’s not there.

Oscar leaned against the kart, wiping his hands. “So, Sparks, what’s the plan after this? Sandwiches? Cold drinks? A full parade in my honour?”

“You can have the last Tim Tam if you promise to stop talking.”

“I make no such promise.”

She tossed the rag at him again. It landed on his head. He left it there.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, with her dad whistling and the engine guts open like a story waiting to be finished, Oscar looked at her. Not for too long. Just enough.

Enough to know he’d be back next weekend. And the one after that. And probably the one after that too.

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The garage smelled the same. It always did. Like cold metal and worn rubber, with coffee grounds clinging to the corners. But today, something else hung in the air. Thicker than oil. Heavier than exhaust.

Oscar didn’t say anything when he walked in, comfortable now since he’d done it all week. Just raised a hand in greeting, slow and small, like he wasn’t sure if it counted.

She didn’t wave back.

She was working under the hood of a battered Subaru; the same one she’d been pulling apart the day before. Her posture was tight. Focused. More than usual. Like every bolt was an excuse to stay silent. The heater was on, but the place still felt freezing.

Oscar leaned against the wall near the bench, hands in his jacket pockets. He listened for a minute.

“You always let the sad stuff play this loud?”

She didn’t look up. “Didn’t notice.”

He nodded once, even though she couldn’t see him. The music hummed low, her dad’s kind of track. Guitar heavy. Gravel voice. It scraped the silence instead of filling it.

Oscar kicked lightly at a loose washer on the floor. It rolled into the dark under one of the shelves.

“You okay?”

She tightened something that didn’t need it. “Fine.”

“Right.”

Another beat passed. The longest one yet. He moved toward the tool cart and stopped halfway.

“You need help?”

“No.”

He rocked back on his heels. “You sure? I’ve gotten really good at following instructions. Some even said I was trainable.”

Nothing. Not even a breath of a smile. She turned a wrench slow and steady, like she was trying not to let her knuckles shake.

Oscar exhaled through his nose and leaned back against the bench. “Alright. No jokes today.”

Still no answer. He glanced around the garage. Nothing had changed, but it all felt different. Dimmer. He didn’t know why. Not yet. But he felt it. The air was thick with something unspoken. And he was standing in it, same as her. He stayed quiet after that. For a while.

She didn’t tell him to leave, but she didn’t talk either, and in the silence he found himself reaching for something to do.

The rolling cart was low on parts, so he crossed the garage and crouched by the lower drawers, pulling them open one by one. Most were packed with tangled cables, random fittings, a few tools long past their prime. The third drawer stuck halfway, then groaned open with a reluctant scrape.

He reached in for a socket set and paused.

Buried beneath a roll of old sandpaper and a cracked measuring tape was a sketchbook. The edges were warped, the cover smudged and oil streaked. No title, no decoration. Just plain black spiral binding and a corner folded over like it had been jammed back in a hurry.

He hesitated. Then slid it out. She was still under the hood.

Oscar flipped the cover open and felt his breath catch. Page after page of detailed mechanical sketches, clean lines, annotated margins, systems broken down into layered cross-sections. Suspension setups. Chassis tweaks. Engine configurations. Every line purposeful, confident. Sharp handwriting in the corners.

One page showed a kart body rendered from three angles, painted with a stripe of red across the nose and annotations for airflow and weight balance.

At the top, in pencil: “Race Concept: Build One Day”

He turned another page. Then another. Then something slipped out from between the pages and fluttered to the ground.

A piece of paper, yellowed and creased, like it had been folded and refolded too many times. He picked it up.

An application form. A real one. Addressed to a junior race team: a mechanic development program. He recognized the team. Knew the name. Knew who drove for them now.

The form was filled out, every blank completed in neat pen. Dated two years ago, almost to the day.

His name was written in one of the fields as emergency contact. It had never been sent. He looked up from the paper, toward the car.

She hadn’t moved. But she was no longer working. She was just holding the wrench. Still. Like she already knew what he’d found.

He looks at her, eyes sharp, searching. “Why didn’t you go?”

She freezes for a heartbeat, then lets out a dry, bitter laugh. “Why didn’t I go? You really want to ask that? After all this time?”

He blinks, caught off guard. “I just don’t get it. I thought maybe you’d have left by now.”

Her smile twists, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Of course you don’t. You left. You ran.”

He shifts, suddenly uncertain. “It wasn’t like that.”

“No? Then how was it?” She folds her arms, voice low and sharp. “You want me to explain how it feels to stay put while everything you cared about falls apart?”

He swallows. “I’m not blaming you.”

She snorts quietly. “Funny. Feels like you’re blaming me for not packing up and walking out.”

He looks away for a moment, then meets her eyes again. “I guess I thought you might have wanted out.”

Her laugh is harsh, edged with sarcasm. “Wanted out? Maybe. Maybe not. You think it’s that simple? Just wanting something makes it happen?”

He steps closer. “Then why stay?”

She shrugs, but there’s steel beneath the motion. “Because sometimes you don’t get a say. Because life doesn’t pause while you figure your shit out.”

“I’m sorry,” he softens

She bites the inside of her cheek, jaw tight, voice barely above a whisper. “Save it.”

Silence stretches between them, heavy and raw.

Finally, she looks back at him, eyes guarded but sharp. “I didn’t stay for you. Not for your memory, your guilt, or your leaving. I stayed because it was the only thing left.”

He nods slowly, swallowing the weight of that.

Her lips press together. “So don’t ask me why I didn’t go. It’s your question, not mine.”

She looks at him, voice low and steady. “Go.”

There’s no lightness this time. No teasing edge. Just the hard line she’s drawn and refuses to cross back over.

He takes a step forward, then stops. His eyes search hers, like he’s trying to find a crack, an opening, something to hold on to.

“I—” he starts, but the words catch somewhere between his throat and the silence.

She cuts him off with a shake of her head. “No. Not today.”

The weight of that is sudden and absolute. He swallows, hesitant, wanting to say sorry, wanting to fix what’s been left broken, but the moment has already passed. Her hand moves, subtle but deliberate, toward the door.

As he turns to leave, his eyes catch something pinned to the wall, a funeral program. Her dad’s name. The date. He had died the day after he left.

He lingers for a moment, the weight of that detail settling over him like a silent accusation.

She doesn’t look back.

Not yet.

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The night air was still. Not cold enough to bite, but damp. It clung to her sleeves and settled in her hair like dust. The kind of night that felt stuck between seasons. The kind that didn't know what it was supposed to be.

They were standing outside the garage, in the gravel lot between the back wall and her dad’s truck. The lights inside were off now, except for the lamp in the office window. Its glow leaked out just far enough to stretch across the concrete. Oscar was leaned against the side of the truck, arms crossed, head tilted down like he couldn’t look at her and say it at the same time.

She was hugging herself, not from the cold but because it helped. It helped to press her elbows into her ribs and keep her hands still and hold herself together, because no one else was going to do it. Not right now. She hadn’t spoken in a while. She didn’t need to. He was going to say something. She could feel it in her spine.

He cleared his throat like it hurt.

“I got a call,” he said.

She looked over at him. Not all the way. Just her eyes. “Okay.”

“It’s a development seat. One of the junior programs. They want me in Spain for winter testing. And some training stuff. Sim work. It’s a whole thing.”

There was a pause. She waited. He didn’t keep going.

Then, carefully: “It starts tomorrow.”

Now she turned to face him.

“Tomorrow.”

He nodded once.

“You’re leaving tomorrow.”

Another nod. Barely a movement. She let out a quiet, disbelieving breath. “You weren’t even going to tell me.”

“I’m telling you now.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

Oscar didn’t say anything.

Her voice stayed calm, but her arms tightened across her stomach. “I’ve been sleeping three hours a night. Helping my mum with the shop books. Packing up Dad’s tools. Keeping my brothers from falling apart. Trying to make it feel normal for them. I haven’t had five seconds to myself, and the second I turn around, you’re gone too?”

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” he said.

“But it is.”

He looked up. Finally. “I didn’t know if I should say anything. I didn’t want to make things harder.”

She laughed. Not because it was funny. “Congratulations. You did anyway.”

“I thought maybe you’d come.”

“You know I couldn’t.”

He flinched at that. Just a little.

“I know,” he said. “I just… I didn’t want to hear it.”

“So, you waited until the night before?”

“I didn’t know how to say it.”

“You could’ve just said it mattered.”

The air stilled between them.

She let her arms drop. For a second her hands dangled like they didn’t know what to do. She looked at the gravel, then at the dark shape of the garage behind him.

“My dad’s in the hospital. You know that, right? You know what they said today?”

Oscar stayed quiet.

“They said maybe one month. Maybe less.”

Her voice didn’t shake. But her eyes glinted, not from tears, not yet, just the pressure behind them.

“I’m not leaving my family. I’m not getting on a plane and pretending none of this is happening.”

“I never asked you to.”

“No, you just made sure I didn’t have time to think about it.”

His face fell. The guilt came through then. Not anger. Just the weight of knowing he’d done something too late.

He stepped forward, carefully. Like the space between them had turned fragile.

“If this were different-”

“It’s not.”

“I didn’t want to leave without you.”

“But you are.”

He looked at her, like that was the first time it had fully landed.

“I should’ve asked you,” he said.

“Yeah.” Her voice cracked then. Just a little. “I would’ve said no,” she added. “But it would’ve been nice to be asked.”

He stepped closer again. This time he didn’t speak. He just looked at her like he wanted to hold something that wasn’t his to keep.

Their hands almost touched. Almost.

The porch light from the garage flicked off behind them.

She didn’t say anything. He didn’t move.

She stood there in the hoodie he’d left at the garage weeks ago, the sleeves too long, the hem smudged with grease and threadbare at the cuffs. It still smelled faintly like him. She hadn’t meant to keep it. But she had.

She wiped the corner of one eye with the sleeve and stepped back.

“You should go.”

Oscar didn’t. Not yet. He looked at her a moment longer, and something shifted in his face, something that knew this was a line they wouldn't uncross if he said it. But he said it anyway. Soft. Final.

“I love you.”

She didn’t cry. Not then. She just stepped forward, took his face in her hands, and pressed a kiss to his temple—firm, quiet, devastating. Then she pulled back.

Oscar stood there, rooted. Then he nodded once, and didn’t say goodbye.

He got in the car. The headlights flashed across her as he turned it around, and for a second, their eyes caught through the windshield.

He didn’t wave. She didn’t look away.

And then he was gone. She stayed in the gravel; arms crossed over the hoodie like it might hold her together. The quiet rolled back in like a tide.

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The kitchen smelled like toast and old bananas. A cereal box was tipped on its side, spilling onto the table in slow motion while Jackson, twelve now, watched a video on his phone with one elbow in a puddle of orange juice.

“Seriously?” she said.

He blinked up at her. “What?”

She pointed to the box. “That.”

“Oh.”

He righted it lazily, wiped his arm on his hoodie sleeve, and went back to watching. Eli was already half-dressed, hoodie on inside out, socks balled in his hand, standing at the fridge with the door wide open.

“There’s no milk,” he announced like it was a personal betrayal.

“There was yesterday,” their mum said from the hall.

“Well, it walked out, I guess.”

Jackson didn’t look up. “You drank it straight from the bottle again.”

“I didn’t.”

“You absolutely did.”

Their mum shuffled in, hair still wet from the shower, coffee in a chipped mug she refused to throw out. She sat down at the table without looking.

“Is anyone wearing trousers?”

“I am,” Jackson said.

“I’m not,” Eli said, pulling one sock on and then immediately stepping in the juice puddle.

“Cool,” she muttered, standing to grab a paper towel. “We’re thriving.”

The morning noise bumped along in its usual rhythm, cabinet doors, toast popping, someone humming under their breath. She stood at the sink, staring out the window without really seeing it, arms folded. The dish rack was piled unevenly. One of the mugs had a crack spidering down the handle, but no one ever threw it out. Every part of the room was lived-in, a little worn. Familiar.

Jackson grabbed a granola bar and slung his backpack over one shoulder. “Hey, can you tell school I might be late?”

“Nope,” she said. “Tell him yourself.”

Eli was still barefoot, still poking through drawers.

“You’ve had fifteen minutes,” she said.

“I was doing my English reading.���

“Since when is YouTube considered literature?”

“It’s a visual medium,” he said, too proudly.

Their mum finally spoke again, eyes still half-lidded behind her coffee. “Shoes, both of you. Doors. Let’s move.”

Jackson saluted. Eli grumbled. Then the screen door banged shut behind them, leaving the kitchen quieter, a little cooler.

She sat down across from her mum, stealing the other half of her toast without asking.

“They’re growing up fast,” her mum said, staring into her mug.

“Yeah.”

“You okay?”

She shrugged. “They didn’t match their socks.”

“They never do.”

“And Jackson might actually survive school.”

“Not betting on it.”

They shared a look. The kind built from years of not needing to explain everything. The toast was cold, but she ate it anyway.

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The hood was up. The sun wasn’t. Clouds hovered low outside the garage, grey and swollen, flattening the light that came through the open door. Inside, everything smelled like warm metal, damp concrete, and the lingering bite of brake cleaner.

She was half-under the front end of a Volvo, gritting her teeth at a bolt that refused to move. The ratchet clicked and slipped again, the angle too tight, the clearance unforgiving.

“Need a hand?” came a voice from behind her.

She didn’t bother looking. “No.”

Oscar’s boots crossed the floor behind her anyway. She could hear the lazy rhythm of his steps, the smugness practically radiating off them.

“You sure? That bolt sounds scared.”

She exhaled through her nose. “You want to be helpful, go bother the socket tray.”

“I already did. It’s organized. You’re welcome.”

She turned just enough to glare over her shoulder. “You organized it wrong.”

“I organized it alphabetically. It was beautiful.”

She straightened and wiped her hands on a rag, resisting the urge to throw it at him.

“No one organizes sockets alphabetically.”

“Well, now they do.” He was grinning like a man who hadn’t just committed workshop treason. Her arms were sore, her temper was fraying, and still, still, he looked at her like he was enjoying every second of this.

She narrowed her eyes at the bolt again, muttering under her breath. “It’s seized.”

Oscar leaned beside her, arms folded, head tilted toward the engine bay.

“You want the breaker bar?”

“I want it to cooperate.”

“That’s not usually how metal works, Sparks.” He said it easy. Like the nickname belonged to him. Like the years hadn’t scraped that ownership away.

She didn’t answer. He walked off without asking and came back with the bar. She took it without looking at him. Their fingers touched for a second longer than necessary.

He noticed. She pretended she didn’t.

She braced the bar, adjusted her stance, and pulled. The bolt groaned. Gave. She rocked backward a step, breath catching in her throat.

Oscar let out a low whistle. “That was kind of hot.”

She turned, deadpan. “Say that again and I’ll bury you under the parts cart.”

“Romance is dead.”

She handed him the bar. “It never lived.”

He held her gaze for a moment too long, the smile lingering at the corner of his mouth. There was something in his eyes, not just amusement. Something warmer. Something older.

She looked away first.

“Need anything else, boss?” he asked.

She bent back over the car. “Silence would be great.”

He chuckled, quiet and pleased with himself and stayed exactly where he was, just leaned beside her while she worked, offering nothing but presence. That used to be enough. Some weekends, that was all they did, pass tools back and forth and talk about engines like it was a language only they spoke. Now the silence wasn’t comfort. It was pressure.

She reached for a clamp. He passed it to her without asking. Their fingers touched again, briefly, and this time neither of them pretended it didn’t happen.

She cleared her throat. “You’re hovering.”

“I’m helping.”

“You’re loitering with confidence.”

He smiled. “You used to like having me around.”

“You used to know when to back off, you’re breathing down my neck.”

He smiled. “Missed it?”

She rolled her eyes and turned back to the engine. He leaned in slightly, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him at her shoulder.

“I remember a version of you that smiled more.”

“I remember a version of you that didn’t leave.”

The smile didn’t fade, but it faltered, just for a second. A small drop in the engine’s hum.

“Ouch,” he said, with mock offense.

She tightened the clamp. “Yeah, well. Some of us had shit to do.”

Another pause. She didn’t look at him. “You know. Like bury a parent. Keep a roof over people’s heads. That sort of thing.”

He blinked. Slow. Careful.

“Wow. Was that a joke?”

“Only if you’re laughing.”

Oscar let out a low chuckle, stepped closer again, not enough to touch, but enough that she could feel the air shift.

“Not bad, Sparks. You’re getting sharper in your old age.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “You’d know.”

He smiled at her then. Not wide. Just that tilt at the corner of his mouth that used to make her forget what she was holding. “I did.”

This time, she looked away first. She passed him the clamp back. “Hold this.”

He did, wordlessly, steady hands in the right place without being told. Muscle memory, maybe. Or something else. She adjusted the seal, her fingers brushing his as she worked, and there it was again, that flicker of heat under her skin. The way her breath caught just slightly off-rhythm.

He didn’t say anything, but she could feel his eyes on her. She tightened the last bolt with a sharp click and stepped back fast, wiping her hands hard on her rag.

“Done.”

He stayed still, clamp still in place. Watching her. She met his eyes, just once.

“You want something to do, clean the threads on the rear plugs.”

He tilted his head, just enough. “You okay?”

“I’m great.”

“That’s not what I—”

She cut him off with a look.

“Rear plugs,” she repeated.

Oscar nodded, slow, the smile returning. But softer now. Like he understood. He turned away to grab a brush, and she let herself breathe again, only once he wasn’t looking.

Later, the engine gave a small hiss as she loosened the last bolt, warm air rising from the block and curling against the cold. Oscar was beside her again, leaning into the open hood, his arm brushing hers.

She didn’t move. Not right away.

“You sure you remember how to do this?” she asked, eyes on the housing.

He bumped her lightly with his shoulder. “I’ve done more tracksides rebuilds than you’ve had birthdays.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

He reached in to hold the part steady while she rethreaded a line. She leaned in at the same time, and suddenly they were sharing the narrow space under the hood, shoulders pressed, breath warming the metal between them.

She was aware of everything, the sharp scent of engine coolant, the oil under her nails, the sound of his breath when he concentrated.

His head dipped closer, just slightly, voice softer now. “You know what I missed?”

She didn’t answer.

“This. The way you go quiet when you work. The way you talk to engines like they owe you something.”

She kept her hands moving. “They do.”

He smiled. “They listen to you.”

“They behave for me.”

Oscar glanced at her, and she felt it.

“You ever think about what would’ve happened if you came with me?”

She stopped tightening the line. Just for a second.

“Don’t.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t back off.

“I think about it,” he said.

“That’s your problem.”

She leaned away, suddenly too warm, grabbing a rag from the cart to clean her hands. The air between them stretched thin, like something pulled tight and trembling.

He straightened, slower this time. “You always used to get like this when you were trying not to punch me.”

“Still do.”

She tossed the rag into the bin. Harder than necessary.

Oscar grinned behind her. “You missed me.”

She turned, looked him dead in the eye and didn’t say a word. He didn’t press. Just stayed there while she wiped down the engine block, her hands precise again, her face unreadable.

Oscar leaned against the edge of the workbench now, like he belonged there. Like this was just another Saturday in the garage. Like they hadn’t gone years without speaking. She felt his eyes on her again. That same kind of watching, patient, sharp, almost fond.

It used to make her feel invincible. Now it made her feel like her skin didn’t fit right.

“You still look at me like that,” she said without turning around.

“Like what?”

“Like nothing changed.” He didn’t answer right away. She didn’t give him long. “Things did,” she added.

“I know.”

She turned, finally. Not all the way, just enough to see him out of the corner of her eye.

“You think flirting makes it easier to come back?”

Oscar shrugged, but it was too slow to be casual. “I think it makes it easier to stay.”

That landed between them, quiet but heavy. She didn’t reply. Instead, she picked up the torque wrench, checked the calibration like it mattered.

“Car’s done,” she said.

Oscar nodded, like that meant something else entirely.

Then, still watching her, softer now: “Thanks for letting me help.”

She didn’t look at him. “Don’t make a habit of it.”

He smiled anyway. And she kept her back turned until he walked out.

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The lights above the track buzzed, half the bulbs flickering like they were tired too. Everything else had gone still. The stands were empty, the engine noise long faded, and the air smelled like warm rubber and cooling metal.

He was still in his race suit, unzipped halfway, sweat darkening the collar. She stood by the kart, tools in hand, grease smudged across her wrist, heart still beating out of rhythm from watching him take her build and push it to the edge.

Oscar pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his hair, breathless.

“That was-” he stopped, grinning like an idiot, “-I don’t even know what that was.”

She walked toward him, still holding the torque wrench.

“You hit seventy-four on the back straight.”

His eyes went wide. “No way.”

“I checked the readout twice.”

He let out a breathless laugh and looked back at the kart like it was something holy. “You built that.”

She shrugged. “You drove it.”

“I barely had to. It knew what it was doing.”

She raised a brow. “Machines don’t drive themselves.”

Oscar turned back to her. Still smiling. “Maybe not. But that thing was humming. Every turn, every shift, clean. Like it wanted to win.”

She ducked her head. “It did.”

He stepped closer. She looked up, and that was the moment, quiet, too fast to stop. Oscar still smelled like engine heat and wind. His hand brushed her elbow when he leaned in just a little.

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

“What.”

“That kart moved like it had something to prove.” He paused. “So did I.”

Her voice was low. “And?”

“It did.”

She opened her mouth, probably to say something cutting or smart, but she didn’t. Instead, she just stood there, close enough to feel the heat coming off him, fingers still wrapped around the wrench like it could anchor her. Then he kissed her.

Not rough. Not slow. Just honest. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask permission because it already knew the answer. Her hands didn’t let go of the wrench. His stayed loose at his sides, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed more.

When they broke apart, she didn’t step back.

“Okay,” she said softly.

He blinked. “Yeah?”

She nodded, still close. “You earned it.”

He smiled, something brighter than his usual smugness, something softer. She finally let go of the wrench.

Oscar’s grin stretched a little wider. “You know, if you keep building karts like that, I might just have to race them all.”

“Oh, you think you can handle it?” She cocked a brow, stepping even closer, the heat between them suddenly sharper than the engine’s roar had been.

He laughed softly; eyes gleaming. “I’m not scared.”

“Good,” she said, voice low and teasing. “Because I’m not just building karts, Oscar. I’m building traps.”

He glanced down at the wrench still in her hands and then back up, his smile turning sly. “Traps, huh? Should I be worried?”

“Depends.” She tapped the wrench lightly against his chest. “How fast can you run?”

His breath hitched just a little. “Faster than you think.”

The silence settled again, but it was different now, charged, expectant. She let her fingers trail a little along the sleeve of his suit, teasing without touching fully.

“Careful,” she murmured, “or I might start thinking you like being caught.”

He leaned in closer, voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe I do.”

Their faces were inches apart, the heat from the track mingling with something else, something electric. She glanced down at the wrench again and then back to his eyes, suddenly feeling daring.

“Race me to the garage,” she challenged, stepping back with a playful smirk. “Loser has to wash the kart.”

Oscar’s grin was all challenge now. “You’re on.”

And just like that, the tension broke with a burst of laughter as they took off, feet pounding on the concrete, racing into the night.

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It was the afternoon on a Tuesday. Oscar had been gone all weekend for a race. She couldn’t pretend she wasn’t jealous of the sport taking him away, though she wouldn’t tell him that. She certainly wouldn’t admit to quietly cheering him on while cooking Sunday lunch with her mum, or that her mum insisted on having every race playing in the background.

She thought she’d enjoy the quiet. Maybe even need it. But without him, the garage felt less like a sanctuary and more like a shell.

She wiped the grease off her hands and bent back over the hood of an old VW, trying to focus, when the familiar clang of boots echoed through the doors. It was the sound she’d missed more than she wanted to admit.

“Sparks,” he greeted, his voice cutting through the silence, casual but not quite.

She didn’t look up right away. Just kept her head buried under the hood, like she hadn’t been listening for that exact sound all afternoon. “Didn’t know they let losers back through customs.”

Oscar let out a low laugh and leaned against the workbench, arms crossed. “Seventh isn’t losing.”

“Tell that to the guy who came sixth,” she muttered, finally straightening up. Her ponytail was a mess, a smear of grease across her cheek. “I had to turn the volume down. Your post-race interview was giving me second-hand embarrassment.”

He raised a brow. “You watched?”

“My mum did.”

He grinned. “So, you just happened to be in the room?”

She didn’t answer. Just grabbed a rag and wiped her hands, more force than necessary.

He looked around, the garage somehow smaller with both of them in it. “Miss me?”

She scoffed. “You leave for two days and come back with a god complex. Impressive.”

“You missed me.”

“In the way you miss a splinter.”

“Sharp. I like it.”

They danced around each other like usual. Tension in every breath, every glance. Neither willing to admit what was obvious to anyone else. She didn’t ask how the race went, and he didn’t offer. Some things they didn’t talk about.

Oscar wandered as she fiddled with a wrench she didn’t need. He stopped by the back corner, drawn by something under the tarp. He glanced at her.

“What’s this?”

“Don’t touch that.”

He looked at her. She didn’t sound playful anymore.

“Seriously. Leave it.”

But he was already lifting the edge. Not enough to see everything, but enough. Welded frame, stripped interior, half an engine. It wasn’t much yet. But it was something. Something important.

When she crossed the garage, she wasn’t stomping. She was silent. Cold.

“You don’t get to look at that.”

Oscar blinked. “I didn’t know it was…”

“You didn’t ask.” Her voice was quiet but sharp, like glass underfoot. “You just went ahead like you always do.”

He stepped back, hands up. “I wasn’t trying to-”

“It’s not about trying.” She was furious, but it wasn’t loud. It was contained, fragile. “That’s mine. You don’t get to touch it. You don’t get to act like you still know me.”

Something in her cracked then, but not in the way he expected. She wasn’t just mad about the car.

“Don’t say that,” he whispered. When she didn’t reply he continued, “Don’t say I don’t know you. I do. Sparks I know you.”

She almost laughed, shaking her head. “No. No, Mr F1 hotshot. You don’t know me. You knew me. Me four years ago, before you left. News Flash. I’ve changed.”

He looked at her, jaw clenched like he had something to say but wasn’t sure if he should.

She didn’t give him time to find the words. “The girl you knew,” she said. “She thought the world was gonna wait. Thought people stuck around if they said they would.”

Her voice didn’t rise, but something cracked in it. “Turns out, people leave. Even the ones who promised not to.”

Oscar’s eyes dropped. “I didn’t promise-”

“Exactly,” she snapped, bitter smile flashing. “Smart move.”

He took a breath, slow and heavy. “I didn’t leave to hurt you.”

“Well, congrats. You managed it anyway.”

A beat passed between them. The garage was too still; the weight of silence louder than any engine ever was.

“You act like I didn’t think about you every damn day,” he said finally, voice low. “Like I didn’t watch every message and think- ‘If I go back now, I’ll remember everything I lost, and it’ll be ten times harder to leave again.’ But I still almost did. A dozen times.”

She turned away from him, arms crossed, jaw tight.

He took a cautious step forward. “You think I don’t regret it?”

She didn’t look at him. “I think you made the right call. That’s the worst part.”

He blinked. “What?”

She laughed once, no humour in it. “You made it. You left and made it. And you’re good. Really bloody good. I can’t even be mad at that without feeling petty.”

“That’s not-”

“I needed you,” she said, finally facing him. “After Dad, after everything, I needed you. And you weren’t here.”

Her voice cracked at the end of it, barely. Just a hairline fracture. But it was enough. Oscar looked like he wanted to reach for her, say something, fix it. But he didn’t move. He just stood there, like someone watching a fire burn too far to stop.

She shook her head. “You don’t get to come back and act like nothing changed. You don’t get to touch my car or talk like you still know me.”

He glanced toward the half-built machine under the tarp. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? Not just a car.”

She didn’t answer.

“You built it without him,” Oscar said softly.

Her jaw tightened. “I built it for me.”

He looked at her, properly now. “You never showed anyone.”

“No,” she said. “Not everything has to be for display.”

Silence again, heavier this time.

“He would’ve been proud.”

Her laugh was sharp, cutting. “Don’t you dare.”

Oscar flinched.

“You don’t get to say that,” she said. “You didn’t even come back. Not once. Not even for the wake. Not for the funeral. Not for me.”

“I didn’t know what to say,” he said, voice quiet.

“You didn’t have to say anything,” she snapped. “You just had to show up.”

The words hung there. Raw. Final.

Oscar looked like he wanted to argue. Or explain. Or at least try. But whatever words he had fell short. He swallowed hard, but didn’t speak.

And she didn’t look at him again.

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The sterile hum of the hospital waiting room was punctuated by the quiet murmur of a family trying to hold itself together. At nineteen, she’d always seen her father as her steadfast champion, invincible despite life’s many curves. That afternoon, however, the harsh fluorescent lights revealed the first cracks in that fortress.

She sat on a row of uncomfortable chairs, knees jiggling, the vinyl squeaking beneath every shift. Her mother sat to her right, posture too upright, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded tight in her lap. Her determined smile was brittle. Her eyes had gone glassy and faraway, as if she were staring straight past the walls.

To her left, Eli and Jackson slouched in oversized hoodies, their small limbs tucked in like they'd rather vanish into the fabric. Eli swung his legs restlessly, trainers tapping a dull rhythm against the tile. Jackson hugged a toy car in both hands, a battered Hot Wheels thing, bright blue, its wheels worn from years of races down garage ramps and hallway baseboards.

“Can I get a can of coke?” Jackson asked suddenly, not quite whispering.

“Not now,” she said, automatic.

“I’m thirsty.”

Her mum blinked like she was coming out of a fog. “There’s water in my bag.”

“I don’t like that water.”

Eli elbowed him. “It’s just water, idiot.”

“Don’t call him that,” their mum snapped.

“Sorry,” Eli muttered, quieter.

Oscar stood a few seats away, his hands in his coat pockets, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looked out of place in the sterile hallway, too tall, too real, like he’d been dropped into someone else’s tragedy. But he wasn’t a stranger. Not to them. He’d driven them here. He’d held her hand on the walk in, brief, not for show. Jackson had fallen asleep on his shoulder during the wait and Oscar hadn’t moved the whole time.

Now, though, Oscar’s usual fire had dulled to embers. His jaw was set, but his eyes were soft, full of something heavy. He wasn’t looking at her. He was watching the boys. Watching their mum. Watching the whole room crack open.

The sound of footsteps drew them all upright. The doctor appeared in the hallway like a verdict, clipboard in hand, expression calm, prepared, devastating.

The words came in carefully measured doses. Aggressive. Treatment options. Time is uncertain. None of it landed cleanly. Her mother’s fingers tightened around the armrest. Jackson squirmed in his seat. Eli looked at her, wide-eyed, waiting for someone else to react first.

She felt Oscar step closer, just behind her now, his presence suddenly grounding against the sterile hum of the corridor. The harsh hospital lighting didn’t soften anything, not the ache in her chest, not the sting behind her eyes, but he did.

“This isn’t how we imagined today,” he murmured, his voice thick with something unspeakable.

She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Her arms were folded tight across her chest, fingers digging into her sleeves like she could anchor herself to the moment. Still, she was grateful he was there. Grateful he hadn't filled the silence with apologies or promises he couldn't keep.

Then, slowly, she felt it, his hand brushing against hers. Not a grab, not even a touch, really. Just the barest graze of skin, tentative and uncertain. She didn’t flinch, she didn’t respond either. Not at first.

His hand stayed there, barely touching, like he was asking permission without words. Waiting. She exhaled, shakily. Let her fingers unfurl from the fist she hadn’t realised she’d made. And then she let him.

Their hands found each other with aching slowness, fingers threading together like it hurt. His thumb moved once, softly over her skin, a gesture that asked nothing but said everything. She still didn’t look at him. Just stared straight ahead, toward the blank white wall and the door they’d both been too afraid to open.

Her father was just down the hall, behind a closed door. She imagined him lying there, awake now, or not. Breathing easily, or not. She hadn’t seen him since the scan. She’d thought it would be hours still. She wasn’t ready.

Jackson tugged on her sleeve. “Is he gonna come home today?”

Eli gave him a look. “Don’t ask that.”

“I was just-”

“Enough,” she said gently, pulling her arm away. “We don’t know yet.”

Her mum stood, finally, one hand pressed flat to her chest like she needed to keep something inside. She didn’t say anything. Just nodded at the doctor and followed him down the corridor, her steps small, uneven.

The boys stayed on the bench, suddenly quiet. Jackson leaned his head on Eli’s shoulder, and Eli let him. Neither said a word. The toy car slipped from Jackson’s fingers and rolled in a lazy arc under the chairs. Oscar bent to catch it before it disappeared, handed it back without comment.

Jackson took it, nodded. Eli gave his brother’s shoulder the softest nudge. Not rough. Just something that said: I'm still here too. Oscar sat beside them, hands clasped between his knees, eyes forward. The silence pressed in again.

Her own hands were shaking. She shoved them into the pockets of her jacket. Her thoughts spiralled, unfocused. Words caught in her throat like gravel. She didn’t want to go in yet. She didn’t want to see her father like that. Smaller. Dimmer. She didn’t want to hear the quiet way he might say her name. Or not say it at all.

Oscar reached out, quietly, resting one hand on her knee. His thumb moved in a slow, absent motion. Not asking. Just anchoring. She didn’t cry. Not yet. But she let her head drop against his shoulder, just briefly.

Across from them, the hallway light flickered once. Then stayed on.

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The garage smelled like heat again. Not the good kind, not motor heat, not track heat, but the stale kind, the kind that came from a space that hadn’t been aired out in days. The kind that came from silence.

Oscar had been back every day since, but he’d kept his distance. Especially from the corner.

Now, he was sitting on the bench near the old toolbox, elbows on his knees, watching her work like he was waiting for a green light that might never come. She was under the hood of a hatchback she didn’t care about. Tinkering more than fixing. Avoiding.

“I shouldn’t have looked,” he said quietly.

She didn’t look at him.

“I didn’t mean to step on anything. I just-” He hesitated. “It was stupid.”

Still, she kept her head down, arms elbow-deep in useless adjustment.

He added, “It’s a hell of a car.”

That earned him a glance. Quick. Neutral.

“You didn’t see all of it.”

“Didn’t need to.”

She tightened a bolt that didn’t need tightening.

“I overreacted,” she said, too casual to sound sincere, too flat to be nothing.

He looked up at that.

She added, “You were just being nosy. You’ve always been nosy.”

“True.”

“And smug.”

He grinned. “Deeply.”

A small beat passed.

Then: “But also right,” he added. “About the car. It’s something.”

She wiped her hands on a rag. “It’s mine.”

“I know.”

She looked at him again. Longer, this time. The light through the windows caught the dust in the air, made it move like smoke.

Then, quiet: “You really want to drive it?”

He blinked. Sat up straighter. “Yeah. If you’ll let me.”

She hesitated. Just for a moment. Then tossed the rag onto the bench.

“You can drive it.”

He stood, surprised by how fast she said it.

“But,” she said, already walking toward the tarp, “I’m coming too.”

He smiled. “You don’t trust me?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Not with the car. And definitely not with the wheel.”

Oscar stepped forward, eyes on her. “Where are we taking it?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just peeled back the edge of the tarp and looked at the machine beneath, her machine, like it was a secret she was almost ready to show.

Then, softly: “The old track.”

Oscar’s smile softened. “I remember.”

The tarp came off slowly. Like unveiling something holy. Oscar didn’t reach for it. He just watched.

The frame was welded clean, the lines sharp and purposeful. No paint yet, just raw metal and taped notes on the panel seams. The engine was only half assembled, but the wiring loom was already tucked tight, routed with care. It looked like something caught mid-transformation, feral and unfinished.

He let out a breath. “Damn.”

She didn’t smile, but her hands moved with less tension now. She crouched to unlock the jack stands, then handed him a socket without being asked.

“You built this from scratch?” he asked.

“Started with scraps,” she replied. “Salvaged parts. A few things from the old kart.”

Oscar blinked. “Our kart?”

“Some pieces still worked.”

He knelt beside her, checking the front suspension. “Steering feels stiff.”

“Needs adjustment. It's deliberate.”

He glanced up. “You always did like control.”

She gave him a flat look. “You always did need it.”

He laughed softly, then dropped it. The mood didn’t break, but it bent. They kept working. Wheels. Brake lines. Torque checks. They passed tools back and forth with an ease they hadn’t earned back yet. Each movement was a ghost of a hundred Saturdays before it.

“I kept meaning to ask,” he said after a while, his voice softer. “Why that track?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just twisted a wrench a half-turn too far and leaned back.

“I like the corners,” she said eventually.

Oscar gave her a look. “You hate those corners.”

She shrugged. “I like knowing what I’m up against.”

That made him pause. Something in the way she said it, something in the torque she used on that bolt, pulled at a memory. A night. A fight. A version of her standing at this exact distance, arms crossed, words sharp.

He reached for the next tool, but his hand hovered instead. She noticed. Her eyes flicked to his. Everything in the room stilled. Like a scene about to replay itself.

But not yet.

Not yet.

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The hospital room was dim. A small lamp glowed on the windowsill; the only real light left. Everything else had gone quiet. She sat on the edge of the vinyl chair, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Her knees were pulled up, ankles crossed, eyes fixed on the bed.

Her father looked smaller under the sheets. The kind of small that came from pain and the slow fading of someone who used to fill every room with his laugh.

He stirred, eyes fluttering half-open. “Hey.”

She straightened. “Hey.”

“You’re still here.”

She gave a tired smile. “You think I’d go somewhere better than this?”

His mouth curved weakly. “Could be worse.”

They both knew it already was.

She reached over and adjusted the corner of the blanket, not because it needed fixing, but because she didn’t know what else to do with her hands.

He was quiet for a while. Then, softly: “Your mum’s gonna need help. And the boys.”

She nodded.

“But not forever,” he added. “Don’t let this place trap you.”

“I’m not trapped.”

“Not yet,” he said. “But I know how it happens.”

She swallowed hard, blinked up at the ceiling.

“You were gonna go,” he said, eyes still half-lidded. “You and that boy.”

Her throat tightened. “Oscar left.”

He turned his head slightly, eyes clearer now. “What?”

“He got offered something. Overseas. He left yesterday.”

His chest rose slowly, then fell. “I see.”

“He didn’t know… how bad things were.”

“Did you tell him?”

She didn’t answer.

He watched her a long moment. “You should’ve told him.”

“I was tired of people leaving.”

He gave a quiet, painful breath of a chuckle. “Well. Some of us don’t get a choice.”

She looked away, biting the inside of her cheek. Then, quieter: “He cared about you. Still does.”

“I liked that kid.”

“He left.”

Her dad reached out. His hand shook, but he managed to place it over hers. “He’s not the only one who’ll want you.”

She shook her head. “This isn’t-”

“Don’t close the door just because he couldn’t walk through it,” he murmured. “You’ve got a life waiting. Don’t be afraid to take it.”

She couldn’t speak. Just stared at their hands. A spasm passed through him, sharper this time. His fingers gripped tighter.

“Hey,” she said, sitting forward. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

He winced. Jaw tight. Trying to fight it.

“Dad-”

“I just want you to be okay,” he whispered, tear falling on his cheek.

“You’ve done that,” she said, voice shaking now. “You said everything. You said it all.”

Another flicker of pain crossed his face. She leaned closer, brushed his hair back like she used to do as a kid.

“If it hurts… you don’t have to stay. I’ll take care of them. I’ll take care of everything.”

His eyes fluttered.

“You can rest now,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”

She kept her hand over his until his grip faded, even then, she didn’t move. The monitors didn’t beep. There was no drama to it. Just a quiet kind of ending. The room didn’t feel any different. But she did.

She sat there for a long time, still holding his hand, forehead resting against the edge of the bed. Her shoulders began to shake, no sound, just the sudden, overwhelming collapse of it all.

He was gone.

And she hadn’t cried until now.

The wrenching sobs came fast. She tried to cover her mouth with her sleeve, to stay quiet. But there was no stopping it. Her ribs felt too tight. Her throat raw. Her whole body folding in on itself as the truth landed hard, brutal, final.

It didn’t feel real.

It felt like something she’d say out loud and regret the second it left her mouth. Like if she kept her eyes closed, maybe he’d still be here, asleep and snoring like usual. Just tired.

But when she looked again, the shape of him didn’t move. She sat there until the weight of silence became unbearable.

Then she stood. Wiped her face with both sleeves.

Pulled his blanket back up to his chest. Smoothed the pillow.

Her hands were steady again by the time she stepped into the hallway. The light was harsher out here. More real.

She found her mum curled up on the waiting room couch, arms wrapped around both boys. One asleep, the other blinking groggily at a cartoon on the wall screen. Her mother looked up the second she walked in.

Didn’t speak. Just searched her face.

And her daughter nodded.

Once.

Enough.

Her mum's arms tightened around the boys. Her face collapsed quietly into their shoulders.

She walked over and sat on the floor beside them, legs folded, head leaning against her mother’s knee like she used to when she was little.

No one said anything for a long time. They just held on.

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The airport hotel smelled like disinfectant and overripe fruit. The kind of generic comfort that didn't comfort anything. Outside, a Spanish winter pressed cold against the windows, but inside the room it was all fake warmth, dim lighting, beige walls, and the quiet hum of nothing important.

Oscar sat on the floor between the bed and the desk, knees drawn up, one arm hooked over them, still in his base layer from the sim test earlier that morning. His travel bag was unzipped beside him. His race gloves stuck out the top, half-dried, still tacky with sweat.

His phone was in his hand. Her name was on the screen. He hadn’t opened it yet.

He’d stared at it for the last twenty minutes, thumb hovering just over the play icon, heart doing that thing it used to do when she stood at the edge of the track with her arms folded, pretending not to watch his laps. Except now, it wasn’t adrenaline. It was fear. Guilt. That cold pressure behind his ribs that said if you listen to this, you can’t take it back.

He hit play.

"He’s gone."

That was it. Just her voice. Flat, drained, the edges of it frayed in a way he hadn’t heard before. No sobbing. No explanations. No details. Just two words and a pause at the end, like she didn’t know whether to hang up or break down.

Then silence. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. The ceiling above him had a water stain shaped like a continent he didn’t recognize. The laptop on the desk still glowed faint blue. The flight itinerary was open.

He could still make it. If he left now, grabbed his bag, told the team manager he had to go home for a few days, they’d understand. They wouldn’t like it, but they’d understand. He could be there by morning. Stand in the back of the service. Offer some half-version of comfort.

But then what? Walk in with nothing to say? Stand beside a grave he hadn’t helped dig? Try to tell her he was sorry in the same voice he’d used to say goodbye?

He stared at the screen until the gate info blinked up. The room buzzed around him like a distant track on warmup laps, close, but not immediate.

Oscar stood slowly. Walked to the window. Pressed his forehead against the cold glass.

The voicemail played again in his head. He’s gone.

Her dad. The man who handed him wrenches before he was tall enough to reach the pegboard. Who taught him to find torque by feel. Who called him out when he was being cocky and praised him when he shut up and listened. Who let him into that garage like it wasn’t borrowed space.

The man he should’ve come back for. If not for her, then at least for him. Oscar picked up his phone. His thumb hovered over her name.

He didn’t call. He didn’t text. He didn’t move.

Instead, he reached for the laptop, closed the lid, and slid the boarding pass into the bin beside the desk. He sat back down on the floor and stared at the blank carpet like it might offer absolution.

It didn’t.

That night, he didn’t sleep. He just lay there, arms crossed over his chest, listening to the hum of the hallway outside, trying to convince himself that leaving things broken was less painful than showing up too late to fix them.

He told himself it wasn’t cowardice. But he never listened to that voicemail again.

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The track hadn’t changed. The painted lines were faded, the curbs chipped at the corners, weeds feathering out through the cracks. The stands were empty, half-collapsed in places, and the flag post leaned a little more than it used to, but the smell was the same.

Petrol. Dirt. Rubber. Memory.

The sky was soft grey above them. The kind of morning that held back light like it wasn’t ready to commit. Oscar stood by the driver’s side, helmet tucked under one arm, his other hand resting on the roof of the car like he wasn’t sure he belonged touching it.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

She didn’t answer right away. Just walked around to the passenger side, the soft scuff of her boots on gravel the only sound.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” she said.

Oscar nodded; jaw tight. He slipped into the seat. She followed. The doors clicked shut. The windows fogged a little at the edges. And then the silence grew loud. She adjusted the harness. Tighter than she needed to.

He looked over at her, helmet already in place. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

She flexed her fingers on her lap. “Adrenaline.”

He didn’t push it.

The ignition clicked. The engine coughed once, then roared to life, raw and eager. She felt it all through her spine.

Oscar glanced at her one last time. She gave him the smallest nod. And they rolled out onto the track.

The car took the first corner like it was born for it. Tight. Clean. No drag. No protest.

She felt every inch of it, the way the rear tucked in just enough, the low hum under her boots, the rumble that wasn’t noise but language. Her hands braced against the dash like she could feel the pulse through the frame.

Oscar didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His hands moved with the wheel like he was dancing with it. Confident, but careful. Like he knew she was watching every twitch.

They hit the first straight, and the engine opened up. The sound of it filled the cabin, low and rising, as if the car was proud of itself. She almost laughed. She hadn’t expected that. The thrill. The spark. The joy.

“You feel that?” Oscar shouted over the noise, grinning like a kid behind the visor.

She didn’t shout back. Just nodded. Wide-eyed. Because she did. She felt all of it. Every piece of metal, every wire, every stubborn bolt and long night and skinned knuckle, it all mattered. It all worked.

The car was hers. And it was alive. They hit the back curve faster than she would’ve taken it. Her breath caught, but the car held. So did Oscar.

He wasn’t cocky behind the wheel now. He was grateful. Driving like it meant something.

Mid-lap, she turned to him. No helmet. No mask. Just her.

“You don’t have to be gentle,” she said.

He glanced at her. “Not with this one.” And pushed.

The engine screamed into the next gear, the tires kissing the track edge as they clipped the apex. She leaned into the motion, and for the first time since her dad died, since Oscar left, since the world stopped asking what she wanted, she let herself feel it:

Pride. Freedom. Love.

She looked at the track unfolding ahead of them, the straight stretch, the air vibrating through the shell, and her eyes blurred. And then, Oscar said it.

Quiet. Like it didn’t need to be shouted.

“I thought about this,” he said. “All the time. You. Me. This car. I wanted to believe we’d still make it here.”

Her breath stilled.

“I thought if I saw you again, I’d forget what it felt like to leave.”

He downshifted. Took the next curve.

“But I didn’t forget,” he said. “I never forgot. Not a single day.”

She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. She looked ahead, blinked hard, and let the tears fall anyway. Not loud. Not messy. Just there.

Because he was right and because she hadn’t let herself believe that anyone, especially him, remembered what she’d lost.

Oscar’s voice dropped, almost a whisper. “I loved you back then.”

She looked away, fiddling with the edge of her jacket. “Yeah? I’m not sure you really knew what that meant.” Her tone was light, but the edge was there, sharper than she wanted.

He let out a dry laugh, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to find the words he didn’t have. “Maybe not. But I never stopped.”

She met his eyes, feeling that familiar mix of warmth and ache. “Me neither. Even if I wanted to.”

The silence between them wasn’t empty, it was full, thick with all the things they never said. The hum of the engine faded into the background, the car still resting beneath them like a quiet witness.

Oscar’s grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel, fingers tracing the worn leather. “I thought if I came back, everything would be easier. Like we could pick up where we left off.”

She bit her lip, staring out at the cracked asphalt stretching ahead. “I wanted that too. But sometimes, the past isn’t a place you can go back to.”

He nodded slowly, eyes never leaving hers. “I was scared. Scared I’d make it worse.”

“By coming back?” Her voice cracked, just for a moment. Then she masked it with a small, bitter laugh. “You walked away when I needed you the most. You weren’t just scared, you were gone.”

He swallowed hard, jaw clenched. “I thought it was what you wanted. What you needed.”

She looked down, hands tightening into fists on her lap. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. It still does.”

For a long moment, they just sat there, two people tangled up in regrets and love, unsure how to bridge the distance time had made.

Oscar’s voice was quiet, steady. “We’re here now.”

She finally gave a small, tired smile. “Yeah. Stubborn enough to be here.”

He chuckled, a lightness returning to his tone. “So, what now?”

She shrugged, eyes sparkling despite herself. “I don’t know. But I’m glad you asked.”

And as the morning light finally spilled across the track, it felt like maybe, just maybe, they were ready to find out together.

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The garage smelled like oil, sweat, and something else, something electric, like the air itself was charged just for them.

She lay stretched out on the cold concrete floor, knees bent, arms propped behind her head, watching the underside of the car they’d just finished tweaking. Grease streaked across her collarbone, drying into her skin like a second language. The hum of the overhead fluorescent lights was steady, almost hypnotic, as she caught the faintest scent of Oscar’s aftershave mixed with the grime on his sleeves.

Oscar was crouched beside her, one arm hooked around a suspension spring, head tilted back to study the mechanics, but every so often his eyes flicked down, meeting hers through the shadows.

“Not bad for a rookie,” he said eventually, voice low, the kind that made her heart flip and her cheeks warm.

She rolled her eyes but smiled, elbow nudging his arm. “Says the guy who just tried to convince me the clutch was on backwards.”

He grinned, brushing a hand through his tangled hair. “Details, details. It worked, didn’t it?”

“Barely,” her eyebrow arched. “You nearly reversed us into the hydraulic lift.”

They fell quiet then, the only sounds the occasional drip of oil and their steady breathing. The air between them thickened, charged like a live wire. Without thinking, she shifted closer, her bare arm brushing his sleeve, skin sparking at the contact. He caught the movement, eyes locking with hers through the shadows.

The breath she took felt thick in her lungs.

“Careful,” she whispered. “You’re getting dangerous.”

Oscar’s smile softened, something real behind it now. “Only for you.”

Silence. The kind that knew what it wanted but waited anyway. His hand did not move yet. Hers stayed braced against the floor like it could keep her grounded.

The lights buzzed overhead. A tool dropped somewhere deeper in the garage, loud, then gone. Still, they didn’t speak Then his fingers curled gently around her wrist. Slow. Testing. Not claiming, just asking.

Her breath hitched, the heat in her chest spreading, making her skin tingle in a way the garage grease never could.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured, voice rough, as if the words themselves held a secret promise.

She swallowed, eyes wide and heart racing. “You remembered.”

His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist now, rhythmic. Calming or trying to be.

“How could I forget?” He shifted closer, the warmth of his body pressing against hers, sending an electric pulse straight through her.

They were tangled in shadows, the world outside forgotten, the garage a cocoon of scent and whispered promises. His lips brushed her temple, soft but claiming, a contrast to the roughness of his hands as they moved to her waist, pulling her closer, deeper into the quiet heat of the moment.

She arched up against him, breath mingling with his, the sharp tang of motor oil and skin and something dangerously sweet filling her senses.

“Don’t stop,” she breathed, voice trembling between a plea and a dare.

His laugh was low and dark, a sound that promised mischief and more. “Oh, I wasn’t planning to.”

Fingers traced the line of her jaw, tilting her face up to meet his kiss, fierce and slow, a promise that this night was theirs alone, unspoken but understood.

The world narrowed to the press of skin and the rush of heat between them, tangled bodies and whispered names in the dark.

No need for words. Just the quiet, raw language of two people who had waited far too long to let go.

His lips crashed into hers, hungry and deliberate, the taste of him, spearmint and gasoline, flooding her senses. The concrete bit into her back, but she barely noticed, too lost in the way his fingers tangled in her hair, possessive and desperate.

A groan rumbled low in his throat as she nipped at his bottom lip, her hands sliding beneath the hem of his grease-streaked shirt, tracing the taut muscles of his stomach. A wrench clattered somewhere nearby, the sound sharp in the charged silence, but neither of them flinched.

Oscar’s mouth trailed down her neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below her ear, and she arched against him with a gasp. His breath was hot against her skin, lips leaving a searing trail down her collarbone as her fingers tightened in his hair.

The garage air clung to them, thick with the scent of sweat and motor oil, but all she could focus on was the rough drag of his calloused hands sliding under the small of her back, lifting her just enough to press her harder against the concrete.

Her top rode higher, the fabric catching on the edge of a bolt they’d dropped earlier, and she shivered as cool metal kissed her skin. His mouth followed the path his fingers had taken, tongue tracing the dark smudge of a grease streak along her hipbone, tasting salt and the sharp tang of engine work. She gasped when his teeth grazed the sensitive dip of her waist, her own fingers leaving prints on his shoulders as she dragged him closer.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of her work trousers, rough knuckles dragging against her overheated skin as he peeled the fabric down in one slow, deliberate motion. The air between them crackled, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as the cool garage air hit her bare thighs.

His calloused palms skimmed the curve of her hips, pausing just long enough to catch the edge of her underwear with his thumb, the lace snapping taut before yielding. She lifted her hips in silent permission, the concrete rough beneath her, every scrape and grind of it only heightening the ache building low in her stomach.

The lace gave way with a whisper of fabric, his breath hot against her newly bared skin. She gasped as his mouth found the inside of her thigh, teeth scraping just enough to make her hips jerk off the concrete. His laugh was dark, vibrating against her skin as he pinned her down with one broad hand, the other tracing slow, maddening circles higher, always higher, until her fingers twisted in his hair, desperate. Fluorescent light flickered above them, casting jagged shadows across his shoulders as he dragged his tongue over her in one slow, filthy stroke.

Her back arched off the concrete as his tongue circled her clit, slow and teasing at first, then relentless, the same rhythm he used when polishing chrome, all focused pressure and knowing precision. The wrench lay forgotten nearby, its metal gleaming under the flickering lights, but all she could hear was the slick, filthy sound of his mouth working her, the groan vibrating through his chest when she rocked against him.

His fingers dug into her thighs, holding her open as he dragged his tongue lower, tasting her in slow, deliberate strokes, each one wringing a broken noise from her throat. The scent of motor oil clung to his skin, mingling with sweat and her arousal, thick enough to drown in. Her thighs trembled against his ears as his tongue pressed deeper, the flat of it dragging against her with the same slow precision he used to torque bolts, just shy of too much.

The garage air clung to them, thick with the scent of gasoline and her, the taste of her sharp on his tongue as he curled two fingers inside without warning. Her gasp fractured into a moan, her hips lifting off the concrete only for his free hand to shove her back down, the rough pad of his thumb circling where his tongue had just been.

"Good girl," he rumbled against her skin, the vibration sending another shockwave through her. His tongue slowed to torturous swirls, savouring the way her thighs trembled around him.

His thumb pressed harder, the rough edge of his callus dragging just where she needed it while his tongue flicked mercilessly. "Look at you," he growled, pulling back just enough to watch her clench around his fingers, glistening under the garage lights. "Pretty little thing falling apart on my tongue."

The garage air hummed with the sound of her panting as his tongue curled deeper, the wet heat of his mouth wringing another broken cry from her lips. His fingers twisted inside her, dragging against her walls with the same rough precision he used when threading stubborn bolts, just enough friction to make her toes curl against the concrete.

The scent of her clung to his face, smeared across his lips as he pulled back just long enough to watch her squirm.

"Close," she gasped, her thighs shaking where they framed his shoulders, the muscles in her stomach tightening like coiled wire.

His grin was all teeth, wicked in the flickering light. "Not yet."

His fingers withdrew with a slick sound, leaving her clenching around nothing as he shoved his own trousers down just enough to free himself, thick and flushed, his cock bobbing against her inner thigh.

 "Won't let you finish," he started, dragging the leaking head through her, "not till I’ve felt you." Her breath hitched as he notched himself against her entrance, the blunt pressure just shy of pushing in. The garage air clung to them, thick with oil and sweat and her, his calloused grip bruising her hips as he held her still.

His hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural groan that vibrated through her chest. The concrete bit into her shoulders as he pinned her down, every ridge and vein of him carving itself into her walls.

She gasped, half pain, half blinding pleasure, her nails scoring red lines down his sweat-slicked back as he began moving. No finesse now, just the brutal drag of him pulling out until just the head remained before slamming back in, the wet slap of skin drowning out the hum of the garage lights.

 He fucked her like he raced, relentless, precision-guided chaos. Every thrust was a victory lap, every moan a trophy ripped from her throat. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, only feel: the sting of concrete beneath her, the heat of his sweat dripping onto her skin, the way his hand slid between them to circle her clit again, fast and filthy.

"Fuck, you feel-" he bit off the end of the sentence with a groan, his forehead pressed to hers, lips brushing as he moved. "So fucking good, always-"

She tugged him closer, wrapping her legs high around his back, forcing him deeper. Her body arched to meet his every thrust, slick and shameless, gasping his name like it was the only word she knew.

“Say it,” he panted, voice rough with need. “Tell me this is mine. All of it.”

She sobbed out a “Yes-yours, always-” as he slammed into her, the drag of him too much and never enough. He kissed her then, wild and hungry, tongue tasting every desperate sound she made.

Her orgasm hit like a slammed door, violent, all-consuming, her whole body tightening beneath him as she shattered. She clenched around him, dragging a broken curse from his mouth as he lost rhythm, stuttered, and spilled into her with a low, feral groan.

The air between them hung heavy, buzzing like static. For a long moment, they didn’t move, just breathing hard, tangled in sweat and oil and heat.

Oscar finally let out a shaky laugh, forehead still pressed to hers. “Happy birthday.”

She laughed too, breathless and wrecked, hands still tangled in his hair. “Best gift I’ve ever had.”

He kissed her again, slower this time, lips brushing hers like a secret. Then he pulled back just far enough to look at her, really look at her, his voice rough around the edges. “I meant it, you know. I love you. And I’m yours, forever.”

She blinked, eyes wide, raw with something that had nothing to do with lust. “I know,” she whispered, pulling him close again. “Me too.”

And in the quiet aftermath, lying there on the cold garage floor, covered in grease and sweat and each other, it felt like the most honest place in the world.

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She was smiling when they rolled to a stop.

The engine ticked quietly as it cooled, metal softening in the hush. Her chest rose and fell in a rhythm that almost felt calm. Her fingers relaxed; her boots planted steady on the floor. Oscar had already unbuckled, helmet resting in his lap, breath fogging the glass.

And still, she smiled.

Because for a second, for just that heartbeat on the straight, it had felt like before. Like they were invincible again. Like grief had never burned a hole in her chest, like he hadn’t left, like maybe there was still something here worth saving.

Then the smile broke.

She didn’t mean for it to. It cracked, barely, and then her throat tightened. Her hands started to tremble. Not from adrenaline this time.

Oscar noticed. “Hey. You okay?”

She shook her head, wiped her face, and laughed, sharp and wet and wrong. “Why am I crying?”

He reached for her instinctively, but she flinched away, throwing the door open instead. The cold hit first. Then the rain. A slow drizzle that grew fast, soaking into her jacket, her hair, her skin like it was trying to wash something out of her.

Oscar followed, stepping into the gravel and rain, not bothering with a jacket. “Talk to me.”

She spun on him. “About what? About how I finally let myself feel something and it just made me fall apart?”

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

She scoffed. “I’ve been doing it alone for years. You don’t get to waltz in and fix it with a lap and a couple of words.”

His voice was low, but firm. “I meant it, you know. I love you. And I’m yours, forever.”

That stopped her. Not softened her, stopped her.

She blinked rain from her lashes, jaw tight. “Don’t say that like it’s a promise. You said you loved me back then, too. Right before you left.”

“I had to leave.”

“You didn’t have to leave me.”

The rain picked up, drumming on the roof of the car, filling the silence.

Oscar took a step forward. “I never forgot you.”

“You keep saying that. Like it’s supposed to undo everything.” Her voice rose, frayed and full of ache. “You don’t get to show up now and act like I’m still yours.”

“But you are,” he said, helpless. “You always have been.”

Her breath hitched, too fast. Too shallow. She tried to speak but her chest was collapsing inward, ribs locking up like a vice. Her hands went to her knees, the gravel swaying underfoot.

“Hey. Hey, look at me.” Oscar knelt beside her, water pooling at their feet. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

She couldn’t. Not properly. Not through the panic or the pressure or the weight of everything she hadn’t let herself feel until today.

“I can’t,” she gasped. “I can’t-”

He didn’t touch her, just sat close, voice steady. “In. Out. Match me, alright?”

It took time. Too much of it. But eventually, the air found her again. Rushed in like it had been waiting on the edge. She sat back, soaked and shaking, and didn’t resist when Oscar put his jacket over her shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” she said, small. “I didn’t mean to fall apart.”

He looked at her with something tender and broken. “You don’t have to hold it all together for me.”

Silence again. Then the kiss.

Raw, desperate, teeth and breath and rain. A collision, not a comfort. It didn’t build; it broke.

His hands tangled in her hair like he didn’t know how to let go. Hers fisted in his collar, dragging him down, as if closing the space between them might fill the chasm time had carved open. Their mouths met like a question without an answer, too late, too much, too soon.

It tasted like rain and salt and memory. He kissed her like he was drowning. She kissed him like she was trying to forget. And for a second, just one stolen, selfish second, it felt like maybe that was enough. But it wasn’t.

It could’ve been more. Maybe it was more. But it wasn’t peace. It wasn’t healing. It was fire, not warmth. Burn, not balm.

When they finally tore apart, breathless and shivering, it was with bruised mouths and glassy eyes, and the unmistakable sense that something had broken open between them, something fragile and vital that couldn’t be put back the same way.

He kept his forehead pressed to hers. Their breaths synced. Rain ran between them like blood from a split lip.

“I never stopped,” he said, barely a whisper. “Not for a second.”

She pulled back enough to look at him, really look at him. He looked wrecked. Beautiful and broken in a way that made her ache.

“I know,” she said. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t enough. She looked down at her hands, still trembling. “But we can’t keep doing this.”

“I know,” he said, softer now. Final.

They stood there for a long moment. Rain washing everything. The air between them thick with what-ifs and never-agains.

Then, slowly, she shrugged off his jacket and held it out to him like a flag of surrender.

He took it. Didn’t speak.

She turned. Walked toward the garage with shoulders squared and spine straight, as if leaving him again didn’t hurt this time. As if it didn’t kill her. Rain slicked her face, cleaned her of everything she didn’t say.

“Don’t go,” he said, voice cracking like thunder in the downpour.

She froze. Just for a second. Just enough for him to catch up.

“I need you,” he said, chest heaving, soaked through. “I need you, and it’s killing me, watching you walk away like I didn’t fight hard enough to stay.”

She didn’t turn. Couldn’t.

“I know I broke something,” he went on. “I know I left you when you needed me most. But I’m here now. I came back. That has to count for something.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “It does,” she whispered. “But not enough.”

“I love you,” he said. “I mean it, you know. I love you, and I’m yours. Forever. Every race, every podium, every win it is all for you”

She turned then. Slowly. Eyes full of grief, not doubt. “I believe you. But I had to grieve you like I grieved him. My dad. You left, and I lost both of you, one after the other, like the world was trying to prove I could survive it.”

He flinched like she’d hit him. Because she had. Just not with her hands.

“I might be able to forgive you someday,” she said, her voice breaking. “But I’ll never forget that I had to learn how to live without you. And I did.”

“I never wanted you to-”

“But I had to.” Her tears ran hot even under the cold rain. “And now I don’t know how to need you without remembering what it cost me.”

They stood there, hearts unravelling in the storm. Then she stepped back. And this time, when she turned away, she didn’t freeze. She didn’t falter.

And even though it tore through her like wreckage, she kept walking.

And this time, he let her go.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The garage door groaned on its runners as she forced it open, the sound slicing through the morning stillness like it didn’t belong. Dust motes swirled in the streaks of light pouring through the slats, dancing in the quiet. The air was thick with the scent of oil, old rubber, stale sweat, and grief.

She stood at the threshold for a long time. Just… stood. Then she dropped to her knees like the ground had been ripped out from under her.

The first sob tore through her like a jagged knife, raw and ragged, cutting through the silence with brutal force. It wasn’t just a sound; it was a desperate, guttural cry that ripped from deep inside, shaking her whole body. Another burst followed, violent and uncontrollable, wracking her ribs and twisting her insides until she couldn’t catch her breath.

Her hands clawed at the concrete beneath her, scraping at the cold, unforgiving floor as if she could gouge away the pain. Fingers curled tight into the frayed fabric of her hoodie, nails biting into skin, desperate for something real to hold onto.

She convulsed, shoulders trembling violently, chest heaving with sobs that tore at her throat and left her raw, broken, ragged, like a storm tearing through the last shreds of her control.

Her world had shattered.

Her dad was gone. Oscar was gone. And the garage, their garage, was still here.

That felt like the cruellest part.

Eventually, when her body stopped shaking, she sat back on her heels. Wiped her face with the sleeve of her jacket. The floor was cold. The silence, colder.

She looked around.

Tools still hung on the pegboard in his careful, labelled rows. Coffee mug, “#1 Race Dad,” still perched on the workbench, crusted with forgotten dregs. The old tarp still half-covered the kart she’d helped him build when she was eleven.

Her chest ached. But she stood.

Slowly, she started tidying. Not because it needed to be clean, but because he would’ve wanted it that way. Bolts sorted into jars. Rags thrown out. The rolling stool finally fixed so it didn’t squeak when you moved.

She moved like a ghost, hands remembering what her heart couldn’t bear to think about. Like how her dad used to whistle off-key while tuning engines. Or how Oscar used to pop in unannounced, grease on his jaw, some half-eaten protein bar in his hand, asking if he could borrow the torque wrench again.

He never returned it. She found it, later, in a box of his old things. She kept it.

After a while, she climbed up on the workbench and pulled the tiny chain that turned on the old boxy TV in the corner. It buzzed to life like it was waking from a coma. She fiddled with the aerial until the image came through. Static. Then a track. Then him.

Oscar. His first F1 race.

Her breath caught in her throat as the commentators rattled off stats and history, as the camera cut to his face in the cockpit. He looked calm. Sharp. So far away.

She remembered that helmet. Remembered sitting cross-legged on the floor while her dad adjusted the chin strap and told him not to let his elbows flare too wide on exit. She remembered Oscar rolling his eyes and doing it anyway and winning.

The lights went out. The engines screamed. The race began. And she… smiled.

Through everything, through the hollow ache in her chest, through the blister of abandonment, through the mess of mourning and oil and dust, she smiled. Because he made it. Because they all did. Once.

She watched in silence as the laps ticked by.

Then the camera cut to the pit wall. A sea of engineers and race staff. And there, in the middle of it, an empty space.

That’s where her dad would’ve stood. Arms crossed. Headset on. Watching his boy.

She reached for the coffee mug on the bench, still half-covered in grease. Held it in both hands.

“Hope you’re watching,” she said quietly. “Because I am.”

And for the first time in a long time, the silence didn’t feel quite so empty.

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The roar of engines and the bustle of the paddock were a world away from the cracked asphalt and peeling paint of that old garage. The smells had changed too, now a sharp blend of burnt rubber, high-octane fuel, and polished carbon fibre. It was a different kind of chaos, one polished and precise, but it still made her heartbeat faster.

She moved with a confident grace beneath the towering garages and sprawling hospitality tents, every bolt tightened, every engine checked, every system calibrated. She was no longer the girl who’d broken down on a cold concrete floor, drowning in loss and anger. Now, she was a high-level mechanic for one of the top F1 teams, sharp-eyed and relentless, earning respect in a world that demanded nothing less.

Oscar watched her from the edge of the paddock, the crowd and noise a blur around him. He saw the way she worked, the focused intensity, the flicker of fire in her eyes when the car was ready to roar back to life. She was in her element. Unstoppable.

He remembered the words her dad had once told her, the way they echoed through his own mind now:

“Don’t let this place trap you.” “You’ve got a life waiting. Don’t be afraid to take it.”

She had taken those words to heart. She had carved out her own path, far from the ghosts of their past and the silence left behind in that faded garage. It was both a relief and a sting to see her moving on.

Oscar let out a slow breath, the weight of years pressing down on him. He still held on to a sliver of hope, fragile but persistent, that maybe, someday, she’d come back. Not because she needed to, but because she wanted to. That maybe, after all the pain and distance, there might still be a place for him in her story.

But for now, he watched quietly, proud and aching, knowing that her future was hers alone to claim

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The late summer sun hung low above the track, casting long golden streaks over the tarmac and shimmering off the car’s metalwork. She was crouched by the front wing, grease smudged on her cheek, sleeves rolled to the elbows, completely focused. Her fingers moved confidently, coaxing bolts into place like she was born doing it.

Her dad stood on the overlook, arms crossed, a proud shadow cast behind him. He was pretending to be checking the line through Turn Three, but really, he was watching her.

Oscar came up beside him, hands in his pockets, pretending to watch the track too. They stood in silence for a moment, two generations of men who loved her, in different ways.

“She’s got your stubbornness, you know,” Oscar said, nudging her dad lightly.

Her dad huffed a short laugh. “Poor girl.”

Oscar hesitated. “I’m gonna marry her someday.”

Her dad raised a brow, but didn’t turn.

“You sure about that?” he asked.

Oscar looked down at her, her hair pulled back messily, singing quietly to herself as she worked, utterly in her element.

“Yeah,” he said, simple and firm. “I love her.”

A beat passed.

“She’ll make you work for it.”

Oscar smiled. “I know.”

Below them, she called up, “You two done brooding? Car’s not gonna fix itself.”

Her dad chuckled, then started down toward her. Oscar followed, jogging to catch up.

When they reached her, she stood and wiped her hands on a rag, one brow raised like she already knew they’d been talking about her. Her dad pulled her into a side hug, planting a kiss on the crown of her head, arm strong around her shoulders.

And as she leaned into the embrace, Oscar reached for her hand.

She didn’t hesitate. Their fingers twined together, warm and sure.

And in that moment, with her dad’s arm around her, Oscar’s hand in hers, and the sun dipping behind the track, it felt like everything was exactly where it was supposed to be

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[ggukivrse]

THE ART OF PRETENDING - JJK | 04

summary. when you and jungkook show up to your much anticipated graduation trip and realise neither of you had the guts to tell your friends about your recent break up, there’s only one thing you can do to keep the trip from falling apart: pretend.

but somewhere between fake kisses and real feelings, you start to wonder if letting go was ever the right choice at all.

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre/warnings: exes to lovers, fake dating, idiots to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, (eventual) explicit sexual content, swearing, alcohol consumption, i want them to fuck already sigh, ft. seokjin, namjoon, hoseok, jimin, taehyung, yoongi + four female ocs

word count: 5.2k

notes: i actually managed to get this one out early as promised yipeee!! this was very hastily edited cuz i wanted it out by today, but tysm to j @tranquilreign for beta reading!! idk what i’d do without u pooks :’) likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are very very appreciated! enjoy reading my lovies <333

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⤷ chapter four — halley’s comet

i was good at feeling nothing, now i’m hopeless / what a drag to love you like i do

Jungkook used to call you sunflower in the summer.

Not because of the flower itself — he never cared much for metaphors like that. But because every time the sun was out, you’d tilt your head back, eyes closed, face tilted towards the sky like you were trying to soak up every last drop of light. He’d tease you for it — call you predictable — then press a kiss to your forehead like it was instinct.

You tilt your head back now and the sun kisses the same spot. His lips don't.

And for some reason, it's the only thing you can think about now as the warmth bleeds across your skin, soft and steady. The boat rocks gently beneath you, the scent of salt lingering in the air. Laughter bubbles up from the other end of the deck, and you open your eyes behind your sunglasses, squinting toward the sound.

"Hyung, I still can’t believe you actually pulled this off," Namjoon says, nodding at Seokjin, who’s standing at the front of the boat.

Seokjin doesn’t even try to hide his smug grin. "Please. When have I ever let you down?"

"Should we make a list?" Yoongi mutters from his seat, but his tone is lazy, not sharp. He’s nursing something with ice in it and hasn’t moved much since boarding.

The engine hums beneath the conversation. You’re all sprawled out across the deck, sipping on melting drinks and soaking in the sunshine.

Somewhere behind you, Hoseok curses as a gust of wind nearly steals his hat. Haeun laughs too loud. Taehyung’s lying flat on his back with his eyes closed, Yasmine tracing lazy shapes on his chest with her finger.

Ari shifts beside you, adjusting the corner of the towel you’re both lying on so that it doesn’t bunch beneath her back. Her arm brushes yours, warm from the sun, and you feel her turn her head toward you even before she speaks.

“You guys okay?” she asks, soft and easy, like she’s just making conversation. Like she isn’t cracking open the air between you and Jungkook with three simple words.

Your body stiffens — not visibly, not enough to draw attention — but your fingers freeze mid-swipe against the condensation of your cup. You don’t answer right away. You can’t. Your brain rushes to catch up.

You glance toward the other end of the boat. Jungkook’s there, laughing at something Jimin just said, the wind catching at the hem of his shirt. Too far to hear you. Too busy to notice.

You look back at Ari.

“Huh?” you say, feigning light confusion, buying time. “What do you mean?”

She lifts her sunglasses slightly onto her head and looks at you more directly, less playfully now. “You and Jungkook. Did you guys have a fight or something?”

You blink at her. Then shake your head, too fast.

“No,” you say. “No, we’re fine. Why?”

Ari shrugs one shoulder, almost like she regrets asking. “I don’t know. You just feel... off. A little.”

You exhale through your nose and angle your face away from her, pretending to squint at the water. “We’re not off. We’re just... tired, I guess.”

“Okay,” she says, but it’s not full agreement.

You finally glance back at her, trying not to let anything show. “Do we really seem that weird?”

She hesitates, then gives a small, knowing smile. “Not weird. Just a little different.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Different how?”

“Dunno,” she says, settling back onto her elbows. “Usually you guys are either glued together or trying to beat each other at whatever game’s going on. Now it’s just... less of that.”

You almost laugh, but not because it’s funny.

Ari doesn’t push. She never does. She just lets the silence sit for a moment before speaking again. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it a thing. It’s not a big deal.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s fine. I get it.”

She glances toward the others. Jungkook’s crouched by the drink cooler now, talking to Hoseok about something. You look away before he catches you watching.

“You know,” Ari says after a beat, “it’s not like people expect couples to be perfect all the time.”

You swallow. “We’re fine, Ari.”

She holds her hands up. “Okay. I believe you.”

And you think maybe she does. But she’s still watching you with the kind of look that says she knows something’s sitting underneath. Something you’re not saying.

She lies with you for a few more short minutes in silence before slipping away with a soft pat to your leg, joining Kiara and Haeun near the back railing.

You let your head fall back against the towel with a quiet sigh. The sun blurs through your lashes and your drink is nothing but sugar water now, flat and warm. You swirl the straw absently, trying to shake off the weight of that conversation.

It’s not like she was wrong.

You just wish she didn’t see so much.

The spot beside you shifts slightly, and you glance over just in time to see a cold can held out toward you.

“Figured you'd want something actually drinkable,” Jungkook says, nodding toward your cup as you take the drink from his hand.

You lift the can to your forehead before cracking it open. The cool metal soothes your skin. “Thanks."

"No problem." He lowers himself onto the towel next to you, close enough that your arms brush when you both move to get comfortable. You don’t move away. Neither does he.

You tap the can against your thigh, condensation already dripping down your leg.

Jungkook stretches his legs out beside you, arms behind his head, gaze on the sky like he’s trying to read something in the clouds. The silence between you is comfortable, but your chest still hums with the residue of Ari’s voice. You tap your can against your thigh again — once, twice — then let the words tumble out before you can second-guess them.

“She asked if we were okay,” you say, not looking at him.

Jungkook turns his head slightly, but doesn’t speak.

“Ari,” you clarify. “She asked if we had a fight.”

He lets out a slow breath through his nose. “What’d you say?”

“I said no.”

A pause.

“And then?”

You shrug. “I said we’re just tired.”

Another silence, thicker this time. You feel his eyes on the side of your face, steady and searching. You refuse to look at him.

“She didn’t buy it,” you add after a beat. “Not completely.”

Jungkook sits up slowly, arms resting over his knees. His tone is quieter now, more careful. “Think anyone else noticed?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Probably not. Ari’s always been... observant.” You finally glance at him. “She wasn’t pushy or anything. Just— curious," you say with a shrug.

Jungkook simply hums in response.

You watch the side of his face. There’s a faint shadow along his jawline, the kind you used to trace with your thumb when you thought no one was looking. You shake the thought loose before it sticks and take another sip of your drink.

“I mean, what do they want us to do?” you mumble. “Make out on the boat?”

Jungkook chokes on a laugh — not the soft kind, but the genuine kind that comes out sudden and loud, like it caught him off guard.

You glance at him. “I’m serious.”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still grinning. “You say that like it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world.”

“It is,” you deadpan. “You want to traumatise Yoongi? That man hasn’t moved in an hour. You think he’s got the energy to witness that?”

That makes Jungkook laugh again, head tipping back. For a second — one small second — it’s just him, sunlight caught in the strands of his hair, smile easy and unguarded like it used to be. You look away.

He leans back beside you, bumping your arm with his in the process. “Okay,” he says. “So, no making out on the boat.”

“Glad we’re setting boundaries.”

He gives you a sidelong glance. “We just have to... I dunno, turn it up a notch.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Like what?”

He shrugs, still watching the clouds. “Be a little more couple-y. You know. Lean on me sometimes. Laugh at my jokes.”

You scoff. “You think me laughing at your jokes is what’s gonna sell this?”

“Absolutely,” he says, deadly serious. “That’s the most unrealistic part of our relationship now. If you start doing that, everyone’ll think we’re closer than ever.”

“Right,” you deadpan. “Because this all hinges on me fake-laughing at your stand-up routine.”

He grins. “Exactly.”

You shoot him a look, but there’s no heat behind it. “So what else? You planning on feeding me grapes next?”

“I could,” he says, suddenly thoughtful. “But someone might throw themselves overboard if I do.”

Your mouth twitches before you can stop it — not a full laugh, but close. More breath than sound. You shake your head like you’re trying to brush it off, but the smile lingers for just a second too long.

There’s a beat of silence. A shift in tone that’s almost invisible, but not quite.

“Maybe just... ease into it,” he says. “We don’t have to overdo it. Just the little things.”

“Little things like what?” you ask, suspicious.

He shrugs. A breeze moves across the deck and a strand of hair falls across your face, sticking to your lip.

Before you can reach for it, his fingers are already there — brushing it back behind your ear.

You freeze.

Not too dramatically. Not enough for anyone to notice. But inside, everything stills.

Jungkook doesn’t pull away immediately. His fingers linger for a second longer than necessary — maybe two. Then he draws his hand back like nothing happened.

“See,” he says, “this is why Ari’s catching on. You’re a terrible actress.”

You blink, caught between five different emotions. “Excuse me?”

He huffs out a laughing breath. “You didn’t even flinch the other day when Taehyung almost touched a jellyfish, but this? I tuck a little hair behind your ear and you go full statue.”

“Because it’s weird!” you protest, flustered now. “You don’t just— touch me like that anymore.”

The words tumble from your lips before you can stop them, and there's a pause.

Jungkook goes still. You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows thickly, and for a second, you think he might actually say something real — something raw.

But then he exhales through his nose, masking it with a crooked half-smile.

“Right,” he says, voice lighter than it should be. “My bad. Next time I’ll just let it smack you in the face.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but your mouth twitches like it wants to smile.

He notices. Of course he does.

“You’re trying not to laugh,” he says.

“I’m trying not to shove you off the boat,” you correct.

“Same thing.”

He lets your words hang in the air, smiling in that way he does when he knows he’s gotten to you, just a little. It’s not smug exactly. It’s softer than that. Like he’s letting himself enjoy something small, something fleeting — and trying not to ruin it by pointing it out.

You shake your head and look back toward the horizon. The water is endless, all shifting blue and gold, and the sun is starting its slow descent, softening everything it touches.

Jungkook sits up, arms resting on his knees. You don’t look at him, but you can feel the shift — the way his attention settles on you in full.

“I meant it,” he says after a moment.

You glance over. “Meant what?”

He shrugs one shoulder, careful. “That it’s the little things. That’s how people believe it.”

You arch an eyebrow, sceptical. “People? Or you?”

There's humour laced in your words, but your smile falters when he meets your gaze.

“Both.”

The breeze picks up again, brushing against your skin, tugging gently at the edge of your towel. You catch it with your elbow, more for something to do than anything else.

You’re the one who looks away first — not because you’re uneasy, but because if you don’t, you might say something you can’t take back.

The silence stretches, and eventually you lie back, arm draped over your eyes to shield them from the sun.

“I’m still not fake-laughing at your jokes,” you murmur, voice flat but quiet. “Just so we’re clear.”

Jungkook laughs, but it’s lighter this time. The warmth that usually comes with the sound isn't quite there.

“Fair,” he says. “But maybe... maybe don’t flinch like I’ve slapped you every time I touch your arm.”

“I make no promises.”

He smiles. “Didn’t expect you to.”

The room is quiet except for the occasional hiss of steam from the bathroom and the soft swish of fabric as you move. The sun is lower now, casting long shadows across the floor, and the salty breeze sneaks in through the crack in the door.

You’re barefoot, crouched beside the dresser in a black satin dress that fits cleanly at the waist and skims your frame like it was made to. It’s simple, elegant — the kind of thing that photographs well even when you don’t try. Your hair is mostly curled, but the last roller is still clipped near the crown of your head, half-forgotten.

You’ve been retracing your steps for the past ten minutes. First calmly. Now a little less so.

“Come on,” you mutter, pushing aside a pile of folded clothes with the back of your hand. “Where the hell are you…”

You wore the earrings all day. You remember clipping them in this morning before the boat ride, the pearls small and elegant, the kind that sat just right against your jaw. They’d survived volleyball, swimming in the pool, even lying half-asleep by the sea. But now, just when you're supposed to get dolled up for one of Yasmine’s “sunset glam” photoshoots, one is gone.

And of course, it's your favourite pair. A gift from your mom the day you turned twenty.

You crouch next to the bed and run your hand along the rug for the fourth time. No glint of metal. No satisfying clink. Just a couple stray bobby pins and a sock that might be yours, might be his.

The bathroom door opens behind you with a quiet click. You hear it before you see him.

“Hey,” Jungkook calls out. “Have you seen my—”

He stops.

You glance up from your crouch to see him standing just outside the doorway to the bathroom, towel-drying his hair with one hand. He’s in sweatpants that hang dangerously low on his waist, and nothing else. His skin is still damp, a faint sheen catching the last of the light. His hair sticks up in unruly spikes, and there’s a crease from the towel pressed into his shoulder.

He pauses when he sees you on the floor in your dress, face flushed with frustration, one roller still pinned in your hair.

You straighten up. “I lost my earring.”

Jungkook blinks once. Then twice.

You don’t wait for a response. “The pearl ones. I wore them all day, I definitely had them on earlier. I think I might’ve lost it on the boat or something, or maybe at the beach, I don’t know. Fuck— if I dropped it in the ocean, I’m going to lose my mind.”

You brush past him towards your bag, and start digging through the little zip pouch where you sometimes toss jewellery when you’re tired. “And Yasmine’s going to have a meltdown if I’m not ready in five minutes. I mean, not a real meltdown, but she’ll definitely give me that disappointed look. You know the one.”

You don’t know why you’re rambling. Maybe to fill the silence. Maybe to ignore how he’s still standing there, towel now slung around his neck, jaw ticking like he’s trying very hard to keep his expression neutral.

He steps back into the bathroom without saying anything. You hear the low rustle of a drawer opening. When he re-emerges a few seconds later, he’s pulling a plain black t-shirt over his head, the fabric catching slightly against damp skin. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just crosses to his side of the room and scans the floor near the nightstand.

You risk a glance at him, then look away quickly. “It’s fine,” you say, quieter now. “You don’t have to help. It’s probably gone.”

He crouches down anyway, lifting the corner of the rug with one hand.

He doesn’t look at you or ask any questions. Just scans the floor like if he stares hard enough, it’ll reveal something.

You sigh, pressing your fingers to your temple. “I just really liked those earrings.”

“I know,” he says quietly.

You glance back at him.

He’s sitting back on his heels now, hands braced on his thighs. There’s a faint crease between his brows, like he’s still somewhere else.

Then he says, without looking at you, “You look good.”

The words are soft, sincere even, but they catch you off guard.

When you don’t respond right away, he clears his throat and stands, walking over to the dresser and running his hand along the edge, like the earring might have magically perched itself there.

You swallow. “Thanks,” you say finally, voice low.

He nods once, then double taps on his phone screen to check the time. “They’re probably waiting.”

You nod too, even though you still haven’t found the earring. The one that made you feel just a little more like yourself. The one that matched.

You take one last look at the floor, then straighten slowly. You adjust the roller in your hair without thinking, but your fingers move sluggishly now.

Jungkook’s already at the door, hand resting on the knob like he’s waiting for the right moment to say something. He glances over his shoulder.

“I’ll tell them you’ll be a minute.”

"Thanks."

He shuts the door behind him softly, and you let out a quiet sigh, turning toward the small jewellery box on the nightstand.

You sift through it with practiced fingers and pull out another pair — not the ones you wanted, but good enough.

As you clip them in, your hands move on instinct, your thoughts somewhere else entirely.

The bathroom door clicks shut behind you, the sound too sharp against the stillness of the room.

Your skin is clean, warm, dewy from the last step of your skincare routine. You pad across the floor and let your body fall onto the bed softly. The air leaves your lungs in a long, tired sigh as your legs dangle off the edge, your hair still damp from the quick rinse you took after coming back. The mattress dips beneath you, then settles.

The room smells faintly of clean cotton and the trace of your conditioner — the kind you only use for special things, because it costs a little too much and reminds you a little too much of before.

Your dress from earlier lies draped over the back of a chair, the earrings you ended up going with still sitting in your palm. You set them down on the nightstand without much care.

You’d smiled for the camera. You’d posed, you’d laughed, you’d tilted your head at just the right angle. It was fun in the moment and everything had gone well. The pictures were probably beautiful.

But you’re annoyed. And tired. And the kind of restless that only comes when something small goes wrong and you know it’s not about that small thing at all.

You sit up just enough to grab your laptop from the side table and the camera from the dresser. Yasmine had given it to you after begging you to upload the pictures onto your laptop since she didn't bring hers.

The familiar beep of it powering on is strangely comforting, and you scroll through a few thumbnails before plugging it in. A progress bar creeps across your screen as the files transfer. Slowly, of course. Nothing ever moves fast when you want it to.

You stretch out again, laptop resting on your stomach, and start clicking through the images as they load.

At first, they’re all from today.

Yasmine behind the lens, as always. The golden hour light is flattering. Everyone looks sun-kissed and effortless — mid-laugh, mid-step, mid-spin. You see yourself in frame: eyes half-lidded, wind teasing your hair, smile tugging at your lips.

There’s a shot of you and Kiara, and one of Ari piggybacking Haeun into the water. A blurry one of Jimin striking a ridiculous pose mid-jump while Taehyung points in mock horror. They'd come to join in at the end, both more than a little tipsy.

You click through them slowly, deleting a few accidental ones and some you don't think are the best.

Then, without meaning to, you scroll a little too far.

Today bleeds into yesterday, and yesterday into the last few years. One second it’s this trip, and the next it’s pictures you'd uploaded from your own crappy little camera. A party in someone’s dorm. A night spent crammed onto a too-small couch. A table cluttered with takeout boxes and half-empty cups.

You didn’t even remember some of these being taken.

Your face in mid-yawn. Jungkook blurry in the background, reaching for popcorn. Yoongi asleep on a beanbag with a party hat sliding off his head.

You find yourself smiling as you click through them all, before your finger comes to a still.

A thumbnail catches your eye. One of a video with no further label or context.

You pause, cursor hovering, before double clicking on it.

The video starts with a shaky frame — the camera shifting as you adjust it, then settling as you hold it up with both hands.

Jungkook stands in front of a claw machine, sleeves pushed up, jaw set with quiet determination. The glow of the machine paints him in soft neon blues and reds. There’s a Totoro plush front and centre, slightly tilted, half-buried under a heap of other prizes.

Your voice comes from behind the camera, already amused. “This is a lot of pressure, baby.”

“I’ve trained for this,” he says, without looking at you.

“You’ve failed three times.”

“That was just a warm-up.”

You huff a laugh. “That’s what you’re calling it now?”

Jungkook moves the joystick with purpose, eyes narrowed like this is life or death. The claw slides left, then back, then hovers over the plush.

“This is it,” he says.

“I believe in you,” you deadpan. “I mean, statistically, you have to get it eventually.”

The claw descends. You both watch as it surprisingly manages to grip the Totoro. Not perfectly — it's a little too far to the side — but it lifts nonetheless.

“No way,” you breathe.

It swings. Wobbles. Then drops cleanly, right into the chute.

There’s a second of stunned silence from you behind the camera.

“No fucking way," you laugh, genuine disbelief laced in your voice.

Jungkook bends down, reaches into the machine, and pulls out the plush. He turns toward you, holding it out with a smug smile.

“You actually did it! Oh my god— wait, let me see— he’s so cute!”

The frame swings back up, catching you reaching out for the Totoro, turning it in your hands, squealing softly like you can’t believe it’s real.

And Jungkook — he’s looking at you.

The camera somehow manages to catch it perfectly.

He’s not laughing or gloating, just watching you. A soft smile pulls at his lips, dimples making an appearance against his cheeks. His eyes are steady but a little dazed, like he’s taking in more than just the moment. Like he can’t help it.

You don’t see it in the moment — too distracted as you hug the plush to your chest and start thinking of what to name it — but the camera does.

“Can't believe that you actually managed to get it," you say, shifting the camera to show the plushie properly.

“Course I did,” he says. “You wanted it.”

You giggle, mumbling "Cheesy fuck." But the smile is clear in your voice, and Jungkook simply laughs before the screen cuts to black.

You stare at the screen for a while, fingers still resting on the keyboard, frozen in place like even they know you’re not ready to move yet.

There’s a warmth spreading low in your chest, starting at your ribs, curling in your stomach, settling somewhere just under your collarbone.

You’re still smiling. Just a little. That soft, involuntary kind you used to get around him when he said something dumb on purpose. Like when he tried to teach you how to play some impossible game at the arcade and kept losing so dramatically you suspected he was doing it just to make you laugh.

You thought that part of you had burned out. Gone cold after the breakup. But sitting here now, wrapped in soft clothes and the hush of this room, staring at a frozen screen where his laugh used to be — you realise it didn’t.

It just went quiet.

And now it’s creeping back in through the cracks, blooming in your chest with a stubborn sort of gentleness.

Because the truth is, you remember that night. You remember how he looked, focused and determined and weirdly proud of himself over a claw machine. You remember the weight of the Totoro plush in your hands. You remember walking home with him, the two of you talking about what you’d name it and him insisting that if it was going to live in your bed, he should get visitation rights.

And you remember how easy it was to love him.

Not in a dramatic way, but through the small things. In the way he listened. In the way he noticed when your shoelace was untied before you did. In the way he always, always looked at you like that — like you were it.

And not just the way he looked at you, but the way you felt looking back. Because even after everything, even after the silence and the distance and the effort you’ve poured into pretending you’re fine, the truth is that it never really went away.

That warmth tightens in your throat, a little too full to swallow. You blink down at the laptop, like maybe it’ll help. Like maybe if you just sit still enough, breathe slow enough, you can keep the feeling contained.

The screen has gone to sleep now, casting the room in a dim glow. Outside the window, you can hear the ocean, its soft waves rolling in and out quietly.

You close your eyes, just for a second.

But the quiet moment is interrupted when the door opens with a small click.

You sit up just enough to slam the laptop shut, a little too fast, the sound echoing louder than it should in the soft hush of the room. Your pulse jumps. You don’t even know why. Reflex, maybe.

Jungkook pauses in the doorway.

“Oh,” he says, voice low and a little slurred. “Shit. Thought you were asleep.”

He’s leaning on the doorframe, one hand still on the handle like the room is swaying more than it is. His top is slightly damp around the collar, and his hair’s a mess.

You blink at him. Say nothing at first.

He squints toward the laptop on your lap. “You working on something?”

“No.” You slide it aside, shake your head once. “Just… photos.”

He nods like that’s a satisfying answer, though you’re sure he didn’t really hear it. His attention shifts to the bed, and then without warning, he pushes off the door and flops onto the mattress beside you.

Not the far side. Not right on you either. Just… close.

You instinctively scoot half an inch back.

“Whoa,” he mutters into the pillow, one arm sprawled above his head. “This mattress is nice as fuck.”

You glance down at him. He’s half on his side now, eyes on the ceiling, a faint smile tugging lazily at his mouth.

“Why didn’t you come down?” he asks, sudden but not sharp. Just curious.

“I was tired,” you say.

He hums — thoughtful, but not convinced. “Lame excuse.”

“I’m allowed to be tired.”

“You’re always tired.”

You exhale, not quite a sigh. “You’re always drunk.”

That pulls a muffled laugh from him. He turns his head toward you slightly, cheek pressed into the pillow. “Not always.”

You glance at him. “Tonight?”

“Not my fault,” he mutters. “Jimin dared me to match his shots. Dumb fuck.”

You shake your head — not at him, but at the image of it in your head. “Sounds like him.”

Jungkook shifts again, rolling fully onto his side to face you. His arm stretches out across the blanket, fingers dragging idly over the fabric between you like he’s drawing invisible lines without thinking.

The air dips quieter. Softer.

“You smell good,” he mumbles, almost absently.

You reach up, brushing your hair off your face. “Shampoo, probably.”

He hums again, eyes heavy-lidded now. “The one you always stole from me.”

“I didn’t steal it,” you say, casually.

He smiles into the pillow. “Right. Borrowed forever.”

You shake your head — more amused than you’d admit out loud — and look away, toward the open window where the breeze has picked up just enough to shift the curtains.

"You looked really good too. In that dress. I mean— not that you don't look good without it. Not like without it, without it, just— y’know, you always look… pretty."

You can't stop the quiet laugh that tumbles from your lips despite the heat spreading across your cheeks. "Go to sleep, Kook."

He hums in response, and it doesn't take long for his breathing to settle into something slower.

You pull the blanket up over your lap and lean back against the headboard, trying not to think too hard about the warmth pooling between you.

You shift slightly, pulling the blanket higher.

The laptop is still balanced on your legs, almost forgotten now. You reach over and place it on the nightstand, careful not to knock over the earrings still sitting there. One catches the light and glints for just a second before going still again.

“Can you move?” you murmur, nudging his leg with yours. “I need the blanket.”

Jungkook groans dramatically, but rolls away from you, flopping flat on his back with one arm thrown over his face. “You’re so demanding.”

“You’re in my way.”

“You’re lucky I like you.”

The words slip out so fast and so soft you don’t have time to react before he’s already tugged the blanket down to your waist with one hand, helping, not thinking.

You lie back slowly, head against the pillow, trying to keep to your side. Jungkook moves around beside you — one knee bent, one leg stretched out. His foot brushes yours once, unintentionally.

His arm loosely drapes across your waist as he gets comfortable. You glance down, but say nothing. He’s already half-asleep, breath evening out, face turned toward you like he’s forgotten where he is.

You don’t move his arm, though, you don’t lean into it either.

You just let it be.

< prev • next > | series masterlist | main masterlist

[undyingdecay]

May I request something about giving John head… and he’s whimpering and shit… thinking thoughts. Cause that man would be VOCAL.

he’s so pathetic about it. really—he tries not to be. tries to brace one hand against the counter like he’s still got some kind of composure, the other tangled in your hair like he’s the one calling the shots. but the act cracks quickly.

the tip of his cock is flushed, angry red and leaking, a fat bead of pre-cum already pooling at the slit, and you haven’t even taken him fully into your mouth yet. you lick at him once—slow, mean—and he jolts like you’ve shocked him, hips twitching forward with a quiet gasp.

“fuck—baby, don’t tease—don’t…”

but he doesn’t stop you either. just lets out this trembling little exhale when you finally suck him in deeper, the warmth of your mouth pulling another broken sound from his chest. he’s so easy to ruin. you flatten your tongue, let him slide in heavy against the back of your throat, and he chokes on his own moan.

he still tries to guide you—tries to thread his fingers tighter in your hair and rock his hips, shallow and desperate, like he’s got any say in it. but the longer you keep going, the more that weak, boyish grin of his starts to fall apart. his jaw clenches. his head tips back. he’s panting now, breathy and unsteady, muttering something under it all that sounds like a prayer or a warning or maybe both.

“oh fuck, oh fuck—shit, baby, i’m gonna—i can’t—”

his thighs start to tense under your hands, muscles drawn tight, and he starts bucking up into your mouth in these erratic, stuttering thrusts. the need in him is unbearable. he’s gripping your hair so tightly you can feel your scalp ache, but he doesn’t even notice—doesn’t care. he’s too far gone. too fucking close.

and then—voice cracking around it—he pleads:

“you gotta swallow. please. baby—fuck, please, i need you to…”

it’s almost humiliating, the way he says it. like he’s terrified you won’t. like if you don’t, he’ll come undone in the wrong way, something deeper than physical. you know this about him—he needs it. needs the confirmation, the closeness, that symbolic little act like it means you still love him. that he’s still good enough to be kept.

you suck harder, just to hear him cry out for you.

when he finally comes, it’s with a gasped-out curse and a full-body tremble, his release hot and heavy down your throat. he whimpers when you don’t pull away. he groans when you keep sucking, like you’re milking him for every drop, like it means something more than just pleasure.

you swallow—slow and deliberate.

and when you look up at him, spit-slicked and satisfied, his hand is already on your cheek, thumb brushing over your lips like you just told him you loved him out loud.

he’s red-faced and wrecked. still panting. still twitching. but he looks at you like you saved him.

because you did. you always do.

[sadiesdoll]

GRIND ‘TIL YOU CRY.

contains: sevika x virgin!reader, strap-on usage, size kink, dumbification, dacryphilia, clit play, finger sucking, cum play, praise kink, gentle dom!sevika, cockdrunk!reader, neck biting (no blood), light spanking, orgasm denial, aftercare

enjoy ♡

You were already straddling her hips when the nerves hit you.

Your palms rested lightly on Sevika's chest, her warm brown skin flushed gold in the lamp glow, the sheets under your knees soft and rumpled. 

You were naked—completely naked—for the first time in front of her, and the only thing separating you from her strap was your own hesitation.

"Hey." Her voice was rough, quiet, but steady. One hand stayed on your waist, thumb brushing lazy circles just under your ribs. "You okay?"

You nodded quickly—too quickly. "Yeah. I just... I don't usually—uh, I mean, I've never-" You laughed breathlessly, embarrassed.

"I've only ever touched myself."

Sevika sat up a little, her good arm sliding around your back to support you. Her face softened.

"You wanna stop?"

"No." Your voice cracked. "I want this. I want you. I'm just... I don't know what I'm doing."

A beat. Then her lips curled into the tiniest, cockiest smirk. "Don't worry, baby. I do."

You bit your lip as heat shot between your thighs. That voice alone could ruin you.

She leaned forward, kissing your collarbone—slow, open-mouthed, warm. Her tongue flicked against your skin. 

"We'll go slow. I'm not gonna rush you. You just move how you need to. I'll be right here."

You nodded again, this time slower, more sure. Her strap pressed up under you—thick, firm, intimidating—but god, you were wet. Soaked, actually. You could feel it dripping down your thighs already.

Sevika noticed. She always noticed.

"You're so fuckin' wet, sweetheart," she murmured, sliding her hand between your legs to guide the strap. "All that from just thinking about it, huh?"

You whimpered, barely able to meet her eyes. Her gaze pinned you down anyway.

"You been touching yourself to this? Wishing it was me?"

You nodded. "Y-Yeah. So many times."

She groaned low. "Fuck. You’re adorable."

You braced your hands on her shoulders and finally—finally—started to lower yourself down. The head of the strap nudged your entrance, and you gasped, thighs trembling.

"Easy, sweetheart. Just a little at a time." She kissed your neck, sucking gently—just enough to leave a mark. "You're so tight, baby. Feels like your pussy's never letting go."

You shuddered as you sank down, inch by inch, breathing hard. It was so much. So full.

Not painful, just overwhelming. Sevika's hands gripped your waist to steady you, grounding you with every low, patient whisper.

When you bottomed out, your nails dug into her shoulders. You were panting.

"You okay?"

"Y-Yeah," you whimpered. "It's so—mmngh—“

“None of that whimpering. Say it. Use your words, princess.”

“It’s so—full, Sev.”

"I know, baby. You're doing so good. Look at you."

You started to move. Slowly. Rocking your hips in tiny circles, easing yourself into the stretch. The friction lit something up inside you—something deeper than your fingers ever reached.

And then, without warning, your hips jerked forward a little too fast. You gasped. It hit just right. Right on that aching, swollen spot inside you.

"Oh my god—" you moaned.

Sevika chuckled darkly. "There she is."

You started moving again. A little faster. A little rougher. The way it rubbed against your clit every time you sank down made your whole body twitch.

It felt too good. Too much. You'd been so pent up, so desperate for something more than your own hands—and now you had it.

Her. This. 

The drag of her strap inside you, the warmth of her skin, her voice in your ear saying, "Fuck, look at you, baby. You're addicted already."

You were. It showed.

You were a mess—whining, grinding, moaning into her mouth. You grabbed her hand, sucked her fingers into your mouth without thinking. 

Sevika froze for a second, then let out the filthiest growl.

"God damn, you're really gone, huh?"

You drooled a little on her fingers. Couldn't help it.

She tilted her head, watching your blissed-out face with a lazy, hungry grin.

"Sweetheart... you're drooling."

You looked down, dazed, saliva slipping past your lip while your hips kept moving. You whimpered around her fingers.

"Fucking adorable," she muttered. "You're cockdrunk already, and I haven't even fucked you yet."

She kissed you hard, biting your bottom lip.

You moaned louder, needy and mindless now. You felt her reach between your legs again, rubbing slow circles on your clit while you kept grinding—grinding like your life depended on it.

"Don't cum yet," she warned. "Not yet. I wanna see you lose it first."

And you would. You were. A drooling, clenching, wet fucking mess—and Sevika wasn't done with you yet.

You didn't even realize how loud you were until Sevika growled, "You hear yourself, baby?"

Your hips were moving faster now, grinding down on her strap like it was the only thing keeping you alive. Your soaked pussy squelched with every roll of your hips, and your breathy moans came out high and broken and endless.

"I—fuck—I can't stop," you whimpered.

Sevika's fingers moved back to your clit—slow, torturously slow—and circled it while you ground down.

"You're so fucking sensitive." Her voice was wrecked, almost shaky. "Didn't know it'd feel this good, hm?"

You shook your head frantically. "No-I mean yes—I mean I can't—please-"

And then she spanked you.

It wasn't hard—just a quick, firm slap to your ass. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make you jerk and moan and clench so tight around her strap that she had to bite back a groan.

"Yeah?" she rasped. "You like that, sweetheart?"

You nodded so fast it made your head spin.

"Yes—Sevika—I like everything—please, please-"

She hissed through her teeth. Her hand stayed on your ass, squeezing tight, grounding you. Her fingers never stopped circling your clit—slick and slow, not giving you enough, teasing you right to the edge.

Your thighs were trembling. Your belly was tight. Your breath was all over the place.

"I'm close," you whimpered. "I'm—I'm gonna—“

But Sevika stopped.

You sobbed.

"Shh." Her voice was low, gentle, but firm.

"Not yet. Not like this."

You blinked, dazed, drool still clinging to your lip. "Wha...?"

"I want your first time cumming on my strap to be perfect, baby," she murmured. "I want you to remember it. I want it to stay on your mind forever. So not yet. Not until I really give it to you."

Your pussy clenched again. Your whole body shook.

Sevika looked up at you—and something changed in her expression.

You were dazed, panting, spit-slick around the mouth, grinding down like you were in a trance. You were a fucking vision.

And the second she saw the way your lip quivered when she took her fingers off your clit, something snapped.

"Jesus fucking Christ," she growled.

She surged up and bit your neck.

"Ah—!" you gasped, the cutest, neediest little cry slipping out as your body arched.

"S-Sevika—!"

She didn't draw blood. Just sank her teeth in enough to make you feel it. Enough to make you moan and cling to her harder.

Her hands gripped your ass like she was holding herself back from flipping you over and fucking you into next week.

"You feel too good," she whined against your throat. "You're driving me fuckin' crazy, baby—You're so perfect."

You whimpered, grinding harder, your pussy slick and messy against her strap.

She kissed the spot she'd bitten—then her tongue soothed it, slow and loving.

"Still with me?" she whispered.

You nodded, tears in your eyes now.

"Mhm..."

"Good girl." She cupped your face with her good hand. "Just keep going. Ride it slow. I'll get you there. But I want you cockdrunk and shaking by the time I let you cum."

You moaned helplessly.

Her fingers slid down again, teasing your clit while you moved.

"I love how sweet you sound when you get desperate," she muttered. "You sound like you need it so bad."

"I do," you cried. "I need it so bad—please—please—“

"You drooled all over my hand," she teased.

"What, baby? My cock too good?"

You nodded, crying and grinding. "Too good. So good. I can't—I can't think—“

"You don't need to think, sweetheart." Her voice dropped low. "Just fuck yourself dumb on my strap. I'll take care of you."

You were gone.

Absolutely out of your mind—drooling, whimpering, and still rocking your hips like Sevika's strap was the only thing keeping your body alive.

Your thighs were trembling. Your hands clung to her shoulders, nails leaving faint little crescent marks in her skin. And your mouth—god, your mouth was open and leaking spit, little strings of it slipping down your chin while you babbled incoherent little moans.

"Look at you," Sevika murmured, brushing her fingers over your tear-damp cheeks.

"You're drooling and cryin' on my cock, honey."

You whimpered, a fresh wave of tears prickling your eyes, even as you kept grinding.

"Is it that good?" she asked, smiling crookedly. "So good it's makin' you cry?"

You nodded so fast it made you dizzy. "Y-Yes—I c-can't—I wanna cum—p-please-"

Your voice cracked on the last word, and the second it did, you sobbed.

Your face crumpled. Your whole body jerked like you couldn't take it anymore. And Sevika immediately pulled you down into her chest, shushing you as she cupped your pussy with her palm—warm, strong, steady.

"Hey, hey. I got you," she cooed. "You're okay. Just feelin' too much, huh?"

You nodded, sniffling. "I need it—need it s'bad..."

"Yeah, I know you do." Her thumb circled your clit so slow you almost cried harder.

"You've been so good, baby. So fuckin' perfect. I'm gonna give it to you. I promise."

"Please," you whispered, tears dripping from your chin. "I wanna cum—I need to— please, Sevika-"

And then she fucked up into you.

Her hips lifted. Her grip on your ass tightened. And her strap slammed into the deepest, most perfect spot while her fingers rubbed your clit in the exact rhythm you needed.

Your mouth fell open.

You made a choked, broken little noise.

And then—you screamed.

Your orgasm ripped through you so hard it hurt. Your body locked up, your thighs shook, your pussy gushed so much it splashed against Sevika's lap, and you collapsed forward, shaking, sobbing, whining her name over and over like a prayer.

Sevika caught every second.

"Fuuuuck," she groaned, watching you ride it out. "That's it, baby. That's how I wanted it. Just like that. Scream for me. Fuckin' soak me."

You sobbed harder, body twitching, your voice all high and shattered and full of relief.

"Y'feel that?" she murmured. "That's what a real orgasm feels like, sweetheart."

You could barely breathe. Barely think. You were slumped over her chest, drooling, twitching, tears still running down your face.

And Sevika was so sweet with you after. 

Her hand never left your pussy—just soft, gentle strokes, too slow to overstimulate. Her other hand brushed your hair, kissed your temple, held your shaking hips down when you whimpered again.

She looked down at your soaked thighs and smirked.

"Goddamn," she muttered. "You made a mess, baby."

You giggled.

And then she dragged her fingers up your slit, scooped the dripping slick from your folds, and showed it to you.

"See that?" she said softly. "That's what it looks like when I fuck you right."

You stared, eyes glazed, lips parted—and when she brought her fingers to your mouth, you didn't even hesitate.

You sucked them in with a needy little whimper.

Sevika's jaw flexed.

"Yeah," she whispered. "That’s it, sweetheart."

You were still trembling when Sevika pulled the strap out.

You whimpered, your body jolting with the aftershocks, and Sevika shushed you instantly, one arm curling tight around your waist to keep you grounded.

"Shhh, I got you, baby. It's okay. I'm right here."

Your head lolled against her shoulder. You were spent. Crying, shaking, drooling a little—and completely boneless in her arms.

And Sevika? She looked at you like she was in awe.

"You did so good," she whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. "So fuckin' good. You were perfect, sweetheart."

You let out a soft little whimper, still not fully back yet, and Sevika cradled the back of your head like you were something precious.

"Hey," she said gently. "Can I clean you up, pretty girl?"

You nodded weakly, and she was already moving—careful, slow, so fucking tender it made your chest ache.

She laid you back on the pillows with her arm still around you, pressed one more kiss to your jaw, and then grabbed a warm, damp towel from the drawer.

It wasn't rushed. It wasn't mechanical. She cleaned you softly—like she was scared to hurt you. Every wipe was followed by a kiss. Every wince got a murmured "I'm sorry, baby." And when she finally pressed the towel between your thighs, she paused and whispered:

"You okay?"

You nodded, tears still on your cheeks.

"Mhm... just tired."

Sevika smiled.

"Yeah? That cock put you to sleep, huh?" she teased, but her voice was full of love.

She finished wiping you down, tossed the towel aside, and came right back to you-pulling you into her arms, wrapping the blanket around you both.

You buried your face in her neck. Your body was sore, aching, still tingling everywhere—but you felt safe. Warm. Loved.

"Did I do okay..?" you mumbled sleepily.

Sevika froze for a second.

Then she pulled you even closer.

"Baby," she murmured, her voice low and steady and soft, "you didn't just do okay.

You were the best thing l've ever touched."

You let out a tiny, broken breath.

She cupped your cheek, thumb brushing the dried tears from under your eyes.

"You're mine now," she whispered. "All mine. No one's ever gonna touch you like that but me."

You blinked, slow and dazed.

“…Okay," you whispered.

Sevika smiled like she'd just won the lottery. 

She kissed your lips. Kissed your forehead.

Kissed every little tear-stained inch of your face before pulling you into her chest again.

And then, as you drifted off to sleep, she murmured—

"Next time, I'm making you cum twice."

thank you so much to @anonymousgirl23456 for this amazing request <3 i hope u like it !!

[demie90s]

juju x influencer reader, just reader being a huge juju simp online thinking that juju wont see her posts fangirling abt her but she does, Juju then sees her courtside while reader is on live and starts flirting w her and the clip gets posted online

ᴊᴜᴊᴜ ᴡᴀᴛᴋɪɴꜱ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Caught Slippin’ (But Make It Cute)

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You’re that influencer—pretty, unserious, and always online. Thirsting over Juju Watkins for months on your socials, convinced she’d never actually see any of it.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Fluff, Humor, Flirty Chaos, Social Media

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: Mild language, intense thirsting, reader being real unserious

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~ 0.3k

ᴠɪʙᴇ: Baddie meets baller, live caught slippin, “ain’t no way she heard that” turned “yes she did and now you blushing on camera”

⸻

You were already being dramatic the moment your courtside pass hit your hand.

You hadn’t even made it to your seat yet when you opened your live with:

“Juju can guard me any day. In fact, I insist.”

Chat was already on fire.

“pls ur in public”

“GET A GRIP”

“what does she MEAN by that 😭”

You adjusted your sunglasses—indoors, obviously—flicked your lip gloss wand like a weapon, and panned the camera to the court.

“Now chat,” you whispered like this was a Nat Geo special. “Get a load of her. The bounce. The braid. The thighs. The control.” You zoomed in shamelessly. “IM TRYINGGGGGG.”

You collapsed back into your seat like the performance just took you out. You sipped your overpriced soda for dramatic effect, then whispered to your phone, “Rock, paper… lemme eyp.”

The game hadn’t even started.

You crossed your legs, chin propped in your hand, pretending to be civilized, but then she walked out. Juju. USC warmup on. Locked in. And it was like God pressed slow-mo on your soul.

“Google,” you muttered into your mic, live still rolling. “How do I become a basketball. No like spiritually. Biblically. I’m ready.”

The chat exploded.

You stayed hunched like a girl in mourning, whispering, “This made my hole week—I mean my whole week. Sorry, my bad. Freudian slip. Or maybe prophetic. Depends on her.”

And then.

Then.

You saw her glance your way.

Just for a second. Barely a flick of her eyes.

But it was enough for you to throw yourself back like you were shot.

“NO. NOPE. NOPE. CAMERA OFF,” you gasped, trying to cover your face with your sleeve while your friend next to you screamed laughing. “SHE LOOKED. SHE FUCKING LOOKED. WHO SAID SHE HAD PERIPHERALS LIKE THAT???”

You didn’t turn off the live, though. Let’s not lie.

First quarter. You tried to chill. You sat pretty, nodded along, lips glossed, whispering sweet nothings to your Coke bottle like it was her. The chat begged you to behave.

Then halftime hit. And that’s when everything derailed. Juju glanced up again. But this time, she didn’t just glance. She looked. Locked.

And you? You were mid-live, mid-sip, mid-stupid comment—something about “I wanna be her mouthguard so bad”—when she walked toward your sideline during a break.

You froze. Camera still rolling. Your friend already ducked out of frame, whispering, “You’re on your own.”

Juju leaned on the barrier, towel around her neck, sweat still gleaming like divine proof of her workout. She looked you dead in the eye, smirked, and said—

“You sayin’ all that, but you real quiet in person.”

The SCREAM you let out was ungodly. You covered your mouth like that would save you from the cameras that were definitely filming.

Your voice cracked: “I—I—raw raw or whatever Lady Gaga said.”

She bit her lip and laughed. Laughed. Wiped her brow with the towel, and walked off like she didn’t just leave you combusting in your seat.

Chat lost it.

“YOU WON”

“ain’t no way she said that on camera”

“how’s it feel being GOD’S FAVORITE???”

“girl you need to PRAY”

You ended the live 30 seconds later with your face hidden behind your sleeve, whispering, “Okay. Bye. I have to go cry in a bathroom or throw myself at her feet. Whichever happens first.”

You were trending on TikTok by the end of the night.

#jujusimp

#courtsidecrush

#thismademyholeweek

“You sayin’ all that but real quiet in person” [10M views]

The next day? Juju reposted the clip.

With your @.

Caption: “Don’t be shy, say it with your chest next time.”

And you? You reshared it.

“Say less.”

[unstablecherries]

Fall apart Together, (NSFW)

Oneshot; Jinx x Reader

content: mutual fingering, neediness, messy moaning, clingy chaos, soft switch chaos

You barely got three steps into the apartment before you felt her eyes on you.

Jinx was lounging against the kitchen counter like she was trying to look casual, but you could see the tension in her limbs the twitch in her fingers, the way she bit her lip too hard, the heat burning in her stare.

“You’re late,” she said, voice light, sing-songy. But her gaze? Ferocious.

“I said I’d be back by-”

“I know,” she cut you off, her boots thudding across the floor as she stalked toward you. “But I’ve been going crazy all day.”

She didn’t stop walking until her body was pressed flush against yours, her hands sliding up under your jacket, nails dragging over your shirt. Her voice dropped low.

“You left me alone with all this energy, and nothing to do with it.” She leaned in, breath hot at your ear. “And now I’m all worked up. And it’s your fault.”

Your heart stumbled in your chest. “I can make it up to you.”

Her grin was wicked. “You’re damn right you will.”

She kissed you like she was trying to climb inside your skin. Tongue and teeth, breathless and hungry. She pushed you back until the backs of your knees hit the bed, then shoved you down with a giggle that felt dangerous.

“You missed me?” you teased, trying to catch your breath as she straddled your hips.

“I missed your mouth,” she whispered, grinding down against you, “your fingers, your everything.”

Her hands were already tugging at your pants. “Take them off, come on.”

“Jinx-"

“Don’t make me rip ‘em. You know I will.”

You barely got your bottoms off before she was stripping too, leaving a chaotic pile of clothes in her wake. When she climbed back into your lap, both of you bare and burning, you could feel everything; her heat, her slick, the way she trembled just a little when your fingers ghosted up her thighs.

“Sit up,” she whispered, pressing your forehead to hers. “Wanna touch you while you touch me.”

Your breath hitched.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said, voice shaky now, all that bravado cracking at the edges. “I want us both to fall apart.”

Her forehead pressed to yours, breath warm and fast. She looked at you like you were something divine, not just hot, not just hers, but something holy she was about to drown in. Her thighs clenched around your hips as her hand slid between your legs.

And yours did the same.

You found her; wet, dripping, hot and pulsing. She gasped the second your fingers brushed her folds, hips jolting forward like she couldn’t help it.

“Jinx, fuck, you’re soaked.”

She let out a trembling giggle, already breathless. “So are you,” she whined, and slid her fingers through your slick folds. The pads of her fingers pressed into your clit, slow, teasing, smirking when your hips bucked up.

“Let me make you feel good, baby,” she murmured. “C’mon. I need it. Need you.”

You didn’t say anything. You just pushed in.

Your fingers slid into her inch by inch, her walls clenching down instantly. The tight heat made you groan, and she shuddered against you, her mouth falling open on a breathy gasp.

And then she slid her fingers inside you.

You both stilled for a heartbeat, buried deep in each other, panting, wet sounds echoing between your thighs.

Then you started moving.

It was slow at first, deep thrusts, curling your fingers up into her while she fucked you with that twitchy, messy rhythm only Jinx had. Her free hand fisted in the sheets beside you. Your other hand gripped her waist, trying to steady her as she rocked into your touch.

“You’re s-so pretty,” she whimpered, hips jerking with every thrust. “Your fingers- fuck-”

You were gasping too. The way she filled you, the way her palm pressed right against your clit with every thrust, your legs were already shaking.

And the sounds, wet, messy, filthy; the kind that would echo in your head long after. Moaning, whimpering, panting into each other’s mouths.

You kissed her, just to muffle the noise. Tongues tangled, teeth clashed. Her body trembled in your lap.

“Fuck- you feel so good,” you panted against her lips, curling your fingers inside her.

Jinx whimpered, eyes fluttering. She buried her face in your neck, nails clawing at your back, her thrusts getting faster.

“I-I’m close, babe,” she gasped, whole body twitching with every stroke. “Fuck- you’re gonna make me come-”

Her voice cracked.

You pressed your thumb to her clit and rubbed in tight, fast circles. “Let go, baby. come for me.”

And she did; hard, hips jerking wildly, breath caught in her throat before it spilled into a loud, broken moan. Her walls pulsed around your fingers, thighs shaking, hands gripping you like she was afraid she’d float away if she let go.

But she didn’t stop.

“Y-your turn,” she slurred, her body wrecked, but her fingers still thrusting into you. “Gimme yours. Want you to come on my fingers.”

You barely had time to respond before she curled her fingers and rubbed hard circles on your clit.

Your whole body arched.

You cried out, legs tensing, eyes rolling back as you clenched around her. It hit you like a wave; hot, fast, blinding. Your thighs twitched around her hips, your breath stuttering out in broken moans.

She held you through it, her mouth on your neck, whispering, “That’s it. Just like that. So good for me. So hot.”

Neither of you moved for a long moment, just panting, twitching, feeling.

Your fingers still inside her. Hers still inside you.

Sticky. Hot. Tangled.

Jinx finally let out a soft laugh, still breathless, lips brushing your collarbone.

“Okay,” she whispered, sounding utterly wrecked. “Next time we go for two each.”

You giggled, forehead pressed to hers, still trembling slightly.

"Deal."

-

next up will be sevika ♡

[leriexoxo]

SKZ HEADCANON SERIES (18+)

Chapter 2: Leeknow - The Cold Choreographer

OT8 SERIES MASTERLIST

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Minho didn’t like you. He made that clear from day one.

He didn’t bother hiding the eye-rolls when you walked into the studio. Didn’t pretend to like your style. He questioned your counts. Picked apart your blocking. Said things like “That’s not sharp, it’s sloppy” in front of the entire crew.

You fired back with the same icy venom. “If I wanted your input, I’d ask someone with rhythm.”

The dancers lived for it. Every rehearsal was a silent war, two choreographers co-leading a group and refusing to budge. And still—he never missed a session. Never skipped a beat.

Never looked at you without that quiet, infuriating heat in his eyes.

⸻

You were both assigned to craft a special stage for an end-of-year award show. A duet. “Perfect tension,” management said. “Push and pull. Fire and frost.”

You and Minho were the embodiment of both.

The song was sensual. The choreography called for intimacy. Close holds. Breaths shared. Fingers laced. You tried not to flinch every time he touched you.

He never flinched at all.

Just pressed close. Moved with control. Lifted you like you were weightless, spun you like you were a secret in his hands.

⸻

One Night After Everyone Left

The group had cleared out. You stayed behind, annoyed by a transition that didn’t flow the way you wanted.

You didn’t hear him come back in.

“You keep stuttering on the third eight-count,” he said from behind you, voice smooth, slow, unforgiving.

You turned around sharply. “And you keep breathing down my neck like that’s part of the choreo.”

He stepped closer. “Maybe it should be.”

You swallowed hard.

He crossed the floor, that feline grace in every step, and hit play on the speaker. The track echoed through the studio. He held out a hand.

“You want it clean? Let’s go again.”

You hesitated. Then placed your hand in his.

He pulled you into place with exact precision—body flush to yours, one hand guiding your hip, the other lacing your fingers.

The music dropped.

Every movement was slower. Tighter. Like he was dragging the tension out of your bones and molding it into something unbearable.

His fingers brushed your lower back. His thigh slipped between yours. His lips hovered by your ear.

“You’re always so uptight,” he murmured. “No wonder your moves are stiff.”

You exhaled, hot. “I’ll show you stiff.”

“Do it.”

The next step hit, and you pushed him back, grinding against him with the rhythm. He caught your wrist mid-movement and yanked you close.

That’s when it cracked.

He kissed you hard—no warning, no hesitation. Lips bruising, teeth grazing, his hand tangled in your hair. You gasped, and he used it, tongue sliding in like he owned your mouth.

You broke the kiss to speak. “You hate me.”

He smirked, breathless. “I really fucking do.”

Then he spun you around and shoved you back against the mirror. The cool glass stung your spine as he crowded your front, one thigh slotting between yours.

“You’ve been looking at me like you wanted this for weeks,” he whispered, fingers dragging your waistband down. “So shut up and give in.”

You did.

His hand slipped between your thighs, and you arched into him with a moan. His touch was rough. Confident. He knew exactly how to ruin you.

When he dropped to his knees, his reflection stared back at you—smug, hungry, glowing under the studio lights. You were panting, squirming, rocking your hips into his mouth as he licked and sucked you open.

“Minho—fuck—”

He hummed against you. “Louder.”

Your hands slapped against the mirror for balance. He didn’t stop until your legs trembled, until you were gasping out broken cries into the glass.

When he stood, he kissed you again, messy and eager.

“Condom,” he whispered against your lips.

You fumbled for your bag, handed it over with shaking fingers.

He turned you around—body pressed tight, breath warm on your neck—and slid inside slow. Deep. Delicious.

Your eyes caught the mirror.

It was filthy. Perfect.

His hand wrapped around your throat lightly, just enough to make you focus. His other hand gripped your hip, snapping his hips up into you with a pace that made your knees weak.

“Look at yourself,” he growled. “Look how good I fuck you.”

You did.

You watched your mouth drop open, eyes glaze over, body bouncing against the mirror to the beat of his thrusts.

Every filthy sound echoed.

Every moan was his name.

When you came, he held you up with one arm, still pounding into you like he was chasing his own high—and when he spilled inside the condom, he bit down on your shoulder and groaned like you’d taken the soul out of him.

⸻

Silence. Heavy breathing. Sweat on skin and glass.

You leaned your forehead against the mirror, trembling.

He pressed a kiss to your neck.

“I still think your counts suck,” he murmured.

You turned and kissed him again. Hard.

“Then help me fix them tomorrow.”

He smirked. “Only if we end rehearsal like this every time.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8 @sunflwerstar

[faithsmadhouse]

Congratulations faith!! You absolutely deserve 1k!

Could I get Logan and fem reader and 🍓? He deserves some softness

Still my champion||Logan Sargeant x fem!reader

Summary—After being replaced in Formula 1, Logan returns home emotionally wrecked and weighed down by feelings of failure.

Warnings — praise soft sex riding sad Logan

Word count—587

A/n— AHHHH!!! thank you so much also this is my first Logan fic In months i really missed my American boy.

The door shut softly behind him.

You barely heard it over the quiet hum of the kettle, but the shift in the air told you he was home before his voice even reached you. Not that he said much—just a tired, barely-there “Hey,” as he dropped his bag by the wall and kicked off his shoes.

You turned from the kitchen slowly, watching him like something fragile. Logan looked… worn. Not just tired. Worn down. Like something had been stripped from him and he was still trying to figure out what was left.

“Hey, baby,” you whispered, drying your hands on a dish towel.

His eyes met yours for a second. Then he looked away, jaw clenched.

You crossed the room, reaching for him. “Logan—”

“It’s okay.” His voice cracked slightly. “You don’t have to say anything.”

He tried to pass you, but you stepped in his way gently and slid your arms around him. His body was tense at first, locked down with shame and defeat, but when you whispered his name again, softer this time—he broke.

He collapsed into you like a man finally letting go, burying his face in your neck as his arms pulled you in tight.

“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I tried so fucking hard. And it still wasn’t enough.”

“Don’t say that,” you murmured, threading your fingers through his hair.

“It’s true.”

You cupped his face and forced him to look at you. “You are enough, Logan. Always.”

His eyes brimmed with tears, and the wall cracked again. You kissed his cheek, then his temple, then his lips—slow and warm and patient. Not trying to rush him. Just holding him in all the places that had been hurting.

“I hate how it ended,” he whispered.

“I know.” You kissed his jaw. “But it doesn’t define you.”

“I feel like I let everyone down.”

“You didn’t let me down.” Your voice trembled. “You could never.”

Something shifted then—something tender and aching and real.

He kissed you again, this time a little deeper, a little needier. His hands found your hips like he was grounding himself in you, pulling you close until there was no space left between you.

“You still want me?” he asked quietly.

Your heart broke a little. “God, yes. Always.”

You took his hand and led him to the couch, the fire flickering low behind you as you sank into it together. Clothes came off slowly, without urgency. This wasn’t about distraction. This was about reassurance.

You straddled his lap, guiding him inside you with a soft gasp, and the look on his face—the way his eyes fluttered shut, the way he exhaled like he was finally breathing again—told you he needed this as much as he needed air.

You moved slowly, rocking your hips, pressing kisses to his lips, his cheek, his neck.

“You’re still my champion,” you whispered, brushing your fingers over his brow. “Even if the world doesn’t see it.”

His hands gripped your waist tighter, overwhelmed.

“You’re strong. You’re kind. You never gave up, even when they made it impossible.”

He let out a broken moan, forehead against yours.

“I’m so proud of you, Logan.”

That did it—he groaned your name, hips bucking up into you, and you held him as he fell apart, as he clung to you like he’d lose himself if he let go.

When you both stilled, panting and wrapped up in each other, you kissed the top of his head and whispered, “You’re home now. And I’ve got you.”

[shariasweet]

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

p.sunghoon x f. reader

𝓦c ::: -1k 𐙚𝓢harinote ::: I let my hg proofread this so if it’s shitty, blame her (not really I love her) anyways boom! double post (it’s 11:50) 𐙚 warnin𝓰.ᐟ ::: hate sex (?) • unprotected sex (wrap it urp) • they do it in the kitchen • handyman hoon • uhm idk what else please lmk what i missed

It's unbearably hot. summer's the worst season to live somewhere like—well... here.

sure, the rent's cheap. it's spacious enough for you and maybe a even roommate. the layouts damn near perfect. the location is good too. It’s tucked away inside of a family neighborhood.

safe. very... homey.

none of that meant anything right now though. warm sunlight poured in through your windows. the sticky humidity crept in at every seal… every crack and crevice in your home was just yet another way for the summer heat to break in…

and it is certainly no help at all that the AC is, ironically, cold out.

usually, that wouldn’t be a problem.

not a big one at least—not for any normal tenant, with a normal landlord. but nothing about your situation is normal.

your landlord’s a prick. he’s a huge pain in the ass… a cheap, condescending, meticulous pain in your hardly tolerant ass.

“hello?” you pressed the phone up against your ear, already annoyed before he could even pick up. “if it isn’t miss y/n,” his arrogant drawl came through the phone thick. “I thought you were done calling me.” you rolled your eyes.

“I was, mr. park… but my AC’s out. It’s completely busted and the forecast says it’s 102°.” you grimaced—somehow, saying it aloud made it all the more worse.

heat pricked your skin.

sweat was already starting to drip down your neck. “oh really?” there it was again… that condensation you wished he’d take and shove 12 inches up his—

“yes, really.” you snapped, mocking his arrogant tone. “well what do you suppose I should do about that, miss y/n?”

“come and fix it.” your gritted your teeth. wasn’t that obvious? “send someone to come and fix it, I don’t know. it’s your building, mr. park. I’m sure the other fifty angry, sweaty tenants would appreciate your hard work and effort.”

“I’m sure you all would.” he groaned. “look , I’ll send someone to fix your unit. but seriously, some of us are on vacation. don’t call me again.”

“trust me, you huffed, “I won’t.”

it took half an hour—only thirty minutes that felt like an eternity for him to arrive.

in those long, sticky minutes, you’d stripped out of at least two layers of clothes: your hoodie came off in the first five minutes, discarded carelessly as you sprawled out on the couch, trying to let the heat rise.

then your sweatpants—you’d ditched them in favor of something more breathable. a pair of worn-in little shorts that clung to you sweat-flushed skin.

by minute twenty-five, your bra had joined the pile of disregarded clothes. your armpits were sticky, your tank top clung to your chest, and honestly? if it would’ve taken a minute longer, you might’ve gone fully naked, just waiting.

luckily, before you could peel the thin cotton material over your head—there were three hard knocks at the door (which you ran to answer, almost giddily)

“my dad sent me,” the man announced flatly. he shoved past the doorway without waiting for an invitation in. before you could even open your mouth to speak, he was inside.

you blinked.

“well, welcome in,” you muttered sarcastically beneath your breath, letting the door slam shut behind you as you watched him walk over to the AC. “so,” you asked, arms crossed, rocking back on your heels, “what’s wrong with it?”

he turned. sharp jaw, dark lashes, a faint sheen of sweat already building across his collarbones.

he was annoyingly attractive. “it’s your AC. shouldn’t you know?” suddenly, you could see the resemblance. sure, this guy was wayyy hotter than his dad could ever be—but that attitude? It was unmistakably mr. park.

you scoffed. “i’m not the one here to fix it.” you trailed. “sunghoon,” he added. you raised a brow. “my name,” he clarified, before crouching in front of the unit and yanking off the front panel.

you rolled your eyes, arms still crossed against your chest as you spun on your heel. “whatever. just fix my unit, sunghoon.” his name rolls off your tongue effortlessly as you toe off.

you don’t wander off too far, just go hover in the kitchen pretending to scroll on your phone, stealing glances at sunghoon when you think he won’t notice.

he’s knelt in front of the unit with his tools scattered on the floor beside him. his sleeveless shirt rides up just enough to expose the small of his back every time he shifts or reaches for something else—sunghoon’s arms flex, veins stark against his cool skin as he tightens a screw or grunts under his breath, leaning in to get a better view.

it’s almost too much… the heat, the tension, him. you press your thighs together feeling arousal pool into your underwear.

the air doesn’t get any cooler and neither does your skin. heat creeps up your neck, flushed, you know he can see you too—he hasn’t said a word in five minutes… even his soft grunts are quieter, his eyes keep drifting:

to your chest, your thighs, the way your tank top turns almost transparent dipping into the valley of your breasts. the two of you take turns playing eye tag.

you watch as a bead of sweat rolls down his neck and disappears beneath the collar of his shirt. god, he may be a pain in the ass (from what you’ve seen so far)… but he’s admittedly, ridiculously attractive… making your core absolutely ache.

“you always stare like that?” his voice cuts clean through your thoughts. sunghoon’s voice is seemingly unbothered—but there’s a detectable edge, a slight rasp. he doesn’t even look up front the unit, still working as you straighten up.

was your staring so obvious? “excuse me?” he finally lifts his head, eyes looking you up and down whilst he runs a hand through his dark hair. “you’ve got a staring problem.”

“maybe if you didn’t make so much noise,” you bite back, refusing to look flustered in front of him. “you’re over there grunting like you’re fighting for your life.”

he smirks. “I’m focused.” standing, he wipes his hands on the hem of his shirt, lifting it just enough to give you a full view of his lower abdomen—glazed in sweat and flush, happy-trail taunting you as it disappears beneath his wasitband. “if you’ve got something to say,” he murmurs, stepping closer, walking towards the kitchen. “say it.”

you don’t. not at first… why would you? you don’t owe him.

his chest nearly brushes yours as he steps closer. you can feel the heat radiating off his body, his breath fans your lips.

his eyes flicker down—your nipples are hard beneath the thin fabric, they’re obvious. he noticed them peaking through as soon as he entered your home, that and the way your thighs flexed every time you once-overed him.

he doesn’t even try to hide the way he looks at you. your mouth gapes open then closes before opening again.

“i said,” he repeats, voice lower now, almost amused—he’s even closer, your chests flat against the other. any space closed. “say it.”

you push him. not too hard, your palms against his chest but he catches your wrists, pressing you back into the island.

“is this what you wanted?” he coos, nose brushing yours. “dressed like that? acting like a brat the second i walked in?” your breath catches in your throat. “‘being all mean when i came all… the way down…” he trails, hands finding your waist. “here,” your thighs clench. “just to fix your AC?”

“fuck you,” you hiss. “yeah?” his knee slots between your legs. “i bet you want to.” you don’t even realize you’re nodding with swollen lips until he moves, hands on your hips and his mouth crashing into yours.

his lips are warm, a little chapped. he moves aggressively—like he’s been waiting to do this since the second he stepped through the door, like he’s trying to eat you whole.

every snippy comment, every ‘dismissive’ glare you threw his way only made him want you more.

you gasp when his tongue darts out and slips past your lips. he swallows the sound of your little whines, continuing to kiss you just the same with his knee bumping against your clit through your shorts.

“‘so fucking bratty,” he breaths between kisses, hand holding your jaw firmly as he picks you up. “‘mouthy little thing.” your fingers dig into his shirt. “fuck… y’know… i hate guys like you.”

he huffs out a laugh. “yeah? ‘doesn’t seem that way, does it?” he places you down against the counter. “‘keep saying that, see what it gets you.”

“I hate guys like you—I hate you.” you frown, your lips inches apart.

just like that, his hands are everywhere—creeping beneath your tank top, pawing at your waist, brushing over the curves of your ass. he continues his assault, trailing kisses from your bruised lips down your jaw and neck.

"’no bra, huh?" he murmurs against your collarbone, hands groping at your chest. his tongue swipes at the sweat gathered there. "’figures."

“shut up,” you breathe, but your voice is barely there. It’s lost somewhere between your frustration and desperation to feel him. he pulls your top up, exposing your chest fully, and groans at the sight.

“fuck… just look at you.” he ducks his head, lips wrapping around your nipple, sucking harshly. greedy. “been thinking about this since you opened the door.” you tug at his shirt, eager to feel his skin against yours. sunghoon’s surprisingly complient, he pulls away just long enough to rip his shirt off and toss it aside.

and then he’s back, grinding against you, diving into your chest. his lips are all over your chest, biting, kissing and mouthing at your flesh like he’s got something to prove. your fingers find the waistband of his pants, sneaking into the waist and tugging. “take them off.” you pant, head tilted back as pleasure and heat consume you.

“someone’s eager.”

“someone’s dripping,” you correct. “and you’re wasting time.”

that gets him.

he shoves his pants down, briefs going along with them—and to no one’s surprise he’s hard, tip already fat and leaking, flushed against his stomach. your shorts are next. he hoists you up, tugging them down with one hand as he cups your cunt with the other, groaning at how soaked you are.

“jesus,” he swears, running a finger through your glistening folds. “you were like this the whole time?” you glare at him through your lashes. “and what about it?” embarrassment nips at you only slightly, you’re burning up.

he doesn’t answer to your snarky remark… just lines himself up, presses in slowly—so thick and hot you feel the stretch immediately. your hands claw at the edge of the counter beneath you, sunghoon’s girth sending sparks up your spine. “fuck,” you gasp, “sunghoon—”

“say that again.” he’s obsessed with the way you say his name. you once firm tone suddenly soft.

“sunghoon!” he slams in the rest of the way, burying himself to the hilt before you can speak. you cry out—legs trembling, nails digging into his broad shoulders. “say it,” he repeats, not giving you time to adjust, fucking into you hard enough to make the cabinets shake.

“s-sunghoon,” you whimper, again and again, chanting his name like a prayer. his hips snap into you at a restless pace, he bullies his cock deeper and deeper between your silken walls with every cry. “oh my god—”

“you’re not so mouthy now, are you?” he pants, holding your hips tighter, pounding into you relentlessly, you feel every thrust, drag, pull of his cock. “can feel how fucking tight you are. ‘squeezing me so good.” he whispers against your neck, leaving little marks and bites.

the slap of skin on skin fills the kitchen, along with your broken moans and his rough grunts. It’s obscene. his thumb finds your clit—rubbing fast circles. you jerk, legs clamping around his waist. “‘gonna come for me?” he growls, fucking into you harder. “all over my cock like a good girl?”

you don’t even get to answer. you clench around him, clamp around him as you hold on tighter—hanging on for dear life.

your stomach coils and snaps tight, eyes rolling back as you fall apart… nails dragging down his back as your orgasm hits. his own follows soon after, thrusts growing sloppy, desperate, until he spills inside you with a low, wrecked moan. hips twitching against yours as he attempts to ride it out—movements stuttering as he comes to a halt.

for a moment, all you can hear is the tick of the kitchen clock and the sound of your heavy breathing. then—his forehead presses to yours. “so,” he mutters, voice rough. “still hate me?”

you blink up at him. smirk. “depends. you fix my AC, pretty boy?”

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

All That Lingers PT3

Jake seresin x fem!reader

don't get mad.

PT 4 up now too.

The front door clicked shut with a soft finality, the kind that made silence feel heavier than it should. Y/N stood still in the dim entryway of the one-story home — the home she and Bob had built a life in, the one where every corner still whispered his name.

Jake gently shifted Baby Robert against his chest, adjusting the blanket the baby had kicked loose during the drive home. His face was unreadable as he nodded toward the hallway. “I’ll get him to bed.”

Y/N didn’t answer. She just followed, her footsteps soft against the hardwood floors, her eyes scanning the familiar living room. The toys by the couch. The framed photo by the door. The unopened stack of mail. All still here. All untouched. But different now. After today, different in a way that couldn’t be undone.

The nursery light was already on, casting a warm gold glow across the room. Jake stepped inside, moving slowly, carefully — reverent in the quiet. The rocker sat near the window, and he settled into it with Robert in his arms, rocking gently as the baby sighed in his sleep.

Y/N hovered in the doorway like a ghost.

“Come here,” Jake said softly.

She hesitated, then crossed the room and sat on the carpeted floor at his feet, leaning her head against the rocker’s cushion. Her fingers toyed with the edge of the area rug, and she didn’t look up.

“I thought bringing him to see Bob would help,” she said after a while. “Like maybe it’d settle something in my chest. But I just—”

She choked, and Jake stilled the rocker with one hand, leaning down slightly to hear her better.

“It made it worse. I saw his name on the stone and our baby in your arms and… it just made it real in a way I’ve been trying to outrun.”

Jake stayed quiet. His hand moved gently up and down Robert’s back.

“I never even got to see Bob hold him.” Her voice cracked. “He never saw his eyes. Never heard his laugh. He wanted this so badly, Jake. He wanted a family.”

Jake finally spoke, low and steady. “You gave it to him. You gave him the beginning of that dream.”

She shook her head. “Not enough time.”

“No,” Jake agreed. “Not enough. But what he had with you? What he left behind? It matters. It still matters.”

The baby stirred in his sleep, tiny fingers brushing against Jake’s chest. Jake looked down and smiled faintly.

“You know, I talk to him about Bob when you’re not around,” he murmured. “I tell him what kind of man his dad was. What he believed in. How steady he was. How funny, when he wanted to be. How brave.”

Y/N’s throat tightened.

“I don’t want Robert to grow up without knowing him.”

“He won’t,” Jake said. “Because you’ll tell him. And I’ll tell him. And every single person in that squad will keep Bob alive for him.”

Y/N let out a shaky breath and rested her cheek against the cushion again, eyes fluttering closed. She didn’t want to sleep — not really. But she didn’t want to move either.

Jake rocked the chair again gently.

“You want me to stay out here with him?”

She nodded, voice barely a whisper. “Please.”

And he did.

Jake stayed. Long after the baby settled into sleep. Long after Y/N’s breathing evened out. He stayed as the clock on the wall ticked past midnight and the whole house fell into stillness again. Because love — real love — doesn’t stop when someone’s gone. It keeps going. Quiet. Steady.

Like a rocking chair in the dark.

———

She didn’t expect anything. But sleep — this sleep — didn’t feel like rest.

It felt like stepping into something sacred.

The sun was low in the sky, warm and golden, pouring over a familiar porch in Texas. Wind moved through the grass in slow waves. And there, standing barefoot on the wood planks, wearing that old navy t-shirt he used to mow the lawn in, was Bob.

He looked exactly the same.

No uniform. No weight of duty. Just Bob.

And he smiled when he saw her.

Y/N didn’t move. Her breath caught. Her heart felt like it had stopped and started all over again. Her hands went to her chest like she was afraid it would shatter.

“Bobby?”

He stepped forward slowly, and she felt his hands cup her face like they always had.

“I see you,” he said, voice warm like the sun behind him. “I see him, my boy. My family.”

Her eyes filled so fast she couldn’t even blink them away.

“You’re—are you—” she tried, but the words caught.

“I’m here,” Bob whispered. “Not in the way I wanted. God, not in the way I wanted. But I’ve been here.”

He pressed his forehead to hers.

“I saw you in the hospital. I saw you hold him. I’ve been with you every time he laughed. I see the way you rock him when he’s sick. I see the way you smile when he pulls your hair. I see everything.”

She reached up to hold his wrists, sobs pulling from somewhere deep.

“He looks just like you.”

“I know,” Bob whispered, his voice cracking now too. “You gave me the greatest gift. You made me a dad. I wish I could’ve stayed. I wanted to. So bad. But… that doesn’t mean I’m gone.”

“I miss you,” she sobbed.

“I know,” he whispered, brushing a tear from her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “But you’re not alone.”

She didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. But Bob stepped back a little, his eyes soft and knowing.

“Jake,” he said gently. “He’s a good man.”

Y/N shook her head, lips trembling. “No. No, not like that, I couldn’t—”

“I’m not asking you to forget me,” Bob said, quiet but firm. “I’m asking you to live. To raise our son surrounded by love. And Jake… he’s already showing you what love looks like.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks now, silent and endless.

“Promise me you won’t close your heart forever.”

She was shaking, trying to breathe through it all, but Bob stepped closer again and held her. Arms warm, solid, safe. Like everything had been a dream and this was the only real thing.

“I will always love you,” he said into her hair. “I will always, always love you.”

And then the light began to shift. The wind died down. And Bob leaned back, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Go,” he said. “Hold our boy for me. And let yourself be held.”

Y/N tried to speak, tried to call his name — but the world was slipping. Fading.

And then her eyes opened.

The bedroom was quiet. Dim with the gray light of early morning. Her pillow was damp from tears.

She sat up slowly, touched her face, and let the sob fall from her mouth before she could stop it.

——-

The house was quiet, bathed in the pale gray of dawn. Y/N pulled the blanket off slowly, still half in the dream — or whatever it had been. Her legs felt heavier than usual, her chest full in a way she couldn’t explain.

She stood, quietly, not bothering to turn on a light. The path was familiar: the hallway, the creak in the floorboard just before the living room, the warm baby cries calling her forward like a beacon.

She moved slowly past the archway — and then paused.

Jake was on the couch, just where he’d been for the past few nights. He hadn’t said much when she told him he could stay, hadn’t made any comments when he started leaving a change of clothes in the drawer in the guest room that he never used. But he hadn’t left, either.

Now, he was still asleep. One arm tucked under his head, his body curled awkwardly on the small couch. His duffel bag sat by the coffee table. A bottle of water half-finished beside it. His phone lit up once, then went dark again.

She stood there for a second longer.

Jake had been everything — kind, quiet, patient. There when she asked. Silent when she couldn’t speak. He had held her hand through the longest night of her life. He had fed Robert with one arm while reading out loud from the parenting book he never admitted he’d bought. He had stayed.

Y/N blinked quickly and turned, walking the rest of the way toward the nursery.

Robert’s cries had softened into soft whimpers by the time she pushed the door open.

There he was, standing in the crib now, holding onto the rail with wobbly knees. His onesie was twisted, his hair tousled, and his face crumpled from sleep — but when he saw her, he lit up. Just like Bob used to when she walked into a room.

“Hi, baby,” she whispered, voice breaking already.

She scooped him up and pressed her face into his soft hair.

“You missed your daddy too, didn’t you?”

Robert babbled something incoherent, one chubby hand patting her collarbone as if to say there, there. She held him tighter.

“I had a dream,” she said quietly, walking over to the rocking chair and settling in. “He was there. He was really there.”

Robert tucked himself under her chin like he always did.

“He said he sees us. Said he loves us.”

Her voice cracked, and her hand stroked slowly across Robert’s back, grounding her.

“He told me to live,” she whispered. “Told me to let myself be loved.”

Robert sighed — that baby sigh that sounded too old for his age. She kissed the top of his head.

“I miss him,” she murmured. “But I’ll try.”

And as the sun began to rise through the blinds, soft and gold, Y/N stayed in the rocker with her son. Her hand on his back, her cheek against his hair, the ghost of Bob’s words still lingering in the air.

I see you.

———

The smell of eggs and cinnamon carried through the air like a memory. Y/N hadn’t realized how long she’d been in the nursery until the sun began to pour through the curtains, and Robert had drifted back to sleep against her chest.

She stirred gently, kissing his head again, whispering, “Let’s go see Grandma before she leaves, huh?”

Her legs protested when she stood — stiff from sitting in the rocker too long — but her heart had softened some, like the edges of grief had been smoothed just slightly by the dream, by Robert, by this moment.

She padded out quietly, carrying Robert close, and walked toward the kitchen.

Margaret was at the stove, her hair twisted up, still wearing the robe Y/N had offered her the night she arrived. The radio played something old and country in the background — a station Bob used to keep on when cleaning the house. The smell of cinnamon toast mingled with scrambled eggs and fresh coffee.

Jake was already up too, standing at the counter, slicing strawberries with easy precision. His sweatshirt hung low on his frame, his hair still messy from sleep.

Margaret turned first.

“Well, there’s my two sleepyheads,” she smiled softly, setting the spatula down. “Someone didn’t want to let go of their mama this morning, huh?”

Y/N smiled faintly, tired but warm. “It’s been a slow start.”

Jake looked up and offered a quiet, knowing smile.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“Yes, please,” Y/N whispered as she passed by, brushing her hand lightly across his arm in thanks.

Jake poured a mug and set it beside the seat where she always sat. Margaret handed her a plate without asking, and she slid into the chair, Robert nestled on her lap now, eyes blinking slowly open again.

Margaret sat across from her, watching her grandson with that same expression she’d worn the first time she saw him — awe, sorrow, gratitude, love all tangled into one.

“He looks just like him,” Margaret whispered.

“I know,” Y/N replied softly, brushing back his hair. “Every day a little more.”

Jake came over, setting down the bowl of strawberries, but didn’t sit. Instead, he leaned against the sink, letting the morning settle around them.

Margaret reached across the table, touching Y/N’s hand.

“I know this can’t ever be easy, sweetheart,” she said gently, her voice thick. “But you’ve built a good home. A safe one. He’d be so proud.”

Y/N’s throat tightened again, but she managed a nod. “I just… I try to do what he would’ve wanted. What he would’ve done.”

Jake finally spoke, quiet and steady.

“You’ve done more than that.”

Y/N looked up at him.

“You’ve made sure this little guy knows love every single day,” Jake said, gesturing toward Robert. “That’s what Bob would’ve wanted most.”

Margaret nodded in agreement, wiping at her eyes with her sleeve. “You’ve kept him alive in the way that matters.”

Y/N swallowed hard, her hand tightening on Robert’s back.

They ate in silence for a while after that. The kind of silence that felt safe. Heavy, yes — but safe.

Eventually, Margaret glanced at the clock. “I should go pack up. Flight’s at noon.”

“I’ll load the car,” Jake said, already pushing off from the counter.

Y/N stood too. “Let me help you with your things.”

Margaret shook her head. “No, honey. You stay here. Sit with the baby. Just being here with you both was all I needed.”

And before she left, she kissed Robert on the cheek and whispered something too quiet to hear. Y/N thought she caught the words “he’d be so proud,” again.

Then Jake helped her out to the car, and Y/N watched from the doorway, Robert now cradled in her arms again.

The house was too quiet when the door closed behind them.

But it was still a home.

Bob’s home.

Their home.

And somehow, that still mattered.

———

The house felt still in a way it hadn’t for days.

Margaret’s goodbye had been soft and warm, her arms wrapping tight around Y/N, kissing Baby Robert’s cheek with tears in her eyes. “He looks more like Bobby every time I see him,” she’d whispered. “You’re doing beautifully, sweetheart. I’m proud of you. He would be too.”

And then she was gone. Jake had driven her to the airport that morning, offering to handle the early drive so Y/N could get a little more rest. He’d promised to swing by later, “just to check in.”

But now it was just her. And him.

Y/N stood in the center of the quiet nursery, Baby Robert still half-dozing against her shoulder after a morning nap. The walls were painted in the same soft sage green Bob had picked months before he died. His books lined the shelf, untouched, except for the ones she read to Robert every night.

She swayed on her feet, gently rocking their son, pressing a kiss into his fine dark hair. Her eyes scanned the room, softening when they landed on the photo on the dresser: Bob in uniform, one hand on her waist, the other on her belly when she was still pregnant. He’d looked so proud.

Y/N sat down in the rocking chair, still cradling Robert Jr., and let herself breathe — really breathe — for the first time since the party.

The silence wasn’t peaceful. It wasn’t terrible either. It just was.

She stared down at her son. “It’s just us for a little while,” she whispered, fingers brushing his cheek. “We’ll be okay.”

A small sound broke the moment — a quiet coo from Robert Jr. — and her heart clenched. He had Bob’s eyes. Exactly. She didn’t even realize she was crying until she tasted the salt on her lips.

She wiped her face quickly. “I miss him too.”

Later, after she put Robert Jr. down for a nap, she wandered the hallway and paused outside the bedroom. Their bedroom.

She hadn’t changed anything. His side of the closet still held his shirts, his flight jacket hung near the door. His cologne sat untouched on the dresser. She walked over and picked it up, twisting the cap off and letting the scent hit her like a wave. Fresh, familiar, and utterly heartbreaking.

Y/N curled into the bed without changing, Bob’s old navy sweatshirt pulled over her arms. She didn’t plan to sleep. But when her phone buzzed beside her an hour later, it woke her from a dream she didn’t remember.

Jake: Just got back. Want me to bring you anything?

She stared at the text. He’d stayed in the periphery all day. No pressure. No pushing. Just being there.

Her fingers moved slowly.

Y/N: Just you, if that’s okay.

Three dots appeared immediately.

Jake: Always.

———

The knock was soft. Not rushed, not urgent — just a quiet little tap tap that felt like a question more than an announcement.

Y/N opened the door, and there he was.

Jake stood on the porch, dressed down in a gray t-shirt and jeans, a small brown paper bag in one hand. His hair was still wind-tousled from the drive, and his eyes scanned her face like he was checking for fractures, invisible but familiar.

“I brought food,” he said gently. “Figured maybe you hadn’t eaten anything that didn’t come from a box or a bottle.”

She didn’t say anything at first. Just opened the door wider.

Jake stepped inside like he belonged — not intruding, not assuming, just fitting into the quiet in the same way he always had.

The house was dim, lit mostly by the late afternoon sun slipping through the windows. Robert Jr. was still napping, soft breaths curling out of the baby monitor on the side table. Y/N led Jake into the kitchen, where he unpacked the bag — warm takeout from the café just off base. Her café.

“Figured it was safe,” he said with a small shrug. “You never hate your own cooking.”

That got a quiet laugh out of her — not loud, but real.

They ate at the small dining table, the baby monitor crackling softly between them. Y/N’s appetite wasn’t quite there, but she tried. She owed Jake that much. And herself. And Bob.

For a while, they didn’t talk. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It never was, with him. Jake had a way of letting the silence settle, never rushing her to fill it.

He cleared the plates when they were done, rinsed them gently in the sink, then paused like he was unsure what to do with his hands.

“You okay if I stay a little?” he asked. “Not all night. Just—until.”

Y/N nodded. “Please.”

They ended up in the nursery, sitting on the floor just outside the crib after Robert Jr. woke up fussing. Jake had rocked him in his arms until his eyes fluttered closed again, then laid him gently back in the crib, staying by his side until his breathing deepened.

Y/N watched him from across the room.

“You’re good with him,” she said.

Jake glanced over. “I love him.”

It was so simple, so honest, that it made her chest ache.

“I don’t think I could do any of this without you,” she said, voice trembling before she even realized it. “I know I say thank you a lot but it doesn’t feel like enough.”

Jake crossed the room slowly, crouching in front of her. His hand settled lightly on her knee.

“You’re not supposed to do it alone. And you never have to—not while I’m still standing.”

Tears stung again. But they didn’t fall.

Not this time.

They just sat there, together, knees touching in the middle of the nursery that held a thousand memories and a thousand more waiting to be made.

Jake didn’t leave until nearly midnight. And when he stood in the doorway, shoes in hand, she found herself blurting:

“You can sleep on the couch again, if you want. Just in case he wakes up.”

Jake didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

—————

The dream started in the softest way.

Y/N was sitting in a sunlit field. Somewhere wide and open. There was a breeze, warm and familiar, and tall grass brushing her fingertips. Baby laughter echoed from somewhere close. The kind of golden, echoing sound that made you feel like the world was still good.

She turned—and there he was.

Bob.

He was younger than she remembered, maybe how he looked when they first met. Hair a little longer, smile easy, wearing that light blue t-shirt he always swore was lucky.

He was holding their son.

Tiny Robert was in his arms, giggling, pulling at his dog tags.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t real. She knew it wasn’t. But it didn’t matter.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Bob said softly.

She wanted to cry. Scream. Run to him.

But she couldn’t move.

She could only watch.

“You’re doing so good,” he said, still looking down at their boy. “You’re tired, I know. You’re scared. I see it. But you’ve never once failed him.”

Y/N’s voice cracked when it finally came.

“I miss you. I miss you so much I can’t breathe sometimes.”

Bob nodded. “I know. I feel it. Every day.”

He looked up, and his eyes held that calm, endless kind of love. Like even now—especially now—he’d hold all her heartbreak if he could.

“You’re not alone,” he whispered. “You’re never alone.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know how to do this without you.”

“You’re already doing it.”

There was a pause. The breeze carried the sound of rustling grass and that little giggle again. Bob looked down at their son and kissed the top of his head.

“He’s going to need someone to show him how to be a man,” Bob said quietly. “How to be strong and kind and brave.”

She closed her eyes. Her hands were shaking.

“I should be that person,” Bob continued. “But I’m not. I can’t be. Not anymore.”

A beat. The breeze stopped.

“And as much as Jake doesn’t want to admit it, I know him. I know what’s in his heart. He wants to be there. With you. For him. All the way.”

She opened her eyes again.

Bob had tears in his.

“I need you to know—he’s not a replacement. There’s no such thing. But he’s the right man. The right kind of good. I trust him. I trust you.”

Her chest cracked open.

“He loves that boy like he’s his own,” Bob whispered. “And maybe, just maybe, you need someone who can remind you that you still get to be loved. That you don’t have to freeze in time with me.”

Y/N tried to step forward, but the world was already starting to slip away.

Bob smiled through it.

“I’ll always be here. But he’s there. And that little boy—our little boy—he needs someone who stays.”

His voice echoed as everything faded to white—

“Let him love you the way I would’ve wanted to. The way you deserve.”

⸻

Y/N woke with wet cheeks and a chest that felt both shattered and whole.

In the quiet of her bedroom, just down the hallway, she could hear Jake’s voice. Low and soft.

Telling Robert Jr. another story about his dad.

The quiet held her like a blanket, but it wasn’t heavy this time. It was warm. Full of breath and memory.

Y/N stayed in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling, one hand pressed gently over her heart—like she was afraid if she moved too quickly, she’d lose him again.

Bob.

Her Bob.

His voice still echoed in her ears, soft as wind through wheat fields.

“Let him love you the way I would’ve wanted to. The way you deserve.”

She exhaled shakily, then sat up, barefoot on cool hardwood. She didn’t rush. She couldn’t. Everything felt suspended in time—just her and the echo of a life that used to be.

As she stood, she walked past the hallway mirror and caught her own reflection. Pale from the dream, eyes swollen. But something was different. Her shoulders weren’t curled in so tightly. The grief wasn’t strangling her. Not right now.

She passed by the living room.

Jake was sitting on the couch—same spot he always did—his back turned to her, baby Robert tucked into the crook of one arm, bottle in the other. His voice was low, soft, like lullabies wrapped in denim and Texas sun.

“Your daddy… he flew better than anyone. Not ‘cause he was fast. Not ‘cause he was flashy. He just… understood the sky. Like it spoke to him.”

Jake laughed under his breath, eyes locked on the baby’s.

“He used to talk about you before he even knew you were real. Said he hoped you had her eyes. Her laugh. That you’d love the stars, too.”

Y/N leaned on the doorway, listening.

And thinking.

Jake was there the day they found out she was pregnant. He’d driven over after work, arms full of takeout and a carton of chocolate milk, and didn’t leave for hours—even when she didn’t say a word, even when all she did was cry into the sleeve of his jacket.

He was there every week after that.

Dropping groceries on her doorstep when she didn’t feel like being seen.

Letting himself in when she stopped answering her phone.

Sitting on the floor with her when she swore she couldn’t survive the grief and the hormones.

He was there when her water broke—hands trembling, voice calm. The only person she trusted to stay. To stay.

He never once asked for anything.

Not a thank you. Not a place. Not a promise.

But he showed up. Every time.

Her eyes blurred again, but this time it wasn’t panic or grief. It was… clarity.

Maybe Bob was right.

Maybe Jake was the one standing in the doorway of the life she’d never thought she’d rebuild.

She looked at the quiet scene on the couch—Jake whispering softly into their son’s ear—and she pressed a hand to her mouth.

“I’m not forgetting you,” she whispered aloud, voice trembling. “I could never forget you.”

It felt like a prayer.

A promise.

To Bob.

To herself.

To the man on her couch who had given her space to break and still stayed close enough to help her rebuild.

You’ll always be my heart, Bob.

But maybe you’re not my ending.

And in the warm hush of early morning, she took a breath—and walked toward the life that was still here.

————

Jake gently lifted baby Robert from his chest, easing the little boy into the crook of his arm. The bottle was empty now, and his soft breaths were even again—tiny fingers curled in the fabric of Jake’s shirt. Jake stood slowly, careful not to jostle him.

The nursery was quiet and dim, only the faint glow of the nightlight painting shadows on the walls. He hummed low as he settled the baby into the crib, brushing back the soft curls that had started to form on the boy’s head.

“Sleep tight, little man,” he murmured, hand lingering for a second longer before stepping back.

He padded down the hallway in socked feet, expecting to find the house still and silent.

But Y/N was sitting on the couch.

She was curled into the corner, wrapped in the same throw blanket Jake always used when he crashed out there, and she was awake—eyes distant, but soft when they met his.

“Didn’t mean to wake ya,” he said, voice low.

She shook her head. “It wasn’t you.”

Jake stopped in his tracks, reading something in her expression. Her eyes weren’t just tired—they were… full. Full of something he didn’t know if he was allowed to hope for.

“I had a dream,” she said.

He didn’t sit. Not yet. He just watched her, hands shoved in the pockets of his sweats like he was steadying himself.

“It was Bob,” she added softly. “He was here. Talking to me. I… I think he really was. I know that sounds crazy, but it didn’t feel like a dream. It felt like he was really there.”

Jake took a cautious step forward.

She didn’t stop him.

“He told me he sees us. Me. The baby. You.” Her voice cracked. “He told me you’re a good one. That… you could be the one.”

Jake didn’t breathe.

“I think…” She looked away, blinking tears that didn’t quite fall. “I think I might be falling in love with you.”

That broke something loose in Jake. Not a smile, not a grin—just something so soft and reverent in his face, it nearly shattered her.

“I think I’m falling in love with you too,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Have been. For a while now.”

Her breath hitched.

“But,” she said quickly, hands tightening around the blanket, “I can’t rush it. Jake, I can’t.”

“I know,” he said, sitting beside her without hesitation. “You don’t have to.”

“I want something with you, I think I really do. I just… I still cry in the shower. I still talk to his photo when I brush my teeth. I’m still figuring out how to live again.”

Jake nodded. “You don’t have to rush. I’m not going anywhere.”

She turned toward him, her expression raw and open. “I don’t want to hurt you either.”

“You won’t,” he said simply. “I knew what I was walking into the second I sat on that hospital bench holding your hand. I’m not here for fast or easy. I’m here for you.”

That broke her.

Tears slipped down her cheeks, silent and grateful, and when she leaned against him—just gently, just enough—he lifted his arm so she could tuck herself beneath it.

They sat like that in the dark for a long time.

Nothing fast.

Nothing rushed.

Just the slow, steady thrum of something that might one day become love.

Something already becoming home.

Jake didn’t say anything when she stood up, tugging the blanket tighter around herself. She hesitated for a moment, glancing back over her shoulder where he still sat on the couch, hands resting on his knees like he wasn’t sure what came next.

“Come to bed,” she said softly.

His eyes lifted, searching hers. “You sure?”

She nodded. “It’s just sleep, Jake. And you haven’t slept in a real bed in months.”

That made something in his chest pinch, because she’d noticed. She always noticed.

So he followed her down the hallway without another word.

Her bedroom was dimly lit from the small lamp on her nightstand. The baby monitor glowed faintly on her dresser, soft static in the background. The bed was made, though a little messy from her tossing and turning earlier, and she peeled back the covers like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Jake hesitated again at the edge, but she turned to look at him with that quiet calm she always seemed to have around him lately.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” she whispered.

That was all he needed.

He slipped into the bed beside her.

She curled in first, back facing him, and for a minute it was just the silence between them again, so easy and warm. Then, slowly—carefully—he moved closer, letting his hand rest at the small of her back before sliding around her waist.

She didn’t flinch.

She leaned into it, in fact—into him—settling back until she was tucked into the curve of his body.

“I can feel my heart again,” she said softly, barely audible. “It used to hurt so bad. It still does sometimes, but… I think I can feel it beating again.”

Jake’s lips pressed against the back of her shoulder. “Then we’ll take it slow. One heartbeat at a time.”

Her fingers found his under the blanket and laced them together.

And for the first time in over a year, Jake Seresin fell asleep in a real bed.

Next to her.

Not as a soldier filling a space left behind.

But as a man who had held her hand through every storm.

And would keep holding it as long as she let him.

———

The soft wail of the baby monitor stirred her just before seven. It was the kind of sound she knew by heart now—not frantic, not scared. Just tired and in need of something only she or Jake could give.

She blinked against the soft morning light slipping through the curtains and instinctively reached across the bed.

Jake wasn’t there.

Before she could even sit up, she heard footsteps padding gently down the hallway, the quiet creak of the nursery door opening and closing. A beat later, the cries settled into muffled whimpers, then silence.

She let out a long breath and rubbed her eyes.

Jake.

She rolled out of bed and made her way into the kitchen, the hem of her old sleep shirt brushing her knees. The house smelled like clean sheets and quiet. She flicked on the coffee maker, the comforting drip and hiss starting up as she leaned against the counter, grounding herself.

She didn’t hear him come in—just felt the air shift as he appeared in the doorway, Baby Robert nestled against his chest, fast asleep again.

Jake’s voice was soft. “He just wanted to be held.”

She turned to face him, something warm and aching unfolding in her chest. Robert’s tiny fist clutched at Jake’s shirt like he’d done it a thousand times before. Like he belonged there.

“You didn’t have to get up,” she said, her voice still rough with sleep.

Jake shrugged gently, not to disturb the baby. “Didn’t want you to have to.”

She looked at him, standing barefoot in her kitchen with her baby pressed to his chest. Her baby. Bob’s baby. And yet…

Jake didn’t look out of place.

He never had.

She poured two mugs of coffee and handed one to him as he eased himself down onto the couch, keeping Robert tucked close. She followed, sitting beside him, her knee brushing his.

They sat in the soft, still moment of the morning, the house quiet except for the hum of the coffee machine and the birds outside the window. She took a sip and glanced over at Jake.

“You’ve really been here through everything, haven’t you?”

Jake’s eyes didn’t leave Robert’s sleeping face. “I didn’t want you to do it alone.”

“I know. And I didn’t want to either. But I thought I had to.”

Jake looked at her then. Really looked. And not with pity. With something patient and steady.

“You never had to,” he said simply.

Her heart thudded quietly behind her ribs.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For never letting me feel alone. Even when I swore I was.”

Jake gave her a small, tired smile. “You were never alone. Not for a second.”

They sat there like that for a while longer—just the three of them—until the sun crept a little higher and Baby Robert stirred in Jake’s arms.

It was going to be a long day.

But maybe, she thought, not a lonely one.

————

By the time they’d changed Robert, fed him a little breakfast, and had their second round of coffee, the sun had fully risen. The sky outside was that soft, golden blue—cloudless, warm but not hot yet—and the breeze that drifted through the open window smelled like grass and sunlight.

Jake was the one who suggested it.

“Want to take a walk? Feels too nice to stay inside.”

She glanced at the clock—it was still barely past eight—and looked at the way Robert’s chubby legs were kicking on his blanket in the living room. He was wide awake, full of energy, his little voice babbling to no one in particular.

“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s get out of the house for a bit.”

They dressed slowly, comfortably. She tucked herself into soft shorts and a faded cotton tee that had once belonged to Bob—it still hung loosely on her even after all this time—and pulled her hair back. Jake changed into a clean t-shirt and joggers he’d left in the guest dresser drawer weeks ago.

They worked together in practiced rhythm—Jake strapping Robert into the stroller while she grabbed a burp cloth and a water bottle. She added a sun hat and a little zip-up hoodie to Robert’s outfit, even though it wasn’t cold, just in case.

They stepped outside.

It was quiet, suburban peace—lawns being watered, birds chirping, a distant lawnmower buzzing to life. Robert’s house was on a quiet street, tucked in a corner where cars rarely passed.

They walked in silence at first, Jake pushing the stroller with one hand and keeping the other casually close to her. Not touching her—but near enough that if she needed it, it was there.

Robert babbled at the trees and the birds. A leaf blew across the sidewalk and he squealed.

Jake smiled. “Kid’s got lungs on him.”

She laughed softly. “Just like his dad.”

Jake glanced at her, something warm flickering behind his eyes. “Yeah. Just like his dad.”

They kept walking.

It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t heavy. It just was. Two people—grieving, healing, rebuilding—with a baby who didn’t understand the weight they carried but gave them a reason to carry it anyway.

They were halfway down the block, passing a house with a freshly painted white fence and pink hydrangeas lining the front yard, when someone stepped out onto the porch.

“Hey there!” a woman called.

They paused. She looked to be in her late 40s, in a flowing sundress, a mug in hand. Kind eyes and a soft smile.

“You just move in?”

Jake shook his head politely. “Nah, been here a while.”

“Oh! I haven’t seen you two before.” Her gaze drifted to the stroller. “And who’s this handsome little man?”

Robert kicked his legs and let out a coo right on cue.

The woman beamed. “You two make beautiful kids.”

Jake opened his mouth to correct her—an automatic habit now—but before he could speak, Y/N smiled softly and said:

“Thank you.”

Jake looked at her, surprised.

She didn’t take it back. Just smiled again, gently, as she bent to adjust the sunhat on Robert’s head. The woman waved them goodbye, and they kept walking.

When they turned the corner, Jake glanced sideways. “You didn’t have to let her think—”

“I know,” she said quickly. “But… it didn’t feel wrong.”

Jake didn’t say anything for a long while. Then:

“It didn’t feel wrong to me either.”

They made it a full loop around the neighborhood and stopped at the little park two blocks away. The kind with a slide and a few swings and a bench shaded by a tree.

Jake sat on the bench, Robert balanced on his knee, and Y/N sank beside them, watching the breeze rustle through the branches.

“You’re really good with him,” she said after a few minutes.

Jake smiled without looking at her. “I just try to love him the way I’d want someone to love my kid.”

She blinked against the sting in her eyes.

“I think Bob would have loved you for that.”

Jake finally turned to her, and his voice dropped to something low, barely audible.

“I already loved him. He was my brother before anything else.”

Her throat tightened.

She reached over, resting a hand on his arm.

And they sat like that for a while longer—her leaning into him, Robert babbling and kicking, the world moving gently around them.

————

It had been a few weeks since that walk. Long enough for the heaviness in her chest to settle into something quieter. Not gone. Never gone. But softer around the edges. Manageable.

Little Robert was now walking more than crawling, and talking just enough to make her ache with pride—and ache with something else, too. He had Bob’s smile. His quiet calm. His light, inquisitive gaze. Every day, she learned something new about her son. Every day, she missed Bob in some new way.

And Jake… Jake was still there.

He was always there.

Which was probably why, when Phoenix texted the group chat asking if they wanted to do a small barbecue at Rooster’s place that weekend—just the team, nothing big—Jake had already offered to drive them before she even answered.

So, Saturday came, warm and golden like it had been made for old friends. Y/N packed a small diaper bag. Jake brought a cooler of drinks and extra sunblock. Robert had a little Dagger Squad onesie on that Phoenix had gifted them before he was even born. It was slightly too small now—snug around his belly—but she couldn’t resist.

“Stealing hearts already,” Jake said when she buckled Robert into the car seat.

He didn’t say it in a flirty way. He said it in a way that made her heart flutter and ache at once. Soft. Admiring. Gentle.

They got to Rooster’s house a little after two. Everyone was already there. The grill was on. Music was low. Drinks were cold. Someone had even brought a little inflatable pool for Robert, who immediately squealed and splashed like it was his full-time job.

Phoenix came over and wrapped Y/N in a hug that lingered, and Bob’s name didn’t have to be said for it to be felt. She looked at Robert like he was something precious, and Y/N saw her blink quickly like she was holding back tears.

“Look at him,” Phoenix whispered. “Would’ve made Bob so proud.”

Jake stayed close but didn’t hover. He helped Rooster at the grill, tossed a football around with Coyote and Payback, made Baby Robert laugh so hard he hiccuped when he put a slice of watermelon on his head like a hat.

It was easy. It was safe.

But that didn’t mean it wasn’t still bittersweet.

Y/N sat on a blanket beneath a tree while Robert played nearby. Nat sat beside her, stretching her legs out and sipping from a lemonade.

“You okay?” Nat asked gently, not prying, just offering.

Y/N nodded. “Getting there.”

Nat glanced across the yard to where Jake was lifting Robert into the air, making airplane noises as he flew him gently over his shoulder. The baby giggled, shrieked with delight.

“You’re not alone, you know,” Nat said.

“I know,” she whispered. “That’s what makes it bearable.”

She didn’t say Jake’s name. But Nat didn’t need her to.

Later, after food and cake and stories and quiet toasts to the one who wasn’t there, Robert had grown sleepy. Y/N settled into one of the deck chairs, baby boy pressed to her chest, heavy with exhaustion.

Jake came over with a blanket and draped it across her lap.

“Ready to head home?” he asked softly.

She looked up at him, nodded. “Yeah.”

He took the bag. He packed the car. He carried Robert out like he was the most fragile thing in the world.

And when they pulled into the driveway later, stars beginning to bloom across the sky, Y/N looked at the home that used to feel so broken without Bob—and now felt something else.

Something healing.

Jake unbuckled Robert, who stirred only a little, and whispered, “We’re home, buddy.”

Y/N’s hand brushed his as they walked inside.

She didn’t say anything. But she didn’t let go either.

————

The house was quiet by the time they got inside. Not silent—never truly silent, not with a baby in the mix—but calm in the way that made her breathe differently. Deeper. Slower.

Robert stayed asleep in Jake’s arms, his small cheek resting against Jake’s shoulder. His little hand gripped a fold of Jake’s T-shirt, and Y/N could see the soft rise and fall of his back—so peaceful it made her chest ache.

Jake didn’t ask what she needed. He didn’t need to.

He took Robert straight to the nursery, moving slowly, like every step mattered. She followed a few minutes later after rinsing the sticky watermelon juice off her hands, padding barefoot down the hallway.

By the time she got there, Jake had already changed Robert into a soft cotton sleeper. He was leaning over the crib now, carefully lowering the baby down with the kind of tenderness that no one expected from Jake Seresin—but that she saw every single day.

When Robert was settled, Jake didn’t rush out. He stayed, one hand resting on the edge of the crib, watching him like he couldn’t quite pull himself away. Y/N stood in the doorway, arms folded across her chest—not closed off, just holding onto something.

“Does he ever feel real to you?” she asked quietly. “Bob, I mean.”

Jake turned to look at her. He knew better than to answer quickly.

“Yeah,” he said after a long pause. “Not always. But yeah.”

She nodded. Her voice was soft. “Sometimes I still catch myself thinking I’ll turn around and he’ll be coming through the door.”

Jake crossed the room slowly. He didn’t touch her yet. He stood close, close enough for her to feel the heat of him, the steadiness. “I think he’s here in a lot of ways,” he said. “In Robert. In you.”

“And you?” she asked, eyes flicking up to his.

His smile was slow, sad, and honest. “I try my best. I think if he’s watching, he’d want that.”

She reached out and took his hand then. Finally. Laced their fingers together. She looked up at him and said, “You do more than your best.”

Jake didn’t say anything. He just squeezed her hand.

They turned the nightlight on and walked quietly out of the nursery, down the short hallway into the kitchen, where the last bits of light from the outside faded into dusk.

“I’m gonna make some tea,” she said. “You want some?”

Jake nodded. “Sure.”

He sat at the kitchen table while she boiled water, then grabbed two mugs from the cabinet. The moment didn’t need to be filled with words. It was all there in the quiet: the clinking of the spoon against ceramic, the hum of the kettle, the faint buzz of the baby monitor on the counter.

When she finally brought the tea over, Jake had already settled back into his chair, legs stretched out, one hand resting across the table. She placed his mug in front of him and sat in the chair beside him—closer than usual.

“You’re staying tonight,” she said.

He blinked at her, caught off guard. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she confirmed. “But not on the couch.”

He hesitated. “You sure?”

She nodded once. “It’s been a long year, Jake. You deserve a bed.”

So did she.

So later, when the mugs were empty and the dishes were rinsed and the house was truly still, they found their way to the bedroom—not in a rush, not with urgency. Just in soft steps and familiar quiet.

They climbed into bed fully clothed. She curled into him, her head resting on his chest, his arm around her waist. There was no pressure. No tension. Just two people who had walked through hell and were learning how to breathe again.

Jake kissed the top of her head once.

And she whispered into the dark, “Thank you for not leaving.”

He squeezed her tighter and murmured, “I never could.”

And with the weight of the day behind them and the hum of the baby monitor whispering softly in the distance, they both closed their eyes. Not because they had forgotten. But because, at least for now, they felt safe.

———

Three months passed.

The house was still quiet most mornings, still filled with soft light and softer memories, but things felt different now. Warmer. Steadier.

Jake didn’t sleep on the couch anymore.

He hadn’t for weeks. Not since that rainy Friday night when Robert had a fever, and Y/N climbed into bed and pulled Jake in with her like it was the most natural thing in the world. Since then, the nights belonged to all three of them. Jake’s hand often rested somewhere over hers as they slept — or on her waist, or tangled in her hair. He never reached for more. He never needed to.

But Y/N had started reaching back.

It was slow at first — brushing his shoulder in the kitchen, pressing her cheek to his chest when they stood too long by the laundry machine. Then one morning, after a shared cup of coffee, she kissed him goodbye on the cheek.

Now? It wasn’t unusual to find her curled against him at the end of the day, Baby Robert tucked between them. It wasn’t strange when her lips found his jaw as she passed behind him, or when his hand held hers as they strolled through the grocery store.

Affection had taken root — not in a rush, but like something planted deep. Solid. Grown from grief and gentleness.

Jake had learned all the rhythms of their little life. He knew which sippy cup Robert preferred. He knew how Y/N took her coffee and which brand of lotion she used. He’d installed a nightlight in the hallway, because she confessed once that sometimes the dark still scared her.

She’d learned him, too.

She knew his quiet wasn’t distant, it was observant. She knew he carried tension in his shoulders when he worried. And she noticed the way he smiled — soft and almost shy — when she kissed his forehead without saying a word.

It was late on a Sunday afternoon now.

Baby Robert had fallen asleep early, worn out from the splash pad and too much sun. He was sprawled out in the crib, damp curls clinging to his forehead, cheeks rosy from the heat.

Y/N stood in the doorway watching him, one arm folded across her chest, the other resting on the doorframe. Jake came up behind her, pressing a slow kiss to her shoulder.

“Wiped him out,” he whispered.

She smiled. “That nap’s gonna last ‘til morning.”

They made their way back to the living room, settling into the couch without much thought. Her legs across his lap. His fingers absentmindedly tracing little shapes into her calf.

She looked at him.

He looked back.

And for no particular reason at all, she leaned in and kissed him.

It was a soft, easy kiss — not desperate or fast. Not because they needed something. Just because it felt right. Like breathing. Like safety.

“I like this,” she murmured, forehead resting against his.

“Yeah?” he asked.

She nodded. “You. Us. All of it.”

Jake didn’t say much. He just kissed her again, slower this time. Then he tucked her in close, and they sat like that until the sun dipped behind the trees and the world turned quiet again.

They were building something — slow and sacred. Not to replace what was lost, but to honor it. To keep going. Together.

———

Christmas morning came softly.

No snow, not here, but the cold had settled in deep overnight. The windows fogged at the corners, the grass silver with frost. Inside, the house smelled like cinnamon and pine. The little tree Jake picked out from a lot by the naval base stood in the corner of the living room, decorated with mismatched ornaments and a crooked star that leaned just slightly to the right.

There were only a few wrapped gifts under the tree. Just enough. More than enough.

It was still dark when Y/N stirred. She reached out instinctively — not for the baby monitor, but for Jake. He was already awake, lying there beside her, quiet.

“You’re not sleeping,” she whispered.

Jake shook his head, eyes still on the ceiling. “Too excited.”

She smiled sleepily. “You know he’s not gonna care about the presents.”

Jake shrugged. “Still wanted it to be a good morning.”

A pause. Then she pressed her face into his shoulder, let herself linger.

“It already is.”

They stayed like that for a few minutes — a silent stretch of warmth before the day began. Then, predictably, the soft little fuss of Baby Robert from the other room broke the quiet. Y/N groaned, but Jake was already sitting up.

“I got him,” he said.

She didn’t argue.

Jake padded out of the bedroom barefoot, tugging his sweatshirt over his head. She could hear his voice down the hallway — low, gentle, full of warmth. By the time she reached the living room, Robert was on his hip, chubby fists tugging at Jake’s hair, his sleep-warm face tucked into his dad’s — no — Jake’s neck.

That thought still caught her sometimes.

Jake wasn’t Bob. Would never be Bob. But he was here. And watching him press a kiss to Robert’s temple — murmuring something about Santa Claus and cinnamon rolls — she felt her heart catch in her throat.

She turned toward the kitchen without speaking, needing something to do with her hands.

She made coffee. Poured juice. Heated the prepped breakfast she’d made the night before — the one with Bob’s mom’s recipe card tucked under the magnet on the fridge.

She set the plates down as Jake came back in, Baby Robert now fully awake and babbling nonsense. His hair was a mess. His onesie said “My First Christmas.” Jake said nothing when he saw the mist in Y/N’s eyes. Just stepped forward and kissed her cheek.

“Let’s open a couple before breakfast,” he said softly.

She nodded.

Jake sat cross-legged on the floor, Robert in his lap, tearing at the corners of wrapping paper like he didn’t fully understand but liked the noise anyway. They opened a picture book. A stuffed giraffe. A soft blanket embroidered with Robert’s name. Then a tiny pair of sneakers that Y/N hadn’t even remembered buying.

Jake smiled.

“You’re really doing this, huh?” he said. “All of it.”

“So are you,” she replied.

He didn’t say anything to that. Just reached for one last gift — this one small, wrapped in plain paper with a red ribbon.

“This one’s for you,” he said quietly.

She looked at him. “I told you not to—”

“I know,” Jake cut her off. “Just open it.”

She did. Inside was a simple silver chain, barely-there elegant, with a tiny locket no larger than her fingertip.

She opened it.

One side had a photo of Baby Robert, gummy smile and soft curls.

The other… Bob. In uniform. Looking off-camera, laughing.

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Jake looked down. “I didn’t mean to overstep, I just… I thought maybe you’d want to have both of them close.”

Y/N was crying now, quietly, chin trembling as she reached across and held his face in both hands. She kissed him, once, softly. Then again.

“You didn’t overstep,” she whispered.

They ate breakfast cross-legged on the floor, still in pajamas. Baby Robert mashed cinnamon roll into his lap. Jake spilled coffee on the wrapping paper. The lights twinkled behind them, and Y/N felt something like peace settle in her chest.

It was a different Christmas. A new one. A quieter one.

But it was filled with love. And laughter. And memory.

And it was enough.

———-

It started with Phoenix.

She was the first one to notice. Not because she was nosy — though she was, proudly — but because she looked. She’d always been the one to watch for what wasn’t being said.

So when Jake showed up to the Hard Deck with a diaper bag slung over one shoulder and a teething ring hanging off his finger like it was a keychain, she raised an eyebrow. When Y/N walked in five minutes later — cheeks pink from the wind, Baby Robert asleep against her chest — Phoenix just knew.

Jake stood a little too fast when he saw them. Took the diaper bag. Fixed the strap on Y/N’s coat. Brushed her hand without meaning to — or maybe meaning to.

Phoenix didn’t say anything at first. Just watched.

They were all there — Rooster, Payback, Fanboy, Coyote, even Bob’s old instructor who came around from time to time just to “check in.” Margaret had flown back home the week before. It was just them now. Just the chosen family.

And for the first time, it really felt like it.

“Look who’s here,” Rooster said, standing to hug Y/N. His hand went instinctively to Robert’s back, gentle as ever. “Little man’s getting huge.”

“Solid food’ll do that,” Jake said, like he hadn’t been the one feeding him mashed bananas and singing lullabies with the lights off two nights ago.

Robert stirred, and Y/N rocked slightly, instinctively. “He’ll probably wake up in a minute.”

Fanboy stood with a mock-serious expression. “We’ve got two bets running — first word after Mama, and who he likes best.”

Jake scoffed. “It’s me.”

“You’re not even related,” Payback said.

Jake blinked. “Don’t need to be.”

It came out too fast. Too sure.

The silence that followed was small, but sharp.

Y/N looked over at him. Jake didn’t look away. Not from her. Not from the team.

Phoenix cleared her throat. “You two want to sit?”

They did.

Jake settled beside Y/N, shoulder pressed lightly to hers, and Baby Robert slowly stirred in her arms. His eyes fluttered open, and his little fist curled around Y/N’s necklace. His face turned, bleary-eyed, until it found Jake — and he smiled.

Rooster saw it.

He leaned toward Phoenix. “He does kinda look at Jake like he hung the moon.”

Phoenix didn’t answer. Not right away. She was still watching Y/N.

Watching how she looked at Jake now — how she softened when he wiped something off Robert’s cheek, how she smiled when he murmured that quiet “hey buddy” that no one else ever heard but her.

“How long’s it been?” she finally asked.

Y/N looked up, a little startled. “Since what?”

“Since it stopped hurting when he walked into the room.”

Y/N blinked.

Jake froze.

And Y/N, voice quiet, finally said, “I don’t think it’s stopped. I just think… it doesn’t hurt alone anymore.”

There was a long pause.

Then Phoenix stood, walked across the table, and wrapped her arms around Y/N. Not with pity. With relief.

“I just wanted to make sure it was love,” she said into Y/N’s hair. “Not loneliness.”

Jake looked down, swallowing hard.

Rooster clapped a hand on Jake’s back, squeezing hard. “You’re doing good, man.”

“I’m just trying to be there.”

“You are.”

Baby Robert laughed — full and sudden — like he was thrilled the attention was finally back on him. Jake lifted him easily, holding him high, and Y/N smiled through glassy eyes as she watched Robert squeal and reach for Jake’s nose.

Phoenix stepped back, wiping at her own cheek.

“You ever think Bob would’ve been mad?”

Y/N looked over.

“No,” she said. “I think he would’ve picked Jake, too.”

Jake didn’t say anything. But he sat back down, Robert cradled to his chest, Y/N leaning into his side. The team talked around them — stories, jokes, old flights, new drama. But the whole time, Jake and Y/N were this quiet thing in the corner, wrapped in toddler giggles and warm glances and the kind of love that didn’t ask for permission — only patience.

The first time Bob’s name was brought up, it was by Rooster.

“You know, he would’ve made fun of Jake for the diaper bag.”

Y/N laughed. “Bob made fun of everyone.”

Fanboy grinned. “Except you.”

“Even me,” she said softly. “Especially me.”

Jake smiled, but said nothing.

That night, when they left, Phoenix pulled Y/N into a quiet hug before she climbed into the car. Whispered, “I’m proud of you. For loving again. And for letting him love you.”

And for once, Y/N didn’t flinch.

———

As soon as they pulled into the driveway, Robert started kicking his little feet against the car seat, a soft stream of babbles bubbling out of his mouth like music.

Jake parked the car and turned with a grin. “Think he knows we’re home?”

Robert squealed in reply — a loud, delighted sound, followed by a stream of nonsense syllables: “Da-da-ba! Ga-go!”

Y/N unbuckled her seatbelt with a tired smile. “I don’t know what he’s saying, but he’s definitely saying it with conviction.”

Jake climbed out and opened the back door, and Robert’s arms immediately shot up. “Mm!” he insisted, hands grasping, brows furrowed like why are we even talking when I clearly need to be picked up.

“Okay, okay, come here,” Jake murmured, lifting him out of the seat. Robert’s arms instantly wrapped around his neck as he pressed his cheek into Jake’s shoulder.

Y/N stepped up next to them, brushing her fingers over Robert’s wild curls. “Someone’s feeling cuddly.”

Robert didn’t say anything — just nuzzled closer into Jake’s shirt with a soft sigh.

“He’s wiped,” Jake said gently. “Too much excitement. We wore him out.”

Y/N leaned her head on Jake’s arm as they stepped toward the porch, Robert still pressed against his chest, little fingers twitching against Jake’s collar.

Inside, the house was dim and warm and quiet. Jake set Robert down just inside the door, and instantly — without a single word — the toddler took off with that stumbling run that made both of them instinctively reach out, even when they knew he was okay.

Robert plopped himself down next to the basket of toys and started digging through it with fierce purpose, babbling softly to himself.

Y/N watched him for a moment, heart aching with love.

“He doesn’t have to talk yet,” she said quietly. “He says everything he needs to.”

Jake looked at her — that small smile on his face, the one that meant I know what you mean.

“I get it,” he said. “He’s already got your eyes. He’s got Bob’s heart.”

Robert let out another string of happy nonsense, holding up a stuffed plane in each hand and waving them at the sky.

And even though he wasn’t speaking yet — not really — Y/N felt it in her bones:

We’re home.

———

(another time skip because if i write more this will be a 6 hour story)

It crept up quietly, the way the seasons shifted — one soft day folding into the next, cool mornings turning into sunny afternoons, and before she knew it, Y/N was crossing off days on the calendar until Baby Robert’s second birthday.

Two.

He was almost two.

Nine months of raising him side-by-side with Jake. Nine months of slow, deliberate healing. Nine months of leaning into something that neither of them had rushed but had still somehow found a home in.

Jake hadn’t said I love you yet, not in words. But he said it in other ways — in every late-night bottle, every early-morning diaper run, every afternoon walk where he carried Robert on his shoulders and pointed out the clouds like they were constellations.

He’d built them a life without asking for anything in return.

Y/N stood at the counter one quiet Thursday morning, scribbling a grocery list for Robert’s small birthday gathering. They weren’t doing anything huge — just the Dagger Squad, Margaret if she could make the flight, and maybe a few of their neighbors who’d become familiar faces.

She heard them before she saw them. Jake and Robert, stomping their way in from the backyard, Robert laughing in that gasping, hiccuping way he did when something was really funny. He was covered in grass stains and sunscreen, his curls wild, his mouth sticky from whatever Jake had bribed him with to stay outside for twenty minutes.

Jake came in right behind him, lifting Robert into the air like he weighed nothing. “We’re home,” he said with a grin.

Y/N smiled, brushing her hands on a dish towel. “Did he eat the blueberries or just squish them?”

Jake looked at Robert, who had a suspicious purple smear across his shirt.

“Little of both,” Jake said, kissing Robert’s cheek before setting him down. “He tried to feed one to a butterfly.”

Y/N laughed, already wiping Robert’s hands. “That’s very generous of him.”

Robert ran off toward the hallway, babbling something they didn’t quite understand, and Jake leaned against the counter beside her.

She glanced up. “You realize he’s almost two.”

“I know,” Jake said, looking after him with a softness in his eyes. “It’s wild.”

Y/N paused, pen still in hand. “You’ve been doing this with me almost every day for the past year.”

Jake turned his eyes to her. “I’d do it for the rest of my life if you let me.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t awkward. It was full — charged with something deeper than any birthday plans or party balloons. It was the kind of quiet that holds a thousand unsaid things.

She met his eyes. “We’re really doing this, aren’t we?”

“We are,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Robert’s footsteps echoed from the hallway. He appeared a moment later with a stuffed bear in one hand and a sandal in the other. “Boo-boo bear!” he announced proudly, offering the bear to Jake.

Jake took it like it was priceless. “Thanks, buddy. He looks like he needed a nap.”

Y/N watched them — the man who had stepped into this chaos without flinching, and the little boy who had unknowingly saved her.

Two years. She had survived two years since Bob.

And now, somehow, she was planning their son’s second birthday with the man who had loved them both through every impossible moment.

———

There were tiny paper airplanes hanging from the tree branches in the backyard, swaying lazily in the spring breeze. Some were blue, some yellow, and one or two had clearly been colored by toddler hands, their crayon markings outside the lines but proudly intentional.

A hand-painted banner stretched across the back fence — Happy 2nd Birthday, Little Aviator!

It had been Jake��s idea. He’d shown up a week ago with a box full of supplies and a sheepish smile.

“He doesn’t know what it means,” he said. “But maybe one day he will. And you will. Because I know how much it means to you.”

The Dagger Squad had shown up hours early. Phoenix had made a balloon arch. Fanboy had somehow become the unofficial face painter. Rooster was on the grill, pretending he wasn’t too sentimental about the fact that the little boy with Bob’s middle name was now running around calling him “Woo-Woo.”

Y/N stood in the middle of it all, barefoot in the grass, watching her son wobble-run toward Jake, who was crouched down with open arms and a big grin.

Robert had grown into his name more and more every day. He had Bob’s thoughtful quietness and that little tilt to his head when he was curious. But he had Jake’s boldness, too — this fearlessness when he ran, like the whole world was waiting for him to explore it.

He crashed into Jake’s arms, giggling, and Jake lifted him easily, settling him on his hip like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was. It had become second nature — they had.

Margaret sat nearby with a cupcake in hand, talking to Bob’s old commanding officer who’d come just to see her grandson. She caught Y/N’s eye and gave her a smile. It was a little misty, but she looked happy.

“You okay?” Phoenix’s voice was soft behind her.

Y/N nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

She turned just in time to see Jake handing Robert a little cupcake of his own. Vanilla with light blue frosting. A small silver star on top.

“Go ahead, buddy,” Jake said gently. “Make a mess.”

Robert looked up at him with a huge smile, then dove face-first into the frosting.

Y/N laughed through the sudden tears in her eyes.

It wasn’t perfect. It would never be simple. But it was real. It was love. And it was theirs.

Later, when the sun dipped low and guests had said their goodbyes, Y/N and Jake sat on the couch with a frosting-sticky toddler between them, both of them leaning against one another with soft smiles and tired hearts.

“He loved it,” Jake murmured, brushing a bit of cake out of Robert’s curls. “Our little pilot.”

“He did,” she said. “And Bob would’ve, too.”

Jake didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “I think… he already knows.”

She looked over at him, her hand settling gently over his.

And in the quiet hum of the house — balloons swaying gently in the corners, leftover cake in the kitchen, and Robert asleep between them — she realized something.

This wasn’t a life she had planned.

But it was the one she was still lucky to live.

———-

The last balloon popped under Jake’s foot around 9:12 PM.

“Sorry,” he winced, glancing toward the hallway in case it woke the baby. But the monitor stayed quiet, the faint sound of white noise still humming. “That was the last one.”

Y/N snorted from where she was sweeping cupcake crumbs into a dustpan. “It had a good run.”

The house was finally clean again — mostly. Stray ribbons curled under furniture, a forgotten plastic fork on the window ledge. But it was quiet now. Still.

Jake stretched his arms over his head, back cracking as he moved toward the kitchen. “I’ll take him down. He’s out cold anyway.”

Robert had fallen asleep in the soft pile of blankets and pillows they’d made in the living room, utterly wiped from the excitement. His little socks were mismatched. His cheeks were still sticky from cake.

Y/N followed, watching as Jake scooped him up like second nature, like muscle memory. He brushed a kiss to the top of Robert’s head before disappearing down the hallway.

She leaned against the counter, scanning the fridge automatically, mostly out of habit. There were a few leftover bottles of water, a covered tray of deviled eggs, and—

“Damn it,” she whispered.

The gallon of milk sat in the fridge door, light as air when she lifted it. Not even enough for cereal in the morning.

Jake returned just in time to see her grabbing her keys.

“Hey,” he said, brow furrowing. “Where are you going?”

She held up the empty gallon. “Just the corner store. Two minutes. I’ll be back before you finish the dishes.”

He hesitated. “I can go—”

“You just wrangled twenty sugar-high adults and a toddler with frosting in his ears. I’ve got this.”

Jake looked like he wanted to argue, but he nodded instead. “Okay. Text me if they don’t have your oat milk.”

She grinned. “It’s California. They’ve got oat, almond, cashew, and probably yak milk.”

Jake chuckled, walking her to the door. “Be careful, alright?”

“I will. Lock the door behind me.”

She kissed his cheek, soft and familiar, before stepping into the quiet night.

The street was still. The porch light clicked off behind her as she got into the car, started the engine, and backed out of the driveway.

The store was only seven minutes away.

She never made it.

The screech of tires was the last thing she heard — sharp and sudden, like the world cracking wide open.

The headlights that weren’t supposed to be there.

The sickening crunch of steel on steel.

Everything turned upside down.

Her phone buzzed once in the cupholder.

From Jake.

“You forgot your wallet.”

But she didn’t see it.

The world went silent.

And then: black.

[lackinggravitas]

part seven :) of stan if coyote at heart….

i miss when i was able to write these in a week...... study hall i'll mourn you forever. i mean that and i think the chapters were shorter back then but ya know

heads up: probably going to take the ao3 version off of anon. because i should put a little more bravery in my life. so yea, if you see it under an ao3 account, no theft going on there, just the same old me :-)

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / part 7 (you are here!) / part 8 (eventually)

ao3 vers

The sky hung overcast and gray above the bay. Muted and dull wood piers rotted where they stood, and the ocean was tepid and slow as it lapped at the sand. 

Ford inhaled slow, the brine, sea-weed and cigarette smell filling his lungs like a haze, breathing life into every cell. He let his eyes slip closed, and the sounds of distant, muffled Jersey accents and the rocking ocean washing over him in languid waves. Somewhere, a swingset creaked. 

Letting his eyes drift open again, Ford took a moment to take it all in. The gray sand, the muted colors of the glass embedded in it. The sailboats, far away on the horizon. The dull, sluggish sea stretching out before him.

Then he stepped forward, and began to walk.

The beach seemed to yawn on forever. The buildings of Glass Shard Beach were all blurry and indistinct; even though Ford could have sworn he remembered each building and each street in exacting detail, more than he could even remember his own mother’s eye color. He’d spent every spare moment of his childhood wandering, trying to escape that house for as long as he could. 

But now all he could parse in any vividity was the sea, and the jagged edges of glass in the sand.

A fog Ford hadn’t realized was there peeled back, revealing the rickety boardwalk. The smallest of smiles drifted across Ford’s face - he walked a little faster, glass cracking underneath his steps. 

The wind sighed, rustling through his hair. The sand was oddly damp, making a wet sound as he walked, leaving the distinct marks of his boots behind him. 

Wood rotting, the boardwalk seemed to groan under its own weight. Barnacles and mussels clung to its stiff legs, algae and sea-grass growing in the wood that had been discolored from the unrelenting hand of the tide. At present, it was low tide - the sea shrank back from the beach, gathering at the last dredges of bank, seeming to watch Glass Shard Beach with glittering eyes.

Ford had one hand on the edge of the boardwalk and a foot on one of the supports under the bridge, about to hoist himself up the side, when he heard it. 

It was a faraway, distant call, but it stopped Ford dead in his tracks, every muscle seizing, frozen. It wasn’t the same as the indistinct, garbled voices he could hear from the boardwalk, from the street beyond the beach - this one was clearer. This one was trying to say something. 

“-xer!”

“Sixer!”

“Stanley?” Ford rasped, hands suddenly shaking. Gathering his voice, he shouted, “Stanley! Is that you?”

“Sixer!”

Ford threw himself off of the side of the boardwalk, hurrying down the beach. He couldn’t tell where Stanley’s voice was coming from - his eyes scoured the beach, the sea, the town, but he couldn’t see him. He couldn’t see anyone - where was everyone? The beach was never good but people still went there. Swimmers and divers, sunbathers and seashell-collectors, it was low tide, there should have been someone, but Ford was utterly alone-

“Sixer!”

“Stanley! I’m over here! Where are you?” Ford ran over the sand, whipping his head back and forth, trying to catch a glimpse, just a single glimpse, of his brother. 

He found nothing. There was no-one in the windows of the houses, no one in their cars, no one walking down the street, no one on the beach. Looking back, he could see even the boardwalk was empty. 

He was utterly, completely alone. 

“Sixer, hey Sixer!” Stanley’s voice called to him, voice light and laughing, just like Ford remembered it. Like a child calling someone over to see something. 

“Stanley! Are you hiding? This isn’t funny!” Ford planted his feet in the damp sand, looking around wildly. “Where are you?”

“Sixer!” Stanley’s voice called back.

“Stanley!” Ford called back, voice going thin with desperation. “Stanley, please!”

The sea rumbled. The water rose, dashing against the boardwalk, against Ford’s ankles. The tide was rising. The sharp calls of gulls rose in the air, the sky darkening, the wind rushing in Ford’s ears. 

“Sixer, Sixer!” Stanley’s voice called, except he didn’t sound happy anymore. “Sixer!”

The water was crashing against Ford’s mid-calf now, and it smelt like sharp iron and rot. He tried to run, but the water only seemed to rise, and he kept feeling something hit his legs. So he looked down.

Floating belly-up from the water, washed up from the waves, were fish. Dead fish, silvery black scales rotting off their pale bones. Glassy, empty eyes. There were more and more of them with every incoming wave, the growing smell so putrid Ford gagged with it. 

“Stanley, where are you?” Ford shouted, looking everywhere and nothing. “I can’t follow your voice- please, where-”

“Sixer!” Stanley screamed, and it barely carried over the deafening roar of the wind and the sea, and it was all Ford could hear. 

Every higher thought stopped, and Ford’s head was just Stanley, Stanley, where is Stanley, he’s gone, I can’t find him, I can’t, I have to, he needs me-

The beach was gone. The ocean consumed it, Ford was up to his waist in water - the sea was roaring, an all-consuming sound, and there were dead fish in the water, dozens, hundreds, sloughing like sickly rot. 

“Stanley! Can you hear me? I’m here, Stanley!” Ford ran clumsily, fast as he could, but the waves smashed against him, rocking on his feet, and the water was rising. 

Up to his chest now, the stench of death choking his lungs, and he gagged with it, heaving, but he had to find Stanley.

“Sixer!” Stanley’s voice shrieked, terrified, and it was the worst sound Ford had ever heard.

“Stanley!” Ford cried. 

The sea and wind howled in his ears, bashing into him, waves frothing and foaming, and where was Stanley, he had to find Stanley-

“Stanley! Please, where are you- Stanley!” Ford tried lunging forward, tried to run, but the sand gave underneath his feet, sending him crashing down into the red water - red? It tasted like copper, why did it taste like copper - white foam and slick, cloying crimson water swallowing him, yanking him down. 

Ford’s eyes burned from the salt. Something bumped into his side - he glanced over to see the blurry shape of rotting fish. Hundreds. Thousands. Dead fish and blood, and he was swimming in it.

Ford shot out of the water with a strangled shout, lunging towards where the shore should have been - but there was nothing, just boiling red sea of hate, growing and growing, and he was alone. 

His mouth tasted like copper and the ocean roared in his ears and waves slammed continuously against him, and he was the only person in the world.

A dead fish looked up at him, floating right in front of him, a fishhook skewered, gouged deep in its scales, wound gurgling blood. Ford’s shaking hands reached out without conscious thought, plucking the fish up, holding it gently in trembling hands. The only thing he could control.

Its body moved gently underneath his fingers, scales shifting with an unnaturally breathing body. It looked up at him, glassy eyes and bloodied scales, and it blinked. 

“Sixer?” it croaked up at him, blood and spittle frothing out of its mouth, oozing out around the gouged hook. Its eyes were glassy and unseeing, and its voice was so small, and so scared. “Is that you?”

Wakefulness came to Ford without clarity. 

The dream- nightmare still clung to the edges of his consciousness, and for a moment he almost thought it had been real, in that hazy, unlucid sense. But there was no sand and salt clinging to his hair and clothes, no fish-grime or blood on his hands. His cheek was pressed into a solid, unyielding surface. There were no waves, and no water. 

A dream, Ford realized. It was just a dream.

It had felt real. His heart still pounded with phantom adrenaline. His breath still felt short and fleeting in his lungs, like he could lose it if he wasn’t careful. 

As reality slowly came back to him, he let out a soft groan, throwing a hand over the back of his head and squeezing his eyes shut. 

That wasn’t a new nightmare. He’d been having it for a very, very long time. 

He’d almost thought he’d grown past it at this point. He’d thrown himself into his studies at a young age, dedicating himself more and more to outrun that pervasive feeling of emptiness. To fill the hollow cavern yawning inside his chest where the very foundation of his heart had been carved out. 

His studies kept him from the thoughts that doggedly haunted him. Thoughts of Stanley, thoughts of the missing persons case going cold on some desk somewhere, all of the what-ifs and if-onlys.

He balled his fist in hair, fingers tangling in the short, curly strands. He was too old to be having nightmares. 

(It was the tugging on his bedsheets that woke him up, blinking blearily awake, eyes adjusting to see his dark, blurry ceiling, shadowed shapes coming into focus. He rolled over, squinting at the guardrail on his bunk, the wrinkle in his sheets, and the small fist pulling insistently on them.

“Stanley?” Stanford spoke into the dark, voice still groggy with sleep. “...did you have a nightmare?”

“...mhmm,” came Stanley’s fear-tight reply. He stopped pulling on Stanford’s bedsheets, but his hand didn’t leave either, resting there, loosely grasping sheets in his still tense hand.

Stanford sighed softly, rubbing his eyes with a soft huff. He shimmied out of bed without another word, clambering down the ladder - it was a big bed, the same one their uncles had slept on, a long time ago. The gaps were wide, window-like for the small Stanford - he could see, in the blur and the dark, his brother's huddled form. 

Climbing down was less like actual climbing and more like calculated falling and catching himself for Stanford, but he was used to it. He awkwardly shambled down, sitting down on Stanley’s bunk and shuffling over to him. 

Stanley had huddled in the corner of his bed, back to the wall, and yanked his blankets over his head, so that he looked more like a mass of blankets than a boy. Stanford pulled on the blankets, peeling them up a few inches to look into Stanley’s eyes, still wide and fraught with tension. 

“Hi,” Stanley whispered.

“Hello,” Stanford whispered back. “Care for a gam?”

That got Stanley frowning at him, face curling up in a pout. “M’ a pirate, Sixer, not a whaler. You’re supposed to ask for permission to come aboard.”

“Sorry. Can I come aboard?” 

“Permission to-”

“Permission to come aboard, Captain Stanley?” Stanford amended quickly. He tugged at the blankets. “Come on, you have to.” 

“You should say please more often,” Stanley admonished, but he still lifted his grip enough to allow Stanford to wiggle in next to him, and he still tucked his nose into Stanford’s shoulder when he got close enough, hiding from the world behind his brother, like a shadow.

The blankets went over both of their heads, and Stanford mused absently that it was going to get rather stuffy in here if Stanley didn’t let up soon. Hiding under blankets was only a comfort for so long, before the trapped heat and stifled air got to you. 

Worries for later. It was comforting enough now. 

Stanford wrapped his arms around his brother, hand coming up to pet Stanley’s hair in a way he’d learned from Ma. It always got Stanley calming fast, fear dropping away beneath the comfort of it. 

Whenever Stanford had bad days or nightmares of his own, Stanley would do the same for him - wrap him up, let him hide from cruel edges and stares of the world digging into his back, talking low, running a hand up and down his back, a steady lighthouse. 

Stanford’s method of easing Stanley was a little different. He was never so good with words like Stanley was - where Stanford could carefully string together detailed, exacting diatribes to spool out onto the page in written word, Stanley always seemed to know exactly what to say in the moment. He had their Ma’s showman, conman tongue, quicksilver and catlike. 

So Stanford didn’t talk to reassure. He talked to fill the silence, and to distract. 

“Want to hear a story?” Stanford asked in the quiet between them. 

“Don’t go,” Stanley answered immediately. Stanford wasn’t very good at making things up on the spot like Stanley was - an offer for a story was an offer to get up and grab a book. “Jus’ tell me about…” Stanley paused for a moment, thinking. “En-ki-doo.”

“Enkidu?” Stanley nodded against him. “See, I told you you’d like the Epic of Gilgamesh,” Stanford said smugly. “And you said it was boring-”

“Sixer…” Stanley grumbled into Stanford’s shoulder.

“Yes, yes, alright- how did it start again…” Stanford set his cheek on Stanley’s head, his brother’s hair tickling his face. Exhaling, watching Stanley’s hair rustle slightly in the artificial breeze. He squinted into nothing, trying to arrange the words in his head into the right order. “Once upon a time, there was a great king named Gilgamesh…”)

Crash!

Ford jerked up, the memory playing in his head grinding to a halt.

There was shouting from outside Ford’s office, banging and thumps. Not gnomes again, Ford thought immediately, half hysterical with the idea. The last thing he needed were gnomes. 

His eyes traced a path towards the diagrams and charts spread out on his desk, pinned up around him. He’d just woken up, but he suddenly felt so tired. His hand shook a bit, and he clenched it, trying to bite back the tremors. 

Then he stood, chair squeaking against the floor as he pushed himself off his desk and walking towards the noises. 

The door groaned softly as he pushed it open, peeking his head out and looking around. 

Remus whipped around the corner, raucous growling rumbling out of his chest. His gaze snapped to Ford, eyes widening slightly and bee-lining straight for him. 

A weight that Ford hadn’t fully realized was weighing him down eased slightly as Remus darted over to him. Ford widened the crack in the doorway without even thinking about it, letting Remus wiggle past and duck behind him, hunching flat on the ground and growling loudly. 

And then Fiddleford came thumping down the hallway, holding a baggy shirt in his hands and pinched expression on his face. He looked around the hall, before his eyes landed on Remus and he scowled. 

“There you are!” He stepped forward, causing Remus’ growling to grow louder. A flash of fear crossed Fiddleford’s face, but he visibly steeled himself. “This is ‘fer your own good. You can’t go running around buck-naked all the time, it just ain’t right.” 

“You’re trying to clothe him?” Ford asked.

“Emphasis on tryin’,” Fiddleford grumbled, frowning at Remus. “He’s bein’ more stubborn ‘bout it than I thought he would be.” 

Ford frowned slightly. “He does seem to be reacting more strongly than I might have thought he would.” He glanced down, seeing the way Remus held himself with rope-taut tension, the unceasing sound of his growling. “Did something happen?”

“Nothin’ all that outrageous,” Fiddleford said. “All I did was crouch down next ta’ him and try to put it on him - slowly, mind you, I ain’t a dunce. Didn’t even get it over his head ‘fore he started freakin’ out.”

“Hm.” Ford reached a hand up to absent-mindedly scratch at his stubble, trying to think. “Perhaps he’s claustrophobic?”

“I thought that too, but I don’t think that’s it. I mean, he was lookin’ pretty apprehensive the minute I took the shirt out, and it wasn’t even that close to him before he tried to bolt. I think it’s got something to do with the shirt itself.” 

Ford’s eyes flicked down to Remus again. He was eyeing the shirt, face tense, pulled back to show off his teeth. But it wasn’t offense, Ford could tell - he was on the defense, shoulders squared, gaze cautiously flitting around like he was trying to assure himself of an escape plan. 

“Hand it to me,” Ford said to Fiddleford suddenly, stretching a hand out to him expectantly. “I’ll try.”

Fiddleford gave him a doubtful look, but he passed the shirt over to him regardless. “I don’t think you’ll have any more luck than me,” he warned. 

“Let me try something. I have a theory.” 

The shirt was old looking, off-white with age and stained. It certainly wasn’t one of Ford’s - likely a spare shirt of Fiddleford’s, something he brought along if all else was unwearable. It was big too, big enough to be quite baggy on Ford, and likely engulf Fiddleford entirely if he wore it. It would be a roomy fit for Remus - not too tight as to agitate him, just loose enough, but not so much so that it would fall right off of him. 

It smelt of nothing in particular either. Just the faint fragrance of laundry detergent and something that could be defined as the smell of Fiddleford, barely a ghost in the threads. Rubbing a thumb along the fabric, he found that the texture wasn’t bad either - it was a simple, loose shirt, any uncomfortable edges long worn down to nothing. 

In essence, there was nothing wrong with the shirt. Just as Ford had suspected.

He moved aside a bit to give himself enough room to crouch down in front of Remus, knees hitting the wood floor with a soft thump.

Remus eyed him suspiciously, gaze flicking between Ford and the shirt like he thought it was about to jump at him. He hunched himself even more, torso nearly touching the floor with how low he crouched, everything about him radiating wariness. 

“Now, Remus,” Ford started, “You know Fiddleford here would feel more comfortable if you conducted yourself in a more, ah, civilized manner-”

Fiddleford made a face. “I wouldn’t say it like that-”

“-and really, I think you’ll find this shirt perfectly fine. You’re a tad bit smaller than me, weight-wise, so it should be quite comfortable. In fact, I think you’d like it, if you tried,” Ford continued unfalteringly, extending the shirt to Remus, holding it out to him invitingly. “Here, is it unfamiliar to you? Is that the problem?”

Remus shrank back when the shirt came out, growling unhappily. 

Ford simply waited. 

Hesitation hanging off of every movement, Remus slowly inched forward, reaching out to sniff at the shirt. He snorted softly at the smell of it, something like recognition flashing in his eyes. 

“Smells like Fiddleford, doesn’t it? See, it’s perfectly safe. Won’t bite you or anything like that,” Ford encouraged. “We’re just trying to help you.” 

The tension slowly leached out of Remus’ frame, and he sighed, becoming visibly calmer. The growling petered off and died entirely, and he exhaled, face going smooth with calm, and he looked at Ford cooly. 

“There you go,” Ford said. “No issue at all. Now let’s get this on you.”

But as soon as lifted the shirt up, holding it in such a way so as to easily slip it over Remus’ head, the newfound calm disappeared. Remus snarled loudly, gnashing his teeth warningly and backing up until his back was to Ford’s desk, eyes never leaving Ford, nor the shirt.

Ford raised an eyebrow. “That is odd.” 

He lowered the shirt, and Remus calmed slightly. He lifted it again, and Remus growled louder, letting out a soft huff of a bark.

Ford lowered the shirt again, dropping it onto his lap so that he could drum his fingers on the floor thoughtfully. “It’s as though it’s not the shirt itself that’s the issue, but perhaps the idea of wearing it - if he even understands that that's what we’re trying to do.”

Something between worry and dread mixed on Fiddleford’s face. “Now why would that be?”

Ford shrugged. “I can’t read his mind.” He paused, then brightened up. “Unless of course I use the spell the Shady Sorceress of the Swamp gave me to enter his mindscape and go through his thoughts!”

Fiddleford opened his mouth, something admonishing clearly already on the tip of his tongue.

“If it was a robot instead of magic, would you think it was fine?” Ford interrupted him before he could even speak. 

“Well, I-” Fiddleford paused, thinking. “I… hm. Fair enough.”

“Quite,” Ford said primly, content to leave it at that. He gathered up the shirt, tucking it under an arm and standing up, free hand dusting himself off. “I don’t believe we’ll get any farther with this today. And as much as I’d truthfully love to go through Remus’s mind, I don’t want to get sidetracked. After the machine is finished, maybe.” 

Remus made a long-suffering, tired noise, slinking back until he’d ducked underneath Ford’s desk, eying the both of them warily, as though waiting for something. 

“Poor fella,” Fiddleford mumbled. “Ya gotta wonder how he turned out like this.” 

“There have been plenty of documented and undocumented cases of children being raised by wild animals. Though it certainly is odd to see in our modern day, what with technology being advanced as it is, and civilization so widespread across the globe…” Ford shook his head. “Nonetheless, Remus is far from the first. His behaviour is very reminiscent of the observed behaviour of other children in similar situations.” 

Fiddleford looked interested to hear that. “I wonder what methods folks used to help those kids then.” 

Ford shrugged. “Most of the articles I skimmed were vague on the specifics. I believe the library in town has more information, if you’d like to look into that.” 

Fiddleford shot him a frown. “I know you don’t think he’s yer brother, but even if you’re right, you outta be more interested in helpin’ the guy. It’s you he likes - pretty sure he just tolerates me for your sake.” 

“Nonsense, he likes you plenty. And, well-” Trailing off, Ford’s eyes drifted towards Remus, who he found was looking up at him, brown eyes wide under the cover of the shadows under the desk. “...I simply don’t understand your insistence, is all.” 

Fiddleford spluttered. “Stanford, he thinks he’s a dog!”

“Very few self-perceptions ever line up with reality - honestly, it’s quite common. This is just an extreme case.” Ford shook his head. “Look, he doesn’t seem unhappy as he is. What’s really the harm?”

“He ain’t living his life to the fullest,” Fiddleford said.

“How can we define that?” Ford argued. “Just because it seems strange to us?”

“Oh fer- it’s not ‘cause I think he’s weird, Stanford! It’s ‘cause this clearly ain’t good for him!” Fiddleford gestured towards Remus. “Lookit him! He looks like he hasn’t seen a decent meal in years! And humans ain’t meant to go walking around on our hands and knees - poor fella’s prolly got all sortsa’ joint pains.”

“Don’t we all?” Ford dismissed flippantly. “All I’m saying is, who are we to say what the right way to live is? What the right way to act is? Doesn’t that make us no better than the people that once harassed us for our perceived differences?” 

“That ain’t the same thing. We were… I dunno, we were weird, an’ awkward I guess, but we weren’t living some sort of life of delusion! I get where yer comin’ from and all, but Stanford, humans ain’t made to be living out in the woods without other people, eating raw meat and what have ya. He coulda’ gotten rabies, or lyme, or get eaten by fuckin’ cougar, or any number a’ things - to be frank, it’s a damn miracle he made it this long!”

Indignation flared alive in Ford’s chest. He knew Remus best - who was Fiddleford to tell him he was wrong? “Anyone can get diseases regardless of lifestyle, and Remus is an incredible individual in his own right. He can hold his own-”

“Doncha think he’s got family, Stanford?” Fiddleford suddenly burst out, throwing his arms out in exasperation. “How would you feel knowin’ your, your missing boy, boy was runnin’ around in the woods buck naked, thinkin’ he’s a dog?”

Ford faltered. Fiddleford seemed to be growing truly agitated now, and Ford wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. Does this strike more of a nerve for him than I realized? “...most cases of individuals raised by animals are actually cases of parental abandonment or orphaning, not wanted children going missing,” Ford tried, making an awkward there-there motion with his hands at Fiddleford. “The likelihood of such you’re proposing is probably, statistically, quite low-”

“And what if it was Stanley?” Fiddleford snapped. “What then?”

Ford’s mouth snapped shut on its own accord, his whole train of thought slamming to a halt.

If it was Stanley. If it was Stanley…

Despite his better judgement, he couldn’t help but consider that earnestly. If Stanley was walking around on all fours, ribs poking out of scarred skin, voice reduced to growling and barking. If Stanley thought he was a coyote…

A well of dread oozed up in Ford. “That would never happen,” Ford said weakly. 

“I said it was a hypothetical, didn’t I?” Fiddleford sighed roughly. “What good do we do Remus if we just let him go on as he is? He ain’t livin’, Stanford. He’s just surviving.”

A half-formed protest jumped up on Ford’s tongue - but then he remembered Stanley, pictured Stanley, and it died completely.

He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to.

“…do as you will,” Ford said eventually, mutedly. “Just don’t stress him - and don’t let it get in the way of our work.”

Fiddleford seemed as though he wanted to protest for a moment, but the look slid off his face quickly, replaced with acquiescence so quickly Ford wondered if he’d imagined the hesitancy. “Alright. If you think that’s what’s best.”

A moment of quiet passed.

"Fer the record, I'm sorry for fightin' wit' ya," Fiddleford said, a bit abruptly. "I don't like doin' it, never have. I just want to help S- Remus. You know that." He sighed.

Ford nodded stiffly. His eyes trailed over to Remus, who was still hunkered down underneath Ford’s desk watchfully. 

Remus met his gaze and held it, eyes like he was awaiting Ford’s next move. But the way he held himself, the way he seemed almost to slump onto the ground rather than crouch, belied less than exuberant amounts of energy. 

Just looking at him made Ford feel just as tired. 

“Let’s turn in for the night. We can get an early start in the morning,” Ford said decisively. He absent-mindedly juggled the shirt up and down in his hand for a moment - until accidentally overshot on his upswing a bit, causing to swing up in the air. He caught it, looking down at it, a bit startled. Had he been holding this the whole time? “Where’d you get this shirt, anyways? I don’t recognize it.” 

“Oh, that’s just a spare nightshirt of mine. Figured it’d fit him.” Fiddleford shrugged, reaching over to pluck it out of Ford’s hands - which Ford allowed easily. “Now what’s all this ‘bout goin’ to bed? Doesn’t sound like the Stanford I know - not that I’m complaining.” 

Scoffing, Ford turned to the door, moving towards the hall. “My sleep schedule is perfectly reasonable for a man such as myself; we’ve had this discussion many times, Fiddleford - I’m a scientist! I don’t have time to waste, I need every spare moment.” 

Remus, apparently deducing that the shirt threat had passed, hefted himself out from under the desk with a weary groan of a noise, stretching a leg as he lumbered after Ford. The injury from the gnomes had been healing superbly well - Remus barely even winced as he walked on all fours as he did, not limping at all. 

That salve was showing some real potential. Ford made a mental note to gather more supplies for it some time. 

“Furthermore,” Ford continued, a bit abashed, “I simply… do not wish to deal with the measures Remus takes when he deems it time to sleep. It’s best to remain a step ahead of him, to prevent it.”

Fiddleford skittered out of Remus’s path, shoes thumping on the hardwood as he practically flinched backwards. 

Hm. Not ideal - Fiddleford still wasn’t entirely comfortable around Remus, that much was clear. It was almost ironic - Ford had initially been worried more about how Remus would take to him, not much considering the inverse problem. 

Funny, then, how Remus barely even batted an eye at Fiddleford. Meanwhile, Fiddleford seemed to be consciously untensing from his little flinch, reminding himself to be calm. 

Something for them to work on, perhaps. 

But Ford shouldn’t let himself get so distracted.

“Goodnight Fiddleford,” Ford said briskly. “Rest well. We have a big day tomorrow.”

Fiddleford jerked a little, blinking like he was resurfacing out of his thoughts. “Wh- oh, yeah, g’night Stanford.” He paused, frowning a bit. “Big day?”

“We have a lot of preparation to do,” Ford said absent-mindedly, more preoccupied with side-stepping Remus and walking out into the hall than he was to paying attention to the conversation anymore. He’d already mentally checked it off as complete. 

“Preparin’ for what? What’s the preparing?” Fiddleford called after him. 

“For the machine,” Ford said, vaguely annoyed that he still had to keep talking even though they should clearly have concluded by now. “Goodnight!”

He didn’t flee down the hall, because he was Stanford Filbrick Pines, and he never did such a thing. No, he walked at a quick, business appropriate pace, because he had excellent time management that was telling him he ought to be done talking to people now. 

He was very professional. Remus, who followed ever-loyally behind him at his heels, clearly agreed. 

Ford flopped unceremoniously onto bed, kicking off his shoes as he dragged himself to the middle of the mattress. His head thumped against the pillow, reminding him that he had forgotten to take his glasses off again. Blindly, he pulled them off his face and dropped them towards the vicinity of his nightstand without looking, then shoved his face back into his pillow. 

Had his bed always been so comfortable? It was as though every muscle in his body unspooled from their tight cords on top of it, the vertebrae in his spine, so used to being hunched over a desk, finally being allowed to realign to a proper state. He groaned, going completely boneless in bed. 

No thoughts plagued his mind like they so often did in the dead of night. His mind was completely overworked, reduced, at the end of a hard day’s mental work, to a sluggish thing muttering contentedly about how comfortable his bed was. He’d forgotten how rewarding it was to throw himself completely into his research like that, to forget everything else. 

Working himself to exhaustion was an excellent cure for insomnia. 

Insomnia. Ford sighed. He’d almost managed to forget that nightmare, the one he’d had earlier, before Fiddleford and Remus had managed to distract him, keeping his mind blessedly too occupied to mull over it. 

Maybe he would have thought of it then, let the thoughts pull him away from the steady decline into sleep he’d almost achieved - before the bed creaked under another weight, and Ford cracked an eye to peer up at the blurry figure moving across the mattress towards him. For a moment his mind drew an utter blank at what he was even looking at - but then, like an old instinct blinking back to life, it clicked perfectly.

“Stanley?” He mumbled into his pillow, watching his brother lower himself down beside Ford, curling up like a dog. Ford reached a sleepy hand over, clumsily patting his brother’s shoulder. “...didja have a nightmare?”

No response. Ford hummed.

Reaching out, he pulled his brother into his arms, dropping his cheek on top of Stanley’s curly hair. Stanley struggled for a minute, before slowly relaxing. “S’ alright,” Ford mumbled. “Even… even Enkidu had nightmares sometimes…”

A soft sigh. His brother smelt kind of bad. Ford should make him shower tomorrow - or sometime, he thought, vaguely remembering he had things to do tomorrow. That’s why they had to go to bed early - he was goin’ on an adventure with his brother…

“Goodnight, Stan.” 

Stanley just huffed at him. Ford's last, conscious thought before he slipped back into the oblivion of sleep was a quiet, I wonder where Remus is. I bet Stanley would like to meet him. 

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[romanoffmazie]

[DAY ONE] - 1

Summary: She didn’t expect to fall apart in front of anyone—least of all him. But grief doesn’t ask permission.

Pairing: TFATWS Bucky Barnes x Neighbor reader (she/her)

Warnings/Tags: Pre-TFATWS, cursing, grief, emotional breakdown, loss, smoking (coping), emotional vulnerability. (Please let me know if I missed anything!)

Word Count: 2k

Note: Just a little idea that popped into my head while rewatching The Falcon and the Winter Soldier this week. Hope you enjoy!

It was an autumn afternoon. A Monday. You were on the train, heading home, and everything felt… wrong. The subway rocked gently beneath you, the steady clatter of the tracks echoing through the nearly empty car. Too quiet. Too still

You sat there frozen, your eyes unfocused. You weren’t really present. Not fully. Your body was in the seat, but your mind? It had already left. You felt like a shell. Hollow. Like if someone looked too closely, they’d see right through you.

There was this high-pitched buzzing in your ears, like your brain was short-circuiting. Your chest was tight, your breathing shallow. You couldn’t tell if it was panic or grief or rage or all three at once. You didn’t even know anymore.

You just knew it hurt.

And somehow, your body still moved. Off the train. Through the city. Past the noise, the people, the lights—all of it a blur. You didn’t feel real. None of it did.

And then you were pushing open the heavy rooftop door of your building.

Your spot.

The one place that always felt safe.

It was this old building mostly filled with retired people and little old ladies who baked too much banana bread, so no one ever came up here. Just you. And the occasional seagull.

The wind was cold. It hit your face like a slap, sharp and biting, and for some reason, it helped. Like a reminder that, yeah, you were still breathing. Barely. But breathing.

And then everything cracked.

You kicked the old red beach chair—your usual one—sending it clattering sideways. Your bag followed, tossed near the railing with a heavy thud.

Everything inside you was burning. Your chest, your throat, your eyes.

And you screamed.

Loud. Raw. Ugly. The kind of scream that didn’t have words, just pain. You screamed until your voice gave out and your knees hit the concrete, until your lungs burned and the tears spilled over in hot waves that wouldn’t stop.

You didn’t think it could hurt like this. It was day one. Just day one.

And it already felt like you were falling apart from the inside out.

“Shit,” you whispered, breath hitching as your hands flew up to cover your face. The tears only came harder. And honestly? You didn’t even care if anyone heard you.

It kinda felt like if you didn’t fall apart now, your chest might actually implode.

“Uh… hey.” The voice behind you made you freeze.

It was deep, rough—like it came from someone who hadn’t used it much. Or maybe someone who chose not to use it unless they really had to. Careful, cautious.

Like the words didn’t come easy.

You spun around way too fast, your heart doing a full Olympic sprint as your eyes landed on the man standing a few feet away.

“I—sorry,” he said quickly, both hands raised like he wasn’t sure if you were about to run or throw something. “I wasn’t trying to scare you. I was just… over there. And I don’t know. Figured I should say something? Maybe?”

You blinked at him, still breathless, still kind of in that dazed “what the hell is happening” mode. Your eyes followed the direction he’d gestured toward.

Corner of the rooftop. Blue beach chair. Two beer bottles. A small red notebook resting on the concrete beside it.

Cool. So he’d been there the whole time.

The. Whole. Time. Of course he had.

Your face was still wet, definitely blotchy, and your heart hadn’t really gotten the memo to chill yet. And to top it all off? You knew exactly who he was.

Bucky Barnes.

That Bucky Barnes. The one who used to be glued to Steve Rogers. The literal Captain America’s best friend.

That was pretty much all you knew.

Well—that, and the fact that about ten years ago, when you were fifteen, a bunch of shady SHIELD/HYDRA government files got leaked online and everyone freaked out. You, meanwhile, were way too busy obsessing over One Direction, wondering if Toby Kavanagh was A, and trying to convince your parents to let you dye your hair purple.

And then, like half the world, he vanished. You forgot about him. Completely. Until three months ago.

When he moved into your building. Wall to wall.

Naturally.

Because why wouldn’t a literal ex-assassin-war-hero-super-soldier move into your building just in time for your life to crash and burn. Right?

“You… you okay?” His voice was low and unsure. Like someone testing the water before stepping in. Careful. Like maybe he wasn’t used to asking questions like that. Or maybe just not used to asking anyone.

You didn’t look at him. Just let out a humorless laugh through your nose.

“Do I look okay?”

It came out sharp. Bitter. Not really meant for him, but it hit him anyway. You could tell by the way the silence shifted.

He cleared his throat. Scratched the back of his neck like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself.

“No,” he said finally. Plain. Quiet.

You didn’t say anything back.

Maybe on another day, you would’ve felt bad about it. About the tone. About snapping at a stranger who was—at least in theory—just trying to be nice.

But not today.

Today, you didn’t care. Today, you were allowed to break. Even if it wasn’t pretty.

You turned away from him without warning and crossed the rooftop again, over to one of the old sun-bleached beach chairs scattered around—the one red, slightly crooked from when you kicked it earlier. You set it upright, dropped your bag beside it with a soft thud, and sat down, pulling your knees up to your chest.

The city stretched in front of you in muted blues and silvers, the sky starting to dim, and for a second, you tried to lose yourself in it.

Didn’t work.

“I’ll be fine,” you said quietly, more out of habit than belief. Your fingers tapped against the worn cardboard of the cigarette pack until the last one slipped into your palm.

You didn’t smoke often. Only when your head felt like it might explode if you didn’t do something.

The first time had been at twenty, right after your parents had one of those fights. The kind that splits the ground beneath your feet and leaves you stuck staring at the pieces. Your family had always seemed solid. Clean. Easy to understand. Until it wasn’t.

Until you realized you couldn’t fix it.

So you smoked. One cigarette, just to feel like you were controlling something. And over time, it became… a thing. Not a habit. Just a coping mechanism that showed up when things got too heavy.

You lit the cigarette, shielding the flame from the wind, and took a long drag, the smoke burning your throat just enough to remind you that you were still here.

Behind you, he shuffled slightly. You could hear it. That awkward weight shift people do when they’re not sure if they should leave or stay.

“Uh… right. I’ll just… go back over there,” Bucky said. Hesitant. Like he didn’t want to intrude, but didn’t quite want to disappear either.

You didn’t look at him.

Didn’t answer. Just exhaled smoke slowly, watching it drift into the air like fog, and tried not to think about how raw everything still felt.

[…]

Bucky had noticed you.

Of course he had. How could he not?

He heard you humming at the hallway in the morning before work, soft and half-asleep, and sometimes late at night when you came home and forgot the world could hear you. He recognized the sound of your heels on the old wooden floors in the hallway, the quiet thud of your bag hitting your door, the way you always talked to someone — maybe a cat. Maybe a dog. Maybe just yourself.

And yeah… he heard the fights too.

Always with the same name: Kevin.

A boyfriend, maybe. The yelling was never pleasant, and every time Bucky thought you were finally done with the guy, Kevin would show up again, knocking on your door like nothing had happened. And for a little while, things would seem okay. Until they weren’t. Again.

It was a cycle. A pattern. One Bucky had quietly picked up on, even if he never meant to.

He didn’t know if your rooftop breakdown had anything to do with the guy. But something told him it didn’t. That kind of pain? The one he saw in your eyes? That wasn’t heartbreak. Not the kind that comes from a toxic ex.

No — that was deeper. Older. The kind of pain that sinks into your bones and makes a home there.

The kind that feels too familiar.

After that day on the rooftop, Bucky didn’t see you for two weeks.

He still heard you in the hallway sometimes — the click of your heels at certain hours, the soft close of your door — but no more humming in the mornings. No music on Saturday nights. Just silence.

He found himself wondering about you. Curious, even. Tempted to knock on your door, maybe ask if you wanted to grab a coffee or something. But it had been… what, eighty years since he’d been on an actual date? He didn’t even know how to do that anymore. And honestly? He wasn’t in a hurry to figure it out.

He wasn’t ready. To share. To explain. To unpack the thousand-pound suitcase of memories and guilt and trauma he carried around like a second skin. Everything felt like too much already. And if he could barely handle it on his own… How the hell was he supposed to handle it with someone else?

It had been a quiet Saturday afternoon when he heard the knock on his door. Autumn hung heavy in the air — the sky a soft gray, clouds low and threatening rain. Bucky was curled up on the couch with a book in his hands and a mug of black coffee balanced on the armrest. The silence in the apartment was kind, familiar. Safe.

So when the knock came, he froze.

Who the hell…?

He didn’t get visitors.

Sam wouldn’t just show up — not unless he wanted to start a fight. And Bucky didn’t have anyone else. Not really.

He put the book down and stood up slowly, cautious, a quiet knot forming in his stomach. When he peeked through the peephole, his heart genuinely skipped a beat.

It was you. Standing there, red sweater hugging your frame, hair down, no makeup on — just you. Beautiful, quiet, soft in a way that made something ache in his chest. You were holding a small basket, covered with a white cloth. His heart started racing for absolutely no reason. He could already smell them. Blueberries.

He hesitated for a second, glanced back at the apartment — bare, impersonal, still more of a shelter than a home — and finally opened the door. Not too fast. Not too slow.

Just… nervous.

You gave him a small smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes but still felt real.

“Hey,” you said, voice gentle. “I, um… I made muffins. Blueberry.”

He blinked, staring at you, then at the basket, then back again.

“They’re kind of… an apology. For the other night. I was rude. You were trying to help, and I didn’t let you. So…”

You held out the basket.

“Apology muffins.”

A laugh escaped his nose before he could stop it — soft, surprised.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” you said, shrugging. “But I wanted to.”

He took the basket from your hands, careful like it was fragile or something sacred. It smelled like comfort and sugar and things he hadn’t had in years. He didn’t know what to do with that.

And maybe that was what made him say it.

Maybe it was the red sweater.

Or your hair loose.

Or the fact that he hadn’t stopped thinking about you for two weeks.

“You doing anything tomorrow?” he asked suddenly, voice quiet, barely there. “I was thinking… maybe we could get coffee. Or something. If you want.”

There was a pause.

Longer than he liked.

And he watched the hesitation flash across your face — that tiny moment where he was sure you were going to say no and he’d have to live with it.

But then you nodded.

And smiled.

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

His shoulders dropped.

He didn’t even realize how tense he’d been until you said yes.

“Cool,” he said, a little awkward. A little breathless. “That’s… yeah. Cool.”

You laughed — soft and knowing — and stepped back down the hallway.

“See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” he replied, watching as you disappeared inside your apartment.

He looked down at the basket again, then closed the door behind him and leaned against it, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

He hadn’t been on a date in almost eighty years. But for the first time in a long time…

He kind of wanted to try.