#that’s what i see other people doing with this kind of ask

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Ask Around in the Morgue

Most times, Tim is not a fan of social interaction. If he can acquire the necessary data from literally anything written in text, without the need to actually talk to people, he does that. It's the logical thing to do, come on! People lie, or, even if they don't, they take ages to get to the point, and you can't put them on pause or set aside to return later. Some written resources lie as well, but that is, at least, way easier to prove by relying on several of them instead of a single one.

That saying, he can work in a team — Young Justice is great proof of that. Batfamily, not so much, but then, none of the Bats like working together. Because they are all hypercontrolling, manipulative, and paranoid.

And yet, keeping all that in mind, right now Tim is about to go and speak — using his mouth and words — to a GCPD mortician whom he's never seen or met before in his life.

All because of this report.

More precisely, because of the line 'pls come talk to me if u r a bat' that was inserted right into the file, just between the description of contents of the victim's stomach and the rather unappealing photo of the same thing. Tim supposes the placement was intentional — most people skip over that kind of information, jumping straight to the cause of death. Which is a homicide, by the way.

Not that it's anything unusual in Gotham.

Tim walks through the hallway, keeping his steps silent. Daniel Nightingale, the mortician, more accurately a pathologist, works graveyard shifts — very ironic and no less convenient — and most days, he does so all alone, so Tim is not expecting company. He is just keeping quiet out of habit.

And yet, as he gets closer to the autopsy room, he hears it. The chipper, amused voice from inside.

"You can't just make that shit up, I swear," it laughs, "Oh, Minerva. You were way too old to pull it off." There's a pause, and then it starts speaking again, filled with hidden laughter, "You don't say?"

The door is, thankfully, already half-open. Tim takes a quick look inside, hoping to figure out who's the other part of the alleged conversation, but the only person there — erm, the only alive person — is a guy in a gray uniform and a lab coat. Supposedly, Mr. Nightingale. There's also a corpse of an old lady on the table in front of him, of course, but Tim doubts she can hold up the conversation. A phone call? Or maybe he's just talking to himself?..

The guy raises his head briefly, turning to the door.

"Come on in, lurking in the shadows doesn't suit you," he calls, almost cheerful, and Tim pauses.

He's pretty sure he hasn't made a single noise.

Oh, well. Maybe he did. Maybe the pathologist has an alarm system in case of a zombie apocalypse. Maybe he sees the future. The possibilities are endless.

Tim steps inside.

"I'm here about your note," he says, cutting the greetings and niceties. The pathologist hums, his eyes still on the bare, skinless ribcage of the woman before him.

"Cool. Which one?" He asks without missing a beat. Tim stares; the guy looks entirely too nonchalant, given the circumstances, but that's not the only reason. Daniel Nightingale is way younger than Tim expected — twenty, at most — and he is... well, if Tim had a type, which he doesn't, he would definitely check all the boxes. Most of the boxes. A lot of boxes.

Okay, he's just good-looking, what is he even thinking about, this is getting sidetracked.

"There was more than one?" He asks because that's the logical, reasonable thing to ask. Daniel glances up at him. A tiny strand of hair escapes his pinned down bangs, and the guy huffs, shaking it away from his face. Shouldn't he be wearing a hat?

"Yeah, I put the bat alert in at least five reports I've written. Only two recently, though, so, if you could specify?" He asks. The loose strand of his hair moves all on its own, brushing itself up over Daniel's head. Then, one of the bobby pins comes out, hanging in the air briefly, and goes back into Daniel's hair, securing it from falling again. "Thank you, Minerva," the guy smiles politely, casting a glance to the side.

Tim is not sure what's going on but he has a hunch.

"I'm speaking about John Doe from last week?" He attempts, but Daniel only hums.

"Unfortunately, that doesn't narrow it down," he turns back to the table, looking down into the old lady's open abdomen with a critical eye. "Darling, do you think you'll be fine here all on your own while I speak with our dear guest?" He asks, almost demurely, and Tim is not dumb. Minerva is definitely the name of the lady on the autopsy table. The question is, has the GCPD hired a schizophrenic man during such dire times, or is the guy really some kind of ghost-whisperer?

The chances are, honestly speaking, 50/50. It's Gotham.

There's no response that Tim can hear, but Daniel straightens back up and takes off his gloves before turning to the other side, still away from Tim. "Mind cleaning up?" He asks again and then throws his gloves into the nearest bin. They don't land, but just as Daniel huffs and goes to retrieve them, the gloves float up from the floor like someone invisible picked them up and dropped them into the bin.

"Ah, thank you, Minerva," the pathologist smiles.

Tim feels an uncomfortable chill run down his spine.

"How many ghosts are in here?" He tries for casual, but fails spectacularly, judging by Daniel's chuckle.

"Five," he answers without any pause, "Six, if you count the nonverbal kid that's hiding in Page's cold locker. Anyway, John Doe?.."

A few of the instruments Daniel has used float up from the table and start moving towards the nearest sink.

Tim takes a deep breath.

Either he's gotten himself a new contact in GCPD forensics or a very alarming new meta. 50/50.

But Daniel's smile is 100 percent going to be a pain in his ass.

[mercy-burning]

Father Figure (1/2)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: Spencer becomes an unlikely source of comfort after his son breaks up with you. (PART 1 of 2) Category: Mature (18+) Content: Adults w/age gap, perv!Spencer strikes again, masturbation, drinking, kissing. Word Count: 6.2k

MASTERLIST

NOTE: Pushing the hot old man agenda once again, I'm not even sorry about it. Smut will be in Part 2, which I'm almost done with--I just have to workshop the end a little bit. And remember, pals: If he wanted to, he would. And if he won't, then his dad will (AKA the quote I saw on TikTok that inspired this fic lmao) Also, I apologize if adding a real song with real lyrics in the middle of this is cringey, but I had A Vision, and I needed it to be realized, okay? Let a girl have some fun!!!

---------------

...THE COFFEE SHOP

Spying on his son was never exactly a pastime of Spencer's, even less so now since the kid is not really a kid anymore. Still, when that kid breaks up with his long-term girlfriend of four years and then goes on a first date a day later, a father is left to wonder...

He feels bad especially for the ex-girlfriend, who had been nothing but an absolute joy; always bringing gifts and snacks to the house, celebrating the Reid boys' birthdays with extra love and care, and bringing a warm and happy energy that demanded love and care right back.

He can't imagine how you must be feeling.

Your face dances in flashes behind his eyelids as he pokes around the corner of the coffee shop, wondering what could possibly be so enticing about this other woman that his son would throw away something so extraordinary.

Even as he spots Cameron, beaming and eagerly listening to the beautiful young woman in front of him, it pains Spencer to imagine the other side of the coin.

He sighs and turns away, wondering what could have changed his son's mind, but understanding that ultimately it's not any of his business. From what he knows about the breakup, Cameron had been kind and forthright through all of it, offering his father the simple explanation of, "I don't dislike her at all, she's a nice girl... I just don't love her anymore. That's all."

That's all...

When you've spent the first half of your young adult life with the same someone, that logic isn't impossible; Inevitably you'll meet new people and feel bright, new feelings, and old feelings can dissipate just as quickly.

On every logical level, there's nothing inherently wrong with this situation, and still, Spencer can't fight off the uneasy tension in his chest as he sits with it.

As he turns the corner and begins to try and place where exactly that feeling might come from, a loud gasp stops him in his tracks.

His eyes take a moment to look you over, looking to anyone else like he might need some time to process that it's you, but really, his brain knows it right away. Admittedly, he's just glad to see you. Though right now you're visibly shocked and perhaps a little embarrassed, you still radiate that undeniable warmth that brings a slow smile to his face. The tension he feels doesn't fade so much as it shifts, from uneasy to something more electric. More problematic.

What the fuck is your problem? his inner-voice barks, so loudly he almost thinks he's said it out loud.

Spencer shifts direction quickly, reminding himself how to act like a normal human being, and more importantly, how to act when faced with his son's ex-girlfriend, who is clearly doing the same thing he's doing.

"What a pleasant surprise," he beams reaching forward to offer a hug, which you take. Perhaps a dumb move considering the funk he just had to snap himself out of, but if he can carefully guide you in the other direction to save you the spiral of spying on your ex-boyfriend's new date, then so-be-it.

You pull away and he does too, his hands lingering but not touching you. Still, he feels you just as vividly.

"Doctor Reid, what are you doing here?" you ask, trying to hold his eye contact but ultimately succumbing to the urge to glance at the window behind him.

He sighs, offering a sympathetic smile. "The same thing as you, I'm afraid..."

The horror on your face makes his stomach churn, but then it's gone in an instant, replaced by an eye-crinkling laugh that takes him by surprise.

"What? I don't know what you're talking about!"

You're trying so hard to convince him, and probably yourself as well, and it unfortunately amuses him. Your smile doesn't quite reach your eyes, not bright and genuine like he's always known, but it's still beautiful. His gaze lingers a little too long on it before he meets your eyes again, watching them flash with something petrified as he grins.

"Clearly..."

You cross your arms, jutting your chin out and attempting a new tactic. "Look, I'm not that pathetic, okay? I don't like what you're implying. Besides, why are you spying on Cam, huh? It's not like he broke up with you to be with your best friend..."

The smile slowly disappears from his face as you speak, that sharp sense of unease creeping back into his system and curling up through his lungs like cigarette smoke. "What?"

You don't bother trying to hide it anymore, a sad shrug weighing down your body as your face softens into something melancholic and distant. Your voice is barely there when you speak, the sound of nearby traffic nearly drowning you out. "Guess he didn't tell you that part, huh..."

"No, he didn't."

You sigh and tighten your arms, seemingly holding yourself together as not to fall apart at the seams. "Did you see them? Did they look happy?"

Spencer's stomach churns again, and he shakes his head incredulously. "Hon, maybe you should—"

"Did they?" you ask again more desperately, your voice cracking between words. He can hear the sadness in it, the devastation and the confusion, the need to understand...

An irrational anger starts to brew somewhere in the depths of his being, even though he knows he doesn't have the whole story. But he firmly decides that he can grapple with Cameron and his choice of a girlfriend at a more appropriate time, and probably even have a man-to-man conversation with him about the whole thing... He also firmly decides that the arrival of these indescribable tense feelings should also be dealt with, though preferably in his next therapy session and not right this second.

Because right now, there's a bright young woman on the verge of tears right in front of him, her sparkle dulling with each passing second, and the best thing to do is to get her away from the problem at large—Not to do anything that will only make it worse.

Spencer rushes to you and gently scoops you into another hug, your body nestling into his with an exhaustion that he fears he knows all too well. As you squeeze his shirt and start to cry, he leads you away from the building and down the sidewalk, wondering if you can hear how loudly his heart is breaking for you.

Eventually he leads you away from public eye, a small clearing about three blocks away and beyond some trees. Being late August, they've started to change color, but not by much. By now you've removed yourself from his full embrace, but still cling to his arm as you find the room to calm down, looking up at the trees.

He walks silently beside you, giving you the space to breathe and think. To rest. The sun is high in the sky, bright beams poking through the leaves and limbs, and when you finally stop walking, one of them catches your eye. It glistens with tears that haven't fallen yet, and when you stare up at the sky and close your eyelids, a small droplet finally strolls down your cheek.

Your arms tighten around Spencer's and he fights the urge to wipe the tear from your face with his free hand.

"I'm so sorry," he says instead. "I wish I knew what to do."

You open your eyes then, a small breeze picking up and rustling the trees. He can hear wind chimes in the distance, he thinks, or maybe it's just a figment of his imagination—a manifestation of the dulcet, melodic comfort you've brought to his life over the years. In a strange way, he supposes you do somewhat feel like home to him. Normalcy. Softness. Beauty.

He hadn't even realized it until your sadness had overwhelmed him.

"Thank you," you tell him, pulling away finally to look him dead-on. You smile again, and though it's sad, and still beautiful, this time it finally reaches your eyes. "You're a good man, Doctor Reid."

He certainly doesn't feel like a good man.

Not when you reach up and hug him with your arms draped over his shoulders. Not when his hands feel right at home at the small of your back. Not when he can hardly breathe as your mouth murmurs another, "thank you," into the crook of his neck. Not when you start to pull away, sliding your soft hands down over his shoulder blades and tilting your head. Not when your thankful lips make contact with his cheek, featherlight and heavy all the same. Not when, even after you pull away completely, your presence is still with him, making him warm and fluttery and stupid.

Not when he misses you, hours later, still buzzing from your touch...

And when Cameron comes home that evening, practically walking on clouds and beaming with lovesick stupor after his day out with your best friend, that tension and irrational anger starts to grow stronger, muddled with confusion.

No. Spencer Reid is convinced that he is not a good man.

If he was, he wouldn't be laying awake at night, absentmindedly caressing his face where your lips had been hours before, staring at the photo on his bedside table of the three of you just a year ago.

Right after you and Cam had graduated college, you all took a road trip to the Grand Canyon and a stranger offered to take your photo. You were happy and in love, holding on to Cam's arm the same way you held onto Spencer's earlier today. The sun was shining on your face, though back then it wasn't illuminating drying tears. Your smile reached your eyes, but it wasn't masking profound sadness.

If Spencer Reid was a good man, he would be letting it go and moving on instead of vowing to spend eternity trying to mend a heart he didn't break. He wouldn't be exacting his own twisted form of vengeance under the covers, stroking himself to the thought of you—to the thought of treating you right.

If he was a good man, he certainly wouldn't be staring at your photo on his bedside table as he did so, calling out your name in a hushed whisper—a prayer.

And yet, here he lays, the thought of you bringing him to completion.

"He didn't deserve you, sweet girl," he confesses breathlessly, right at the precipice. He comes in hot ropes over his bare stomach, visions of your bright eyes and warm, beautiful lips helping him right along.

His first exhale of breath as the high subsides comes out as a form of maniacal laughter; Not only is he now stuck with a mess he has to clean at almost two in the morning, but he's also devolving, clarity smacking right into him like a freight train.

Spencer swears, wishing he'd simply ignored the feeling that urged him to follow Cameron on his date earlier that day. He wishes he'd let it go.

He looks at your picture again and sighs, laughing to himself. "I don't deserve you either."

...THE BAR

Two weeks and two therapy sessions later, and Spencer doesn't feel any better, really.

He hasn't seen you since that day at the coffee shop, but it's like he sees you every day anyway. You're there when he sleeps, mostly. He meets you in dreams, wiping your tears and kissing you better. Each time, you gladly return the favor, kissing him back and subsequently healing some deep part of him he hadn't even realized was ailed.

But obviously that's just a product of this strange, pathetic, fucked-up obsession he's spiraled into, and not anchored to the truth in any way.

That's what he tells himself, at least... no matter how badly he wants there to be truth in it.

Still, it's hard when even the time and distance between you can't seem to shake your effect on him.

Though, perhaps Cameron's role in all of this could be the key to this lingering feeling. He is a common denominator, after all, and the knowledge that he'd chosen to be with your best friend instead of you so soon after breaking it off still rubs him the wrong way. Which, in all honesty, is a conversation he doesn't want to have just yet; It would probably be best if he had a clear mind, one not constantly plagued by daydreams of railing you under the trees in the clearing where you last touched him.

Spencer sighs and takes his glasses off, tossing them aside. He presses his palms into the sides of his face, squeezing his eyes shut as hard as he can until he sees stars, and promptly decides that he needs to leave the house.

Fresh air usually does the trick, but for whatever reason, this long walk to the park is not doing him any favors. The way the leaves rustle in the wind only brings him back to that fateful moment with you in his arms, seeking comfort, and quite frankly, the August heat is making him more irritable.

So, he wanders off to uncharted territories: a random bar that should be pretty dead on a random Wednesday mid-afternoon. He's not exactly sure what it is he hopes to find, but as long as it's a good enough distraction, or even some peace and quiet, he'll gladly take it.

The place isn't very busy, or bright. Neon signs and dim table lamps are about the only sources of light, but compared to the sun outside, Spencer finds it more than comfortable. Some Country duet he doesn't recognize booms over the speakers, low-tempo and sad, but not horrible. The melancholic melody swims nicely through his brain, setting the scene as he sits down at a random table somewhere near the back.

A hostess is quick to ask him what he wants to drink and offers a menu, but all he orders is a glass of water. Whether she questions it or not, he doesn't pay attention. But when she returns about a minute later with his glass, he does notice that the song has finished and started over.

"Hope you don't mind the song," the hostess says with a sigh, noting his quiet curiosity. "Poor thing over there requested it on a loop until she got drunk enough to forget about it..."

Spencer's eyes follow her head-nod towards the corner of the room, where a girl sits slumped over the table with her chin in her hand, the other hand tearing at a napkin.

His heart sinks and skips at the same time as recognition strikes him like lightning.

The hostess has walked away by now, and his still gaze can't seem to wander anywhere else. The odds of him going somewhere random to distract himself from thought of you, only to be graced with your presence, feels too coincidental. It's too good of an excuse to just ignore, consequences be damned.

Right?

Should he say hello? Should he offer to get you home before you truly do become too drunk to be aware of your surroundings?

Regardless of how he feels about you, that would be the responsible, parental thing to do, right?

Jesus fucking Christ, he sighs to himself, downing his water before getting up to see you.

As he gets closer, he hears you humming along to the song, sighing dramatically in between breaths, until you look up to finally meet his eyes and it becomes a gasp.

"Doctor Reid!" you exclaim, sitting straight up and thrusting your arms out in welcome. Your smile is tired, but life has ever-so-slightly begun to creep back into your features. The thought of being a familiar face, and a pleasant one at that, to bring you that life does more to him than he should admit out loud.

A warmth settles into him as your eyes rake over his figure, half-like you can't quite decide if he's real and half-like you might be checking him out.

Don't be weird, he scolds himself, though he's still unable to keep the amused grin from his lips as he greets you gently. Cautiously. "Hello again, sweetheart."

"I'm not spying on Cameron this time, what's your excuse?"

It doesn't entirely make sense, but he understands what you mean. Still, it's not like he can tell you that he was trying to distract himself from thinking about you, so he simply shrugs. "Felt like a change of scenery. I don't get out much."

You giggle a little and slump back down, resting your chin against your hands, still smiling. "Yeah, I know. Are you sad about something, too?"

Spencer shakes his head. "No... Just... bored, I guess."

"Well, you're welcome to join me! I'm not much fun like I used t'be, but the company'd be nice."

How could he deny your invitation, when you're exaggerating a toothy, tipsy smile and batting your eyes like you want something? It charms him almost as much as it scares him.

"Oh, I'm sure that's not true," he tells you, pulling up a chair across from you and sliding in. His leg accidentally bumps into yours, and it sends a chill through him. He tries to keep himself calm and collected, but wonders if he looks spooked, because you give him a look.

Turns out, it's just an inebriated look of disbelief. "No, I really am pathetic these days... You don't have to be nice to me, I know it's the truth."

He knows better than to argue with a woman, especially on a subject so sore, so he takes a different approach. "Well, pathetic or not, I still care about you anyway. So I'm more than happy to sit with you for however long you need the company."

You consider his words and then pout, finishing off your drink before you loudly wave your desire for another drink. "And bring one for my new best friend, too!"

Spencer can't help the laugh that leaves him, though you're too caught up in your own little world to notice it.

The same hostess brings over two drinks, eyeing him suspiciously, but before she walks away, you laugh. "It's okay, Anna! That's Doctor Reid, he's my best friend now. My old best friend is out screwing my ex-boyfriend."

"Who happens to be my son," he offers as a more clear explanation as to why he's taken to 'befriending' this drunk woman in a near-empty bar.

Anna looks between you two and nods, amused but not questioning the drama. "Gotcha. If you need anything, just holler."

The song has started over again by this point, and though Spencer's had a bit more excitement than anticipated, it's not enough to forget about it. He recalls Anna's words and the pitying tone in her voice, and tilts his head, watching as you take another sip of your drink. "How many times have you heard this song today?"

"Dunno," you sigh. "Lost count. Cam and I used to sing it together all the time. Not very well, but it was our thing..."

"Hmm, I didn't know that... I don't think I've heard it until today."

"Yeah, well you don't get out much."

A laugh bubbles up out of him involuntarily once again, your charm—even influenced by alcohol and misery—a natural harbinger of joy. The fact that you probably don't even know it only adds to the experience.

Even the way you laugh at his laughing is infectious, until the two of you are mutually giggling and sipping your drinks, and while the song is not forgotten, it's at the very least drowned out by the sound of laughter. Alcohol still may be involved, sure, but where you'd been tired and lost before, the weariness has been lifted by his hand, if only for a moment, and so for now that would have to do.

Eventually, there's a rather quiet moment between you, a lull in conversation that isn't driven by awkwardness or boredom, but by something else that Spencer can't quite put his finger on. He's not entirely convinced that you've sobered up at all, but the hazy look in your eyes isn't so much drunkenness as much as it is mystified. By what, he doesn't know, but it's making him warmer inside than a singular ounce of any alcohol could ever accomplish.

The thought makes him set down his glass; Perhaps he's had enough.

"What's that look for, sweetheart?" he asks quietly, a little too afraid that he should have omitted the nickname. Where it'd been intended innocently before, this time it comes out entirely different, his enamored, lust-drunk curiosity getting the better of him before he can think differently.

His stomach twists.

Still, that look on your face intensifies, and your head tilts thoughtfully, eyes studying him again. Their trail winds everywhere, from his mouth to his hands to his neck... When you finally meet his gaze again, you lean back in your chair. A smile unlike any other he's ever seen adorns your face and sends a jolt through his nervous system.

"I like when you call me that, you know..."

"Yeah?"

Stop it, Spencer...

You nod slowly, never taking your eyes off of him.

If he were a good man, he'd blame it on the drinking and tell you to get home safe, being on his merry way, considering the fact that you're probably just hurting and desperate to get back at Cameron somehow, and that he's a convenient means to a sweet, revengeful end.

He lets the moment hang in the air for a while, holding your stare and feeling his resolve start to crumble beneath the weight of it. That damn song still drawls out beneath the sharp, distant clatter of dishes and late-lunch conversation, and your pretty eyes are easily the brightest source of light in the whole place, begging him to make a move and singing just as loudly, too. They're waiting. Eager. Hungry... All of it is almost too much to take at once.

And then...

"Let me take you home, sweetheart."

He knows it's mean. He also knows that it's going to hurt. But if he doesn't, he knows he'll end up regretting it.

Spencer helps you out of the building and gives Anna a twenty-dollar tip on the way out.

You're more stable than he thought you'd be, walking in a straight line and not stumbling at all as he takes you to your car. He holds his hand out for your keys, to which you oblige without problem, letting your touch linger. As he helps you in the passenger seat and buckles your seat belt, he notices your eyes are closed, but that you're smiling.

"Something funny?" he asks, getting the buckle in place. Still he remains there, arms trapping you into the seat.

You shake your head and open your eyes, searching the features of his face and sinking further into the upholstery. Your smile softens, but doesn't waver in its genuine joy, which is why it breaks his heart when you reply, "Nope." The word is quiet. Serious. The moment is everything he wished it could be, your eyes swimming with some form of devotion that calls to him like a sirens' song.

Only, he can still smell the inebriation on your breath, potent and grounding him to reality, and so he must continue to be mean.

He smiles at you before pulling away and closing your door, then walking to the drivers' side while taking the deepest breath of his life. It's courage and disappointment and humor all in one fucked-up intake of oxygen, but it gives him the push he needs to finally open the car door and begin your journey home.

The ride is mostly quiet, though, save for your humming. The haunting melody will stick around in his head for weeks, he's sure, just another thing to constantly remind him of you, and another thing to break his heart every time he sees his son's smiling face.

Even though he can feel the fury and confusion and lust swimming around in his body like a whirlpool, Spencer manages to walk you up the stairs of your apartment, and to your door, without losing any ounce of control. He leads you gently through your home until you've reached the bedroom, and even then he doesn't falter.

It does make him nervous though, feeling your hands on him. You're a little more unsteady now, though he attributes that to the soon-to-be broken, unspoken promise of sex. It pains him, knowing he used your influenced in-the-moment attraction to him as an excuse to get you safely home. But had he simply left you there to suffer alone, at the mercy of substances and strangers who might not have been so kind, he would have felt worse.

He helps you take off your shoes and puts your belongings on the bedside table, feeling your eyes on him and hoping you won't remember enough of this later to hate him or hate yourself after the fact.

When Spencer turns around, you're already sitting on the bed, and while the sight of it entices him more than words could accurately say, he refrains. He puts on his most fatherly face, crosses his arms, and braces himself for the blow.

"Come on. Under the covers."

"It's only like noon."

Not quite the response he was expecting, but he can work with it. He smiles, just a little. "It's almost Three-PM. You should really get some rest. You look like you haven't slept in days."

Your eyes drop to the floor, and Spencer can feel his heart drop there, too, when you say quietly, "I haven't..."

Against his better judgement, he steps forward and catches your attention again, your head lifting to meet his eyes.

"I know, sweetheart. Sleep."

Your response is a shaky breath and big, watery eyes, the last few weeks of sadness catching up to you. Watching it unfold in real-time is utterly heartbreaking, so much so that when you ask him an unexpected question, he doesn't have the heart, or the brain, to say no.

"Will you sing me to sleep?"

"Of course."

You lie down then, shuffling your way under the covers as Spencer sits down beside you, helping you settle in. His hand instinctively reaches out to gently massage your scalp, something that had always put Cameron to sleep when he'd wake up with nightmares.

Though, he never sang to him. He never was good at it...

Still, because he can't seem to resist your charms, he tries anyway, singing the only thing he can think of at the moment. A newly familiar smoky tune that he now knows every single word to.

"Every woman deserves a moment of weakness. Last night with me was yours, I guess. I must have whispered what you wanted to hear. And when I asked you, you probably said yes."

Softly, you hum along with him on the next part, a duet of desperation and longing that definitely sounds better over the bar speakers, but feels more accurate in this small, sorrowful bedroom.

"Cause it sounds like something I'd say, in the midst of lonely and the Marlboro haze. It sounds better in the dark than in the light of day, but it sounds like something I'd say."

With your eyes closed, you smile, breathing a small laugh through your nose. "You're better at it than he was."

Spencer is surprised by your words and how much they twist this serrated, beautiful knife. They only remind him of the gravity of the situation at hand—at how badly he shouldn't be here right now... He shouldn't care so much, he shouldn't revel in the fact that you're actively feeding into this fantasy where he's healing you and fixing the mistake that his son made...

He shouldn't be falling in love with you.

Of course, he refuses to even consider that possibility, even though he's feeling things around you that he's only ever felt for a few others.

Still, it rattles him enough that after you've finally fallen fast asleep and he walks home, he schedules an extra session with his therapist and takes a long, hot shower, hoping to wash away any lingering trace of you.

Naturally, no amount of scorching water, soap, or steam seems to do the trick.

He wonders if it ever will.

...THE CLEARING

Your heart pounds rapidly in your chest, and in your brain, and in your fingertips... You can practically feel it thrumming in every part of your body as you sit on a log and soak up what small rays of sunshine manage to find their way through the trees.

Thank you for bringing me home earlier... I'm sorry if I made your day weird or inconvenient.

The world around you is beautiful, bright, and lively, though something nameless is missing. You know whatever it is will appear with vivid recognition when he shows up, but there's a small lick of fear creeping up the back of your neck and finding its way into your brain that wonders if he won't... That somehow you've fabricated this whole thing—plucked out imaginary moments of warmth from a desperate place in need of comfort, and neatly placed them in the massive hole left in your heart by Cameron and Danica and their betrayal.

It's not a problem at all. I'm glad you got home safe. Rest, and remember to take your time. These things don't heal overnight.

You hadn't expected Spencer to text you back right away, given that it was just after midnight and you'd never really known him to be much of a night owl. Not to mention you probably should have deleted his phone number after the breakup in the first place. Sure, he had been kind to you after everything which was a relief and a comfort, but there had to be some unspoken rule about late-night texting your ex-boyfriend's dad and expecting a response, much less right away.

But then, your phone lit up with his message almost immediately, and there was an odd clenching in your stomach that refused to subside even long into the early hours of morning.

Your fingers moved in response before your brain had a chance to think it over.

Did you sing to me or did I make that up?

There was a bit more time after that until he responded, and you swore you'd fucked it all up. You threw up and downed a glass of water, but when you picked up your phone again, his name was there. You were suddenly nauseous again, but at the mercy of something else, something familiar and foreign all at once.

I don't know if I'd call what I did "singing"... But sure. Ha

God, you hadn't smiled so hard in... Could you even remember how long it had been? Even now, you think on it and can't even come up with a ballpark answer, which should sadden you but only makes your heart flutter once more. In that moment, reading his words, memories came flooding back. Flickers of your drunken afternoon with Spencer started to string together, feeling more like a movie and less like a silly revenge fantasy.

Without even thinking, you texted him with the truth, even if you didn't quite know what it meant yet.

Either way, I like hearing your voice. It'd be nice to hear it more often.

His response made you laugh so hard you almost threw up again.

Are you still drunk?

You weren't, and you aren't, but you may as well be. Merely the thought of him has you dizzy, and every day it grows worse and worse as you text and talk on the phone like you're best friends.

This morning's message still sings in the back of your mind as you wait for him, melodically bright and filling in the gaps of silence where the trees don't rustle.

Is it weird that I really want to see you again?

You replied, Is it weird that I don’t think that’s weird at all?

And since then you’ve wondered, is it even weirder that you’d go so far to say you’re so incredibly flattered by his words that your entire body pulsates with a violent wave of heat just thinking about seeing him face-to-face again?

The gentle breeze does nothing to cool you down, the sweet, damning effect of Spencer Reid burying you alive even hours later.

When you spot him, the world stops rotating. He’s bright smiles and warm eyes and long, fluid limbs, and as he makes his way towards you, you forget how to stand. Your ass is completely glued to its resting spot on the log, and your legs are of no help. All you can do is stare at him and feel your heart flutter rapidly in your chest. You’re not even sure if you’re smiling, though the thought of being caught just staring at him with your tongue practically hanging out is embarrassing enough to pull one from you anyway.

Only when his hand extends to help you up do you finally snap out of whatever dream-world you’ve put yourself in and clear your throat with an avoidant laugh.

“Hi,” you greet him stupidly, still too overwhelmed by him to try anything more interesting.

Spencer grins down at you, your gaze trailing softly upwards along the length of his face until you meet his eyes, and only then does he reply, “Hi.”

The word is infinitely more interesting coming from his well-spoken, experienced lips. They even go the extra mile, twitching up into a larger grin at your silence.

You’re lovesick, he’s amused, and this is entirely fucked.

“What were you up to today?”

Thankfully, even your poor attempt at small talk is merely a small embarrassment scrawled in sand and violently washed away by the tides of his voice. When he speaks, it cleanses you. Clears your mind. Offers a clean slate.

“Nothing special… Read a couple books, made some lunch… If I’m being honest, I mostly just tried to occupy my mind while I waited to come see you.”

Despite the clear setup for him to be cheeky or smug about it, Spencer’s words only exude comfortable honesty. He doesn’t tell you this to get you blushing or to take advantage of this situation. No, every word is spoken without an ulterior motive at all. Though, his sparkling eyes seem to tell a different story.

“Same,” you confess through a small laugh. “I know I joked about you being my new best friend at the bar, but these days it really does feel like it.”

“So you do remember that day…”

“Most of it, yeah. Kind of embarrassed about that to be honest…”

Spencer doesn’t say anything, only hums consideringly as he squeezes your hand. The small gesture suddenly reminds you of his physical presence, and a rush of warmth pulses at your fingertips.

“Truthfully, I am, too.”

This takes you by surprise. “How?”

He seems to regret saying anything, a quick flash of panic in his eyes before he sighs and squeezes your hand again. “Knowing it was my son who did that to you, and not understanding why… You have no idea how much I… I hate that I can’t figure it out.”

“Oh, that’s… that’s not your responsibility… I guess that’s mostly why I’m embarrassed about the whole thing. You shouldn’t have to fix something that you didn’t break.”

“Didn’t I, though? In one way or another?”

The intense emotion swirling in his eyes takes over you like a tidal wave, and suddenly you’re heartbroken for another reason entirely.

“Don’t get all philosophical on me over this,” you say firmly, squeezing his hand back. “Cameron made that decision, not you. You’re not him.”

“But he’s part of me.”

“So? You didn’t break my heart, he did. And I don’t care what you have to say about that. You are a good man and a good father, and you shouldn’t doubt that.”

You aren’t sure what you expected as a response, but it surely wasn’t the bitter laugh that tumbles from his lips.

“What?” you ask sharply in desperation, grabbing his other hand and practically begging him to listen to you. “What’s so funny?”

Spencer sighs, pulling you flush to his body and taking your breath away in one second flat.

“I doubt those things every damn second I’m with you…”

Not only is your breath gone, but now the ability to think has gone with it. All you know is Spencer. His eyes are pulling you in and daring you to look away. His hands are sliding up the expanse of your arms, and chills erupt in their wake. The world around you has faded to a nothingness that isn’t even scary. It’s just forgotten. Irrelevant.

The only thing that feels natural is the way you tilt your head to brush your lips over his. Just lightly, barely even a touch at all. Still, the intimate contact shocks you at first, bringing you to life in a way you hadn’t thought possible. Slowly, you lean into it, and he does, too. With each second that passes, this one press of your lips against his becomes stronger, the two of you drawing more and more near until it’s all there is.

And then, when his mouth parts, inviting you deeper, it’s like he swallows you whole. Your body melts into his as he welcomes you into his entire world, hugging and kissing you at the same time. Behind closed lids, your eyes flutter to the back of your head, a soft whine escaping your throat and feeding Spencer’s desire until it becomes heavy.

A slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue into your mouth and the sudden press of his erection to your thigh is what jolts a sense of reality into you, and as much as your body is screaming at you to indulge, you know there will, in fact, be consequences.

You pull yourself away from him, just enough to disconnect your lips and remove yourself from the world of lust he’s opened for you. Still, his arms embrace you, loose and comforting and ready to conform to however you see fit.

Spencer stares at you, waiting, studying your kissed-out, panting lips and the panic settling in your eyes as the reality of the situation catches up with you.

“I’m so sorry,” you gasp, still clutching onto his shirt and then letting it go to smooth it out. “I… I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

When you meet his eyes again, they haven’t changed. A vibrant chill runs through you again, but you’re still cognisant— Still worried about how fucked it is that you’ve just made out with your ex-boyfriend’s father. Still praying to whoever or whatever is listening that you didn’t just ruin this beautiful friendship you’ve started to form—the one thing that was beginning to pull you out of the darkest period of your life thus far.

You’re scared, you realize, as you stare into Spencer’s eyes, charged, unresolved need hanging thickly in the atmosphere around you. 

You’re terrified, and yet something urges you forward.

Whether it’s insanity or stupidity or desperation to feel something, you don’t know, but the way he practically catches you and welcomes you back without stumbling is satisfying enough to quell the need for answers.

Besides, his lips are the only answer you want, frankly.

You lunge and kiss him with a fervor that makes you question everything about your previous relationship and this new bond you’ve started to form with Spencer after the fact, but only for half a second before his own fervor only rivals it. In fact, the way his mouth possesses yours—coaxing your submission from you with just a few meticulous strokes of the tongue—has you wondering if perhaps he’s going through a similar dilemma.

How long has he wanted this? Has he dreamt of it? He sure as fuck kisses you like he has, but how much of that is truth and how much is merely a product of your unspoken, deep-seeded desire to get Cameron back for what he did to you?

And would he actually be willing to offer you that satisfaction, if you asked?

Perhaps you’ll ask him these things another time, but at the moment, your brain is more than ready to grow numb at the mercy of Spencer’s kisses.

[robinminustherichard]

[UNKNOWN NUMBER] 1 NEW MESSAGE: Hi Tommy. This is Ravi.

[UNKNOWN NUMBER] 1 NEW MESSAGE: Panikkar.

[UNKNOWN NUMBER] 1 NEW MESSAGE: Like from the bar.

[UNKNOWN NUMBER] 1 NEW MESSAGE: Or from the 118. Buck's Co-Worker.

[UNKNOWN NUMBER] 1 NEW MESSAGE: Sorry, Evan's Co-Worker.

[TOMMY KINARD]: I do know his nickname is Buck. I also do remember you, I promise. What can I do for you?

[UNKNOWN NUMBER] 1 NEW MESSAGE: Right, of course. So I really do not want to be in Buck's business but like, everyone is kind of being a bad friend to him? And every day he looks more sad and it's kind of killing me.

[TOMMY KINARD]: Uh, okay? That's tough bud.

[UNKNOWN NUMBER] 1 NEW MESSAGE: Come on dude don't make me spell it out. Can you come do your weird Tommy magic again please and fix him? He's threatening to transfer houses. I've tried getting the others to notice but it's not really going well. I took him out to a bar tonight and he's just kind of stared at a TV playing a basketball game the whole time. He didn't even notice me putting his phone back after stealing your number from it while he was in the bathroom.

[TOMMY KINARD]: I don't know who you've been talking to but I don't think I have any magic there. Evan is an adult, and we broke up. Like at least twice I think.

[UNKNOWN NUMBER] 1 NEW MESSAGE: Damn whenever people talked about the Great Tommy Kinard they didn’t say he was a quitter.

[TOMMY KINARD]: Okay first of all, that was rude.

[TOMMY KINARD]: Second of all, I am a quitter and I am proud of it.

[UNKNOWN NUMBER] 1 NEW MESSAGE: Dude.

[UNKNOWN NUMBER] 1 NEW MESSAGE: What if I told you that he baked a triple chocolate cake at 2 AM in the station the other night and no one even said thank you while they ate it and he looks like he hasn't slept in weeks.

[TOMMY KINARD]: I agree that isn't great. But it's not my place to talk to him or anything right now, Ravi. I'm sorry but that's the reality of it.

[UNKNOWN NUMBER] 1 NEW MESSAGE: And what if I told you that Eddie announced he was coming back to L.A. and gave Buck 72 hours notice to find a new place to live or risk sleeping on the couch for the foreseeable future? He's drinking a White Claw right now Tommy. A White Claw.

[TOMMY KINARD]: Okay that is

[TOMMY KINARD]: Well

[TOMMY KINARD]: Fuck it.

[TOMMY KINARD]: What bar?

[RAVI PANIKKAR] 1 NEW MESSAGE: The same one, dude. I was hopeful, but, well.

[TOMMY KINARD]: When this blows up again it's on you. Be there in 30.

[RAVI PANIKKAR] 1 NEW MESSAGE: Sick thanks man see you soon!!!!!!

"Who are you texting?" Buck asks, breaking out of his fog for a moment, "pretty big grin you've got there."

Buck is trying, clearly, but the smile he tries for doesn't quite get there.

"Eh, just a friend. Needed a favor."

"Oh, uh, are you good? I can--"

"Nah, Buck, it's all good. He already said yes. Plus it's honestly kind of more for him than me. Kind of guy that doesn't see what's right in front of him, you know?"

"Oh," Buck says, looking a little lost, "y-yeah, I get that."

"So, that last rescue. Kind of crazy, right? I think I could have swung the weight a little better--"

"What?" Buck says, a spark of something finally breaking through as he pushes the White Claw aside and leans forward, "No way, that was great work, Ravi! The way you--"

Ravi lets him go on, hoping that the topic change will keep him distracted enough that he won't shut down again before Tommy gets there.

[ifyouencounterwolf]

Normalize this normalize that, we as writers and ARTISTS need to normalize NOT to see any critiques/negative feedback of our WORKS as a critique of OURSELVES.

When your work is finished and posted, it is done. It marks the end of a unique creative process and is now by and large independent from you. No matter how much of a magnus opus you think of it, you will be creating something better in the near future. So how would that posted work serve you now? By getting the FEEDBACKS from your readers.

How did that make others feel? Did it do the job of disturbing people or comforting people that you have intended it to do? Do people feel something unintended from your work? Do people feel anything from your work? Those are things as authors, we needed to know about, in order to know more about ourselves, and that's not just about our current skill levels.

Believe it or not, there's no inherently bad feedback, the negative ones are not inherently different from positive ones. They are all. just. feedback. They don't define you as a person, they are not attacking you as a person. Even with the worst kind "I hate this so much hope you kys" you could either ignore or ask how they hate it and where do they hate the most. Hate supply is still supply as my narc self would say.

That is, unless you are creating something for money and engagement/attention, and getting criticized will destroy your so-called celebrity fame and break the illusion that you are a prodigy and you don't need efforts to improve like everyone else on this planet earth. But sis, that's your problem.

Writing is a way of communication and forming a discussion, conversations cannot happen if either side is not allowed to speak freely. That goes for both the bad readers who demand authors to stop writing certain topics that disturb them, and bad writers who demand special treatment from the world simply because they created something for free and they thought they have a certain moral superiority to the "free-loaders".

Yes. You did create something for free and you didn't ask for the criticism. But you did that out of love and passion didn't you? Because as human beings, we are privileged to have this creative mind and this desire to express ourselves through our artworks, we live inside our own world but sometimes we want others to take a look at it and therefore we write something or we draw something and they reflect our thoughts and experiences and imaginations.

So what do our readers owe us? ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

No one had this moral obligation to only make compliments and really really really mild suggestions and they still have to live in fear thinking whether the authors are still going to get offended because they interpreted "Looking forward to updates" as a demand or "I thought I wouldn't like it but I did" as a jeer.

Damn, if I'm a reader I would just say FORGET IT. I like it or I don't like it, who cares about my opinion? One wrong word would get me in fandom jail.

Except we do fucking care. Do you know what a purgatory I'm living in when I wrote my heart and soul out and people are just not going to leave anything for me to know how I did?

The readers' silence and uncaring to artists is a much more cruel punishment than their hate.

We have talked so much about "don't like it don't click" as a gotcha for the readers, but how about "don't like it but still give it a chance and tell me about it even if you still don't like it"? Because I trust you as my audience, that you have sufficient levels of media literacy and you have good tastes, and you can engage with artworks responsibly... THAT'S WHY I POSTED IT.

I could have just shown my stuff to only a small friend circle and let them be the judge but I chose to put it out there. Because I wanted it to stir up something so I could engage in conversations with people who only know me through my work and I would prefer it to stay that way. If the conversation is just about my typos and my grammar be it that way. It's still better than nothing.

That being said, we should not make it a consensus that readers need to give only compliments or just shut up. We should make authors themselves decide whether they wanted to be criticized or not. Authors can absolutely set up boundaries on how their works should be engaged, authors could say that "I want feedback but please don't nitpick my grammar or typo" or "this is personal to me/I am a first time writer so please be more gentle with your feedback".

But if you don't say anything then consider your work a free game if you may. See who catches the most of your hidden details and symbolism and see who asks the most annoying questions. Damn. As a writer that would actually be my dream.

not to be controversial bc I know this is like…not in line with shifting opinions on fanfic comment culture but if there’s a glaring typo in my work I will NOT be offended by pointing it out. if ao3 fucks up the formatting…I will also not be offended by having this pointed out…

‘looking forward to the next update’ and ‘I hope you update soon!’ are different vibes than a demand, and should be read in good faith because a reader is finding their way to tell you how much they love it. I will not be mad at this.

‘I don’t usually like this ship but this fic made me feel something’ is also incredibly high praise. I’m not going to get mad at this.

even ‘I love this fic but I’m curious about why you made [x] choice’ is just another way a reader is engaging in and putting thought into your work.

I just feel like a lot of authors take any comment that’s not perfectly articulated glowing praise in the exact manner they’re hoping to receive it in bad faith.

fic engagement has been dropping across the board over the last several years, and yes it’s frustrating but it isn’t as though I can’t see how it happens. comment anxiety can be a real thing. the last thing anyone wants to do is offend an author they love, and that means sometimes people default to silence.

idk where I’m going with this I guess aside from saying unless a comment is outright attacking me I’m never going to get mad at it, and I think a lot of authors should feel the same way. ESPECIALLY TYPOS PLZ GOD POINT OUT MY TYPOS.

[stylesispunk]

"Whatever you'd like us to be" | part 2

harry castillo (materialists) x sunshine!f!reader

series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

summary: the one where you and harry play pretend but the game comes with some rules you must follow.

w.c: 11,7k

warnings: age gap (reader 29-30, harry 47) fluff, idiots neglecting their feelings, mostly fluff and a tiny bit of angst. Remember I'm stupid and I don't proofread things.

A/N: Thank you so much for your positive reception on this fic. I literally loved reading your reactions to this. I always overthink a lot about it. I hope you enjoy this chapter and see you soon with the other one. I WANT TO READ YOUR THOUGHTS.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

“Alright. Ground rules,” Harry said, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. His grin was playful, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes.

“Rule number one: we stay friends. That’s it. No more.”

You smirked. “Oh, what a cliché thing to say.”

“I'm serious,” he pointed a finger at you, feigning sternness. “You can’t fall in love with me.”

“You're ridiculous, why would I fall in love with you? this was your idea” you said.

“I know. And I’m really embarrassed about it.” His grin widened.” And I’m already regretting how good you look across this table.”

You rolled your eyes. “Next.”

“Rule number two,” he continued, leaning closer. “No sex.”

You snorted.  “That’s hard. I just want to ripped your clothes right now” you said, pouting.

“Oh my god, can't you stop?” Harry laughed, shaking his head.

“Celibate, okay.” You smiled “I have a question though.”

He nodded, gesturing for you to go on.

“What happens if we fight?”

Harry’s playful look softened. He hesitated, then shrugged.

“We won’t.”

“How are you so sure?” you asked, quietly this time.

He met your eyes, something honest flickering there. “Because I don’t think I could push you out of my life now that I know you.”

Your smile faltered for a second, heart knocking against your ribs.

He quickly cleared his throat, waving a hand. “And, rule number three: no kisses. Especially when we’re alone.”

“Oh, too bad. Because you already kissed me,” you teased, grinning.

Harry stopped mid-laugh, eyes narrowing playfully.

“That you remember, but not puking on my shoes, huh?”

You laughed, leaning back, feeling warmer than you should.

“Your loss though.”

What Harry didn’t say, what he wouldn’t admit, not even to himself, was that this wasn’t just about keeping his nosy family off his back. Sure, he wanted to make his ex-eat her heart out. But somewhere along the line, you’d become something else entirely.

Something he didn’t want to risk hurting. Like just a few days of knowing you felt like a lifetime.

Harry ran a hand down his face, letting out a breathy laugh, because damn it, you were dangerous.

You sat there across from him, eyes sparkling, a cocky little smirk tugging at your lips as you laid down your so-called rules, and he knew, knew, this was a terrible, terrible idea. The kind of thing people wrote cautionary tales about. But he couldn’t bring himself to walk away from it. From you.

He had could just get to know you and move on with you, but he didn’t want to fall in love again, he didn’t want to go through heartbreak all over again, but getting to know you had been the easier thing he had to do.

Even if it had been just a few days.

“Alright, deal,” he said, extending a hand over the table. “Friends. No falling in love. No sex. No kisses unless it’s in public and absolutely necessary to sell the whole thing.”

You bit your lip, trying to hide your grin as you shook his hand. “Absolutely necessary, huh?”

He arched a brow. “You know, for the credibility.”

You laughed, but inside, deep in some corner of your heart you didn’t want to name. Something fluttered. Because for all your bravado and teasing, you could already feel the ground shifting under your feet. You were lying to yourselves, both of you, and somewhere you both knew it.

But neither of you was about to admit it.

Not yet.

Harry didn’t want to catch feelings. He told himself he wouldn’t.

Even when your smile already felt like it was burning its way into his ribs.

Even when the way you tease him made him feel more alive than he had in months.

Even when every part of him knew. This wasn’t going to stay pretend.

The deal was struck, sealed with free ordering of coffee for him and some certain of retuning for you. You both pretended it was easy, casual, a harmless arrangement between two people who had no business getting tangled up like this. You were getting to know each other, but even as you both laid down the rules, something heavier hung between the lines neither of you dared to read out loud.

The next few days blurred by in a mess of work and texts from Harry, stupid things mostly.

Harry ☕

Tell your barista that oat milk is not a personality trait.

You ☀️

I’ll tell them after you admit you’ve ordered the same vanilla iced latte three times this week. I’ve have to order a ton of syrup.

Harry ☕

Consistency is key, darling.

It felt too easy. Too natural. Like him calling you darling didn’t knocked out the air out of your lungs.

And maybe that’s what scared you most.

You ☀️

Bye, harry. I’m working.

Harry ☕

Rude. I’m your favorite customer.

You rolled your eyes, a grin tugging at your lips despite yourself. It was stupid, how easily his messages slipped under your skin, how his voice in your head saying darling still made your stomach tighten like you were seventeen again with a reckless crush.

Your phone buzzed again in your pocket. You ignored it this time, for a solid three minutes before cursing under your breath and pulling it out.

Harry ☕

I’ll pick you up at 7. Wear something that’ll make me look good by association.

You bit your lip, trying so hard not to smile. God, he was infuriating.

You ☀️

I haven’t said yes yet, Castillo.

A pause.

Then another message.

Harry ☕

But you will.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t wrong.

Because you could already feel it happening, like a storm you saw coming from miles away, but still refused to get inside. You told yourself you were agreeing because it was harmless. A few dinners, some fake smiles, polite lies to his family. No big deal.

And if your heart beat a little faster when you thought about his crooked grin, or the way he called you darling, well… that was your problem.

You slid your phone back into your pocket and went back to work, telling yourself you weren’t falling.

You spent the rest of your day pretending you weren’t checking your phone every five minutes.

By the time the clock hit 6:45, your nerves were a tangled knot in your stomach. You stood in front of the mirror in the tiny office behind the shop, smoothing down your dress for the third time, not too fancy, not too casual, you told yourself. You weren’t dressing up for him. This was strategy. Optics. You were supposed to make him look good.

And maybe, just maybe, look good doing it.

Your phone buzzed again.

Harry ☕

Outside. Don’t keep your boyfriend waiting.

You rolled your eyes, grabbed your jacket, and stepped out the back door saying goodbye to Celine and Patrick.

The sun was low, autumn was still fighting between the cold and warm kind of weather, painting the city in soft gold, and there he was, leaning against his car, arms crossed, sunglasses perched on his nose like a damn magazine ad.

“You clean up nice,” he teased, opening the passenger door for you.

You smirked. “You act like you haven’t seen me without an apron on.”

“Yeah, but this is different.” He gestured vaguely at you. “Now you look like someone my Nan will immediately start asking about grandkids.”

You snorted, sliding into the seat. “Maybe I’ll tell her you’re terrible in bed.”

Harry shut the door and grinned down at you through the window. “Joke’s on you. She already thinks I’m a saint.”

As he climbed into the driver’s seat, you couldn’t help it. You smiled.

And he saw it. Of course, he did.

“See,” he said softly, starting the car. “Told you you’d say yes.”

You rolled your eyes again, followed by a silence that didn’t last too long. 

You tucked one leg beneath you, glancing over at Harry as he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel.

“Okay,” he said, breaking the silence. “We need a plan.”

You raised a brow. “A plan?”

“Yeah. They’re going to ask questions about how we met, how long we’ve been together, what I love about you…” He glanced over with a crooked grin. “The usual.”

Your stomach flipped, but you played it cool. “Alright, Hit me.”

He tapped the steering wheel. “Okay. How did we meet?”

You thought for a second, then smirked. “You came into my coffee shop every day for two weeks straight, ordering the same vanilla iced latte, until I told you it was starting to get weird.”

Harry laughed, throwing his head back a little. “God, I wish that wasn’t almost exactly what happened.”

You grinned. “See? I’m good at this.”

“Okay. How long have we been together?”

You chewed your bottom lip, pretending to consider it. “Hmm… should we go for six months? Feels long enough to be believable but not so long they’ll start asking about rings.”

“Smart,” he agreed, nodding. “Six months it is.”

You glanced at him. “And what do you love about me, Harry?”

He shot you a look, lips twitching. “You’ll have to let me come up with something convincing. Give me a sec.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Fine.” He cleared his throat dramatically. ““I love that you’re the most real person I’ve met in a long time. Like you’re really genuine. That you call me out on my shit. And that you laugh at the dumbest things like it’s the funniest thing in the world and you make that tiny scrunch with your nose.”

Your grin wavered for a beat because it didn’t sound like a line. It sounded like he meant it.

He must’ve felt it too, because he glanced your way and softened his voice. “Too much?”

You swallowed, forcing a smirk back on. You looked down at your hands, a quiet warmth blooming in your chest. “Good answer,” you murmured.

He chuckled under his breath. “Good. Because it’s the truth.”

And you hated how your chest tightened at that.

You quickly looked out the window, pretending to be invested in a passing streetlamp. It had been a week. One week. You shouldn’t feel anything at all. And yet here you were, half-smiling like an idiot in his passenger seat.

“Alright,” you cleared your throat, trying to shake it off. “Your turn. What do I love about you?”

Harry grinned. “Obviously my incredible music taste and my charming personality.”

He reached over and nudged your knee gently. “Your turn.”

You bit your lip, stealing a glance at him. “I love that you’re an idiot and how much attentive you are. To those tiny details other people don’t really care about. ”

His laugh was soft, warm, one of those real ones that made the corners of his eyes crinkle just a little.

“Well,” he said, shaking his head, “guess I’ve been caught. You pay attention too, you know.”

You shrugged, pretending it wasn’t a big deal. “Some people deserve it.”

That hung in the air between you for a second longer than it should’ve. And it wasn’t playful this time. Not entirely.

Harry cleared his throat, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. “Alright, new rule,” he grinned, trying to keep it light. “No getting sappy in the car. I can’t be seen crying before dinner.”

You snorted, grateful for the easy out. “Okay.”

Harry glanced at you, something a little softer in his gaze now.

You shrugged, smirking. “See? I’m good at this.”

He let out a breath of a laugh, eyes flicking back to the road. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “You really are.”

You reached for the car’s aux cable. “Okay, last question before we get there — what’s our song?”

“Crazy for you by Madonna” he replied, eyes on the road.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Crazy for You? By Madonna?”

Harry grinned at you, one hand on the wheel, “Don’t tell me you forgot our dance at Claire and Chris’s wedding”

Your mouth dropped open as the memory slammed into you. “Oh my god. Of course, I remember.”

“Yep.” He beamed, clearly enjoying himself now. “One of my favorite memories I will treasure forever.

You stared at him for a second, warmth blooming in your chest despite your best efforts to stay cool. “You’re such a sap,” you teased, your voice softer than you intended.

Harry laughed, shaking his head. “Hey, don’t act like you weren’t the one clinging to me like your life depended on it when that song came on.”

“I was starting to get tipsy,” you argued, though a grin tugged at your lips. “And you’re forgetting you were the one who dragged me to the dance floor.”

He chuckled, but his eyes softened. “You had been the best plot twist I’ve had in my life.”

Your breath caught, just for a second because he kept saying things like this, out of a such simply habit. He said it like it meant something. Like in just one messy week you had carved out a space in his life you weren’t supposed to have.

You tried to laugh it off. “God, you’re dramatic.”

Harry grinned, eyes flicking from the road back to you. “Comes with the territory.”

You shook your head, biting back the smile that threatened to give you away. Because it was getting dangerous already. The way your heart picked up when he looked at you like that, or remembered something you didn’t think he noticed. It was supposed to be fake. Easy.

And yet, sitting in his passenger seat, driving toward a dinner where you’d have to pretend to be his, you weren’t sure how much pretending would get to stop the rhythm of your heart.

The restaurant was one of those really enormous places you know you would never go inside willingly, warm lighting, exposed brick, and overpriced wine. You followed Harry inside, heart pounding a little too fast in your chest when his hand found the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd.

You really didn’t get a chance to think about why he had bother too much on paying for a place like this.

He leaned in with a teasing, “Ready to charm the ladies of my life?”

You smirked. “Lead the way, Harry.”

At the far end of the room, you spotted them. His mum, elegant and effortlessly put together, eyes sharp but kindness on his gaze. His Nan, tiny and sweet-looking, a mischievous glint in her gaze. And his sister, with Harry’s same wild grin and a streak of purple through her hair.

Harry’s mum was the first to rise. “Harry, love!” she greeted, pulling him into a tight hug before turning her attention to you. “And this must be…”

“This is my girl,” Harry said, his voice softer than you’d expected, hand settling at the small of your back. “Mum, Nan, Liz, meet my girl.”

You swallowed, smiled warmly, extending a hand. “Hi, it’s so nice to meet you.”

“Oh, none of that,” his Nan waved you in for a hug instead. “Come here, darling.”

You settled at the table between Harry and his sister, who was already grinning at you like she knew a secret.

“So,” his mum started after the drinks arrived. “Harry’s been awfully private about you. We had no idea there was someone special.”

Harry shot you a quick look, like the this is your line look.

You smiled, lifting your glass slightly. “Well, I own a coffee shop not too far from here,” you began, keeping your voice light and teasing. “And your son started spending an unreasonable amount of time there. At first, I thought he was just really obsessed with vanilla iced lattes.”

Liz snorted into her drink.

“But turns out,” you continued, glancing at Harry, “he’s a lot harder to ignore than I expected.”

His Nan chuckled. “That sounds about right. Castillo men have a way of getting under your skin.”

“Oh, he’s relentless,” you teased, nudging him with your shoulder.

“Hey!” Harry laughed. “I’m charming. There's a difference.”

Liz leaned in conspiratorially. “So, was it love at first latte or what?”

You grinned. “More like mild annoyance at first conversation. He wouldn’t stop coming”

“Because you have the best coffee in the entire New York,” Harry shot back, looking betrayed.

The table erupted in easy laughter, and the warmth in the room seemed to settle around you.

“Alright, alright,” Nan waved a hand. “I like her.”

Harry looked over at you then, not smug or teasing this time. Just soft. Like he was genuinely happy you were there. And you hated how much it made your heart skip a beat.

“So, what do you love about our Harry?” Nan asked, a wicked glint in her eye.

Your stomach flipped. You didn’t even get a chance to answer before Harry groaned, “Nan, come on.”

But you lifted a brow. “Hmm,” you pretended to think. “I guess I love how annoyingly attentive he is. He notices every tiny thing no one else would. And he always has something clever to say, even when I wish he’d just shut up.”

Liz cackled. “Welcome to the club.”

Nan grinned like she’d just won something. “Oh, I really like her,” she declared, reaching out to pat your hand. “Finally, someone who’ll give him a bit of trouble.”

Harry shook his head with a sheepish smile, his hand finding your knee under the table, a simple, steady touch that made your pulse stumble for a beat. You weren’t supposed to notice stuff like that. It had been a week, for god’s sake.

Liz leaned toward you. “He always dates the boring ones. No offense, but you’ve got more spark than the last three combined.”

“Liz,” Harry groaned again, his face going red now.

You laughed, leaning your chin into your palm as you looked at her. “Well, thank you for the warm welcome. I was honestly a little nervous.”

“Nothing to be nervous about,” his mum said kindly. “We’re just happy to finally meet the girl who’s been keeping our Harry busy.”

“Busy, huh?” you teased, raising your brow at Harry.

He shrugged with a grin, eyes flickering down to his plate. “I might’ve… mentioned you. A bit.”

“A bit?” Liz scoffed. “It’s been non-stop. ‘She made me this insane coffee today,’ ‘she roasted me for my shoes,’ ‘she is the most beautiful woman in every room’ It’s pathetic, honestly.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “I had no idea I was such a topic of conversation.”

Nan winked. “When he likes someone, he’s hopeless.”

Harry cleared his throat, sitting a little straighter. “Okay, alright. Are we gonna eat or roast me all night?”

“Both,” Liz and Nan said in unison, and you laughed again, the sound too easy, too natural in this little group you’d known for about an hour but somehow felt like you’d known your whole life.

And somewhere between dessert and another glass of wine, when Harry’s hand brushed yours again under the table and didn’t move away this time, you felt it.

The tiniest shift.

Like maybe this fake thing was starting to feel a little too good.

Like maybe you didn’t mind the way his family looked at you, or the way he did

And you smiled, because what else could you do?

You weren’t sure what scared you more.

The fact that you were lying to them.

Or the fact that part of you that was wishing it wasn’t a lie.

As the night wore out. Nan was telling a story about Harry as a kid, something about him putting his head through a fence to get a better look at a stray cat, and you were fully invested. You had your chin resting in your hand, eyes soft, grinning at every ridiculous detail like you’d known him your whole life.

Harry glanced at you, and for a second, everything around him faded.

You laughed when Nan got to the part where he’d cried because he couldn’t get his head back out. And then, without thinking, you reached over and squeezed his hand on the table. Just a light touch, but warm and steady, and it sent something sharp and tender right through him.

“You were adorable,” you told him, your voice laced with nothing but kindness, no teasing this time.

And damn, it did something to him.

It was stupid. It was fake. A one-week, pretend relationship because he was an idiot who’d lied to his family, but the way you looked at him in that moment wasn’t pretend at all.

His mum caught the way his face softened, and her own expression shifted just a little. She saw it too.

“You’re sweet, love,” Nan said to you, beaming. “I can see why he fell for you.”

You blushed, ducking your head, biting your lip as you murmured, “I’m just glad I get to be here.”

And you meant it. You were kind in this effortless way Harry hadn’t realized he was craving for. All this time chasing after people who never quite knew how to be gentle with him, people coming after the money he had and here you were, a storm of wit and heart, laughing with his family like you belonged there.

Liz elbowed him under the table with a knowing look.

Harry rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the stupid grin tugging at his mouth.

You turned to his mum as the waiter set down dessert, a beautifully plated lemon tart that made you gasp a little.

“Oh, this looks incredible,” you said, eyes lighting up as you reached for your fork. “If I’d known you lot ate like this, I would’ve insisted Harry introduce me sooner.”

His mum laughed, warmth in her eyes. “Well, you’re welcome anytime, love. It’s about time someone kept him in line.”

You grinned. “I’ll gladly take that job. He’s already a full-time headache at my coffee shop.”

That earned a round of chuckles from the table, and even Nan reached over to pat your hand. Liz was watching you with that same knowing look, like she could see right through you both and was enjoying every second of it.

Harry, meanwhile, couldn’t stop watching you. The way you laughed with his family, like you belonged there, like you’d always belonged there did something to him he couldn’t explain.

Without even thinking, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple, his hand resting naturally on the back of your chair.

You blinked up at him, caught a little off guard.

He smirked, lowering his voice. “Couldn’t help myself.”

You bit back a smile, nudging his knee under the table. “Better behave, Castillo. Remember the rules.”

“I’m bending them,” he murmured back, grin still tugging at his mouth.

And across the table, Nan smirked into her wine glass, Liz raised her brows at him, and his mum just smiled like she’d seen it coming all along.

As the night wound down and everyone stood from the table, you found yourself being wrapped in warm hugs, Nan pulling you close again, Liz whispering a teasing “You’re my favorite already” in your ear, and Harry’s mum holding your hands for a moment longer than expected.

“It was so lovely meeting you, sweetheart,” she said with genuine affection. “I can see why he’s so taken with you.”

Your cheeks warmed, but you smiled. “Thank you so much for having me. Really. It was… one of the best nights I’ve had in a while.”

“Good,” Nan declared with a wink. “Now, don’t be a stranger.”

“I won’t,” you promised, glancing at Harry, who was watching the whole scene with a look that was dangerously close to soft.

After goodbyes were exchanged, his family made their way toward their car, waving as they went.

And then it was just the two of you outside, the night cool and still, the distant sounds of the city settling like a hum around you.

Harry shoved his hands into his pockets and let out a long, quiet breath. “Hey,” he said, turning to face you fully. “Thank you. For tonight. For… all of it.”

You gave him a soft smile, nudging his arm with your elbow. “You don’t have to thank me, Harry. They’re amazing. And honestly… it was kinda nice. Felt like I was crashing someone else’s family dinner in the best way.”

He smiled back at you, one of those quiet, real ones that didn’t need to be flashy. Then, without overthinking it, he stepped a little closer, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead.

You closed your eyes for a second, feeling it more than you should’ve.

When he pulled back, his voice was soft. “You’re something else, you know that?”

You looked up at him, a playful smirk returning to your lips. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t fall in love with me, Harry. Remember the rules.”

He laughed, shaking his head as you stood there.

Then Harry took a half step toward his car before pausing, glancing back at you.

“What are you doing there?” he asked, brow quirked, that grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m driving you home.”

You looked around the quiet street, hands in your jacket pockets, a mischievous glint in your eye.

“Yeah, about that,” you said, pretending to study a flickering streetlamp. “I’m honestly kinda craving a pizza right now. Thought I might walk to grab one and then I was going to take a taxi”

Harry blinked at you, then let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head like you’d just suggested adopting a stray dog at midnight.

“You’re kidding,” he said, stepping closer. “You’re seriously about to wander off into the night for pizza and a taxi?”

You grinned up at him. “I’ve done worse.”

He tilted his head, giving you a look equal parts exasperated and fond. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“Yeah, you already told me,” You teased, nudging his side with your elbow.

He sighed dramatically, then reached out and hooked a finger through your jacket’s collar, tugging you a little closer.

“Okay then,” he said, voice soft. “I’ll walk with you. Can’t have you getting lost on the way to a pizza place.”

You raised a brow. “Harry Castillo, breaking his own rules?”

He smirked. “Sue me.”

A week slipped by like it was nothing. Every morning without fail, the bell above your coffee shop door would chime around 9:15, and there he’d be, Harry Castillo, sunglasses perched in his hair, stupidly charming grin in place, ordering the same vanilla iced latte you pretended to roll your eyes at every time.

And then you’d message each other throughout the day. Stupid things. Memes. Complaints about work. The occasional voice notes of him humming some old ‘80s song in traffic. You tried not to overthink how easy it was, how natural it felt to have him around in this quiet, steady way.

Until Thursday.

You were wiping down the counter, half-distracted by a message you were about to send him, when the door opened and in walked someone else, a tall, polished-looking woman you vaguely recognized from other times, she must be Harry’s assistant.

“For Mr. Castillo,” she said politely, not even glancing at the menu.

You felt it. That tiny, dumb pang in your chest you weren’t proud of.

“Sure,” you smiled, acting cool as ever while making his drink. “Tell him he’s a coward.”

The assistant blinked. “Sorry?”

You grinned wider, slid the cup across the counter. “He’ll get it.”

She gave you a confused little nod and left.

And sure enough, around thirty minutes later, your phone buzzed.

Harry ☕

Did you just call me a coward through my assistant?

You smirked down at your screen, thumbs flying.

You ☀️

Well, if the shoe fits. What happened to my daily sunshine?

It took less than a minute.

Harry ☕

Miss me that much?

You bit your lip, shaking your head like an idiot in the middle of your own shop.

You ☀️

Not even a little.

And for some reason… you knew he was smiling too.

Your phone buzzed again, this time, not a message.

Harry’s name lit up your screen, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you answered.

“Well, well, look who decided to remember how phones work,” you teased, leaning your hip against the counter.

His chuckle came through the line, warm and familiar. “Alright, alright, you made your point. I deserved that.”

“Damn right, you did.”

For a beat, neither of you spoke, and then his voice softened a little. “You busy tomorrow night?”

You raised a brow, even though he couldn’t see you. “Depends. Why? You need someone to make fun of you again in front of your mom?”

He laughed. “Tempting. But no. I’ve got this business thing, a party, really. Bunch of people I don’t care about, free champagne, probably awful music. Thought maybe you would like to come with me.”

You pretended to think it over. “Hmm. So basically, you’re asking me to be your emotional support human while you schmooze rich people.”

“Something like that,” he agreed, and you could practically hear the grin in his voice. “But also cause I want you there.”

Your chest did that annoying tight thing again.

“It’s a job thing and everyone is taking their partners with them and you are mine, so…”

“It’s a job thing, really. Everyone’s taking their partners, and you’re mine. So…” He let the sentence hang, warm and unspoken.

You smiled, feeling a mix of nerves and something else you weren’t quite ready to name. “Alright, Castillo. I’m in.”

“Good,” he said, voice grinning through the line. “See you tomorrow, darling.”

You smiled at the pet name.

“See you tomorrow, Harry.”

You slipped your phone into your pocket, still smiling at the way he’d said “darling.” The warmth lingered longer than you expected.

Just then, the café door swung open with a burst of energy.

“HARRY?!” a familiar voice called out, loud and unmistakable.

You looked up to see Claire, radiant and glowing, stepping inside, fresh from her honeymoon

“Claire?” you laughed, walking to hug her “How was the honeymoon? How is Chris?”

Claire smiled warmly, returning your hug. “Good, good. Chris is back at work already. But now, Harry? Who? As in Harry Castillo, Chris’s groomsman? His boss?”

You blinked. “Wait, what?” you said, pulling back to look at her. “Harry is Chris’s boss?”

Claire let out a laugh, linking her arm through yours like she was about to spill the juiciest piece of gossip. “What? You didn’t know who he is? That man owns half of this city’s businesses. Restaurants, bars, hotels, real estate. Castillo Group? Ring a bell?”

Your mouth opened, then shut again. “You’re kidding.”

She shook her head, grinning. “Nope. Chris has worked under him for like three years now. He’s this insane mix of ridiculously rich and weirdly private. I’m honestly surprised he’s hanging around here every day.”

You just stared at her for a second, your brain tripping over itself. Harry. Castillo. You’d spent the last week teasing him about his extra shots of vanilla syrup and calling him an idiot, and he owned half the city?

“I need to sit down,” you muttered, reaching for the nearest chair.

Claire giggled, clearly delighted. “Oh my god, you really had no clue.”

“Not a single one,” you breathed out, half-laughing, half-panicking.

You sat down hard in the chair, your mind racing. Claire was still watching you with that gleeful, nosy-best-friend grin, and it hit you — shit. The agreement. The one where, for whatever ridiculous reason, you and Harry had agreed to fake date for these business things. And now here was Claire, freshly back from her honeymoon, connecting dots you hadn’t planned on anyone connecting.

Your stomach twisted. You had to lie.

“So…” Claire sing-songed, leaning on the table. “Are you guys��like… together?”

You forced a casual shrug, heart thudding in your chest. “Yeah, uh… yeah. We’ve been… seeing each other.”

Her eyes widened like saucers. “Since when?!”

“Just after your wedding, really,” you said, keeping your voice light, hoping she wouldn’t hear the slight tremor. “We ran into each other a couple times and… it kind of just happened.”

Claire squealed, grabbing your hands. “Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“I was gonna,” you lied smoothly. “But with you on your honeymoon and… we’ve been keeping it quiet, seeing where it goes, you know?”

Claire beamed at you like you’d just handed her front-row tickets to a scandalous rom-com. “This is wild. I mean, Harry freaking Castillo. And you. I love it. You have to tell me everything.”

Claire pulled out a chair like she had no plans of leaving anytime soon, eyes bright with excitement. “Okay, how did it start? Who made the first move? Was it like, sparks-flying, slow motion thing?

You let out a nervous laugh, trying not to visibly panic. “Honestly… it was more like… he loves the coffee from here.”

Which, technically, wasn’t a lie.

Claire grinned. “Ugh, that’s so you. God, and I just knew he was flirting with you at the wedding, he had his eye on you the whole time.”

You swallowed hard, hoping your face wasn’t betraying you. “Yeah, well… we’ve kind of just been hanging out, keeping it low-key.”

“And you’re into him?” she asked, nudging your elbow with a teasing smirk.

You hesitated, because the answer was complicated and you weren’t even sure what counted as fake or real anymore, but you covered it with a casual grin. “Yeah… he’s actually… really great.”

Claire’s whole face softened at that. “Well, I’m happy for you. You deserve someone good, you know?”

And damn it if that didn’t sting a little.

You smiled. “Thanks, Claire.”

Before she could dig for more, your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out, a message from Harry.

Harry ☕

 Chris is already planning our wedding.

You smirked and quickly typed back.

You ☀️

 Claire’s too. You owe me.

You slid your phone away just as Claire sighed dreamily. “God, imagine if you actually married Harry Castillo.”

You laughed a little too loud. “Yeah… imagine.”

Claire arched a brow at your reaction, a teasing smirk tugging at her lips. “Oh my god — you like him.”

You scoffed, grabbing a dish towel from the counter to busy your hands. “I don’t.”

“Mm-hmm,” she hummed, leaning back in her chair like she’d cracked some unspoken code. “You’ve got that dumb grin people get when they’re catching feelings.”

You shot her a look. “Claire, we’ve been ‘dating’ for like five minutes.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she sing-songed. “That’s how it starts. Next thing you know, you’re moving into his ridiculous penthouse and adopting a designer dog.”

You couldn’t help the way your lips twitched into a smile. “First of all — if anyone’s getting a dog in this scenario, it’s me. And second, it’s not like that. We’re just… taking it slow.”

Claire softened again, reaching over to squeeze your hand. “Hey, look — I’m not trying to tease too much. I just… you deserve to be happy. And maybe this is good for you, you know? Something unexpected.”

You swallowed, throat a little tight because maybe it was. And maybe it scared you half to death.

Before you could answer, your phone buzzed again.

Harry ☕

Also, just so you know, I’m definitely getting you a huge portion of French fries tomorrow after the party. Can’t have my date starving.

You bit your lip, the flutter in your chest way too annoying for your liking.

You ☀️

I’m holding you to that, Harry.

Claire grinned knowingly. “That better be him.”

You rolled your eyes, slipping your phone into your pocket. “Shut up and tell me about your honeymoon already.”

And for now, you let yourself breathe.

The next day blurred past in a mess of deliveries, inventory lists, and your staff pestering you about whether or not you were actually dating the Harry Castillo, something Claire apparently hadn’t wasted a single second spreading around.

By early evening, you’d finally escaped into your small office at the back of the coffee shop, drowning in paperwork you’d been avoiding all week. The hum of the café outside was distant through the closed door, and for a while, it felt peaceful.

A soft knock pulled you from your numbers.

“Come in,” you called, not looking up, assuming it was Celine with one of her million shift questions.

But the voice you heard wasn’t hers.

“Hey.”

You looked up, and there they were. Those soft, impossibly familiar brown eyes you could not stop thinking about no matter how many times you told yourself you shouldn’t.

Harry leaned casually against the doorframe, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding a coffee cup, from your own café, no less.

For a second, you couldn’t even get your brain to function.

“What…what are you doing here?” you asked, setting your pen down and quickly trying to look less flustered than you felt.

He grinned. “Had a meeting nearby. Figured I’d stop by, check if my favorite coffee shop owner was still alive… and maybe see if she’s still free for tonight.”

You swallowed. “I am.”

His smile softened, and for a beat, neither of you said anything. Just the quiet hum of the café and the low buzz of your heart thudding too hard in your chest.

Harry stepped fully inside, closing the door behind him. “You look good, by the way.”

You snorted, gesturing at your slightly messy bun and sleeves rolled up past your elbows. “Yeah, peak fashion.”

“Always,” he teased, before his voice dropped a little. “I missed seeing you here this morning.”

Your heart gave an annoyingly hopeful skip. “You sent your assistant again.”

“Biggest regret of my day,” he admitted, his grin tilting to something softer, something that made your breath catch.

“I’m actually came here to give you this” he said, walking towards you.

You blinked down at the glossy black Versace bag he held out to you, its gold lettering practically gleaming in your dim little office. Your stomach dropped.

“No,” you said immediately, holding your hands up like it might bite. “Harry, absolutely not.”

He laughed, unfazed by your reaction, and stepped closer, setting it on your desk anyway. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s Versace!” you hissed, like saying the name too loud might summon the fashion police to haul you away. “I—no. I’m not taking that. What even is it?”

“Relax,” he chuckled, leaning a hip against your desk, looking entirely too smug about your flustered panic. “It’s just something for tonight.”

“Harry, I have a dress,” you insisted, even though technically it was more of a safe option you pulled out for weddings. Nothing Versace-level. Nothing dating Harry Castillo-level.

He raised a brow. “Humor me.”

“Harry—”

“Look,” he said gently, his voice softening. “You’re doing me a favor by coming tonight. This is just… me saying thanks. I saw it, thought of you. That’s it.”

You stared at him, at those unfairly warm eyes and the sincere look on his face, and damn it if you didn’t feel your resolve wobble.

“…I’m still mad about this,” you grumbled, snatching the bag off the desk and earning a wide grin from him. “Besides you had been lying to me.”

“I can live with that, and we can talk about it tonight.” he said easily. “Pick you up at eight.”

And just like that, he was gone again, leaving you alone with your paperwork, a dangerously fluttery heart, and a Versace bag you absolutely should not open, but already knew you would.

You stared at the bag like it might self-destruct, then sighed, dragging it closer with one finger.

“This is such a bad idea,” you muttered to yourself, but you were already pulling the tissue paper aside.

Inside was a slip of silk — no, satin — in a deep midnight blue that shimmered when it caught the light. It was elegant, simple, but devastating in the way only something stupidly expensive and perfectly chosen could be. You ran your fingers over the fabric, cursing under your breath.

Of course he would pick something like this.

Of course it would be exactly your style.

And of course your stomach would do a whole dumb somersault over it.

You shook your head, stuffing the dress carefully back into the bag before you could talk yourself into trying it on in your office like a deranged person.

Your phone buzzed on the desk.

Harry ☕

Hope you like it. And if you don’t, though, you’re wearing it.

You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile, and typed back.

You ☀️

You’re an actual menace, Harry.

A second later:

Harry ☕

Yeah, but I’m your menace tonight.

And god help you , you were so completely screwed.

You shoved your phone in your pocket before you could grin any wider, grabbed the Versace bag, and slipped out of your office. Celine caught sight of the bag immediately and narrowed her eyes.

“That better be for me,” she called.

You didn’t answer, just shot her a look and muttered, “Don’t start.”

And as you locked up that night, you tried, truly, sincerely tried, not to think about the way Harry Castillo made you feel like maybe, just maybe, none of this was pretend anymore.

The night settled around the city in a blanket of warm lights and cool air, the streets humming softly with the kind of buzz that made you feel alive but also… absolutely on edge.

You stood just outside your building, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, arms wrapped around yourself even though it wasn’t cold. The Versace bag swung gently at your wrist, and you tried not to let your nerves show on your face, though you doubted anyone was paying enough attention to notice.

Except, you knew one person would.

You checked your phone again. No new messages, but the last one from Harry sat there like a tiny bomb in your inbox.

Harry ☕

On my way, sweetheart.

Sweetheart.

You took a steadying breath, glancing down at the dress in the bag again. You’d slipped it on before, just to make sure it fit. It had hugged your frame in a way that felt unfair. It made you feel like a version of yourself you didn’t quite recognize — a little too soft, a little too exposed, but undeniably… beautiful.

And maybe, just maybe, you wanted Harry to see you like that.

A black car slowed to a stop at the curb, the passenger window rolling down. And there he was — messy hair, that infuriatingly charming half-smile, and brown eyes that somehow made you feel seen in a way you weren’t used to.

“Hey,” he called, voice low and warm. “Get in, gorgeous.”

You let out a breathy laugh, because damn him. “Stop being so smooth, it’s exhausting.”

“Can’t help it,” he grinned, leaning over to push the door open for you. “It’s a medical condition.”

You slid into the car, heart rattling in your chest. He looked over at you, taking in your makeup, the soft waves in your hair, and the way your lips curved even when you tried to keep a straight face.

“You’re nervous,” he said, not as a tease, just a fact, quiet and careful.

You shrugged. “A little. This whole… thing. I’m not exactly used to pretending to be someone’s plus one at a business party.”

Harry’s expression softened, and he reached over, his hand covering yours on your lap.

“You don’t have to pretend anything,” he murmured. “Just be you. That’s all I want tonight.”

And god, why did that make everything worse and better at the same time?

You gave a small nod, meeting his gaze. “Okay.”

The car eased to a stop outside one of those ridiculous glass-walled buildings uptown — the kind where the valet was in a tux and the guests stepping out of luxury cars looked like they belonged on magazine covers. You stared out the window for half a second longer than necessary, steeling yourself.

Harry climbed out first, moving around the car to open your door like it was the most natural thing in the world. He held a hand out to you, palm up, and you hesitated for just a second before placing yours in his.

His fingers curled around yours, warm, steady, certain. The touch sent a quiet current through your skin, but you forced a casual smile as you stepped out.

“You ready for this?” he asked, leaning in, voice for your ears only.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” you replied, smirking up at him.

The lobby was all polished marble, soft golden light, and the distant sound of a jazz trio playing something smooth and expensive-sounding. People were already milling around with champagne flutes in hand, and you could feel a few heads turn as you and Harry stepped in.

And then, he didn’t let go of your hand.

In fact, his grip tightened slightly as he guided you through the room, stopping to greet a few people, nodding here and there, that easy confidence radiating off him like he was made for this kind of setting.

To anyone else, it probably looked effortless.

To you, well, it was a little infuriating how good he was at this.

At one point, a woman in a sleek black dress and sharp red lipstick approached with a bright smile. “Harry, darling. And who’s this?”

You opened your mouth, not quite sure how to introduce yourself in whatever fake arrangement you were in, but Harry beat you to it.

“This is my girl,” he said easily, tugging you a little closer with a glance down at you that made your stomach tumble. “She’s the best thing I’ve had the good fortune to stumble into this year.”

The words knocked the air out of you for a second, because he said it like it wasn’t a line.

Like maybe he almost meant it.

You managed a polite smile and shook the woman’s hand. The rest of the introductions blurred a little after that, though you kept catching Harry’s thumb brushing the back of your hand, little grounding touches that felt way too natural.

When you finally had a moment alone by the bar, you looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. “My girl, huh?”

He grinned, leaning in close enough for only you to hear. “Could’ve gone with ‘darling’ again, but figured I’d keep you guessing.”

You tried to look unimpressed. Failed miserably.

“Smooth, Harry. Real smooth.”

And as he reached for two glasses of champagne, handing you one, he murmured with a crooked smile, “Perhaps, I’m not pretending as well as I thought I’d be.”

You barely had a chance to process the weight of those words — I’m not pretending as well as I thought I’d be — before a familiar burst of laughter snagged your attention from across the room.

You turned your head and there they were. Claire, in a gorgeous emerald green dress that made her glow, and Chris, looking sharp in a navy suit, his arm around her waist as they chatted with a small group of people.

Your stomach did a little flip.

“Uh oh,” you muttered, leaning in toward Harry so only he could hear. “Incoming.”

Harry followed your gaze, his lips quirking up when he spotted them. “Ah, the newlyweds.”

As if on cue, Claire’s eyes landed on you, and her whole face lit up. She nudged Chris, whispering something, and the two of them made a beeline toward you.

“Look at you two!” Claire practically beamed, pulling you into a quick, excited hug, then stepping back to eye you both with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “God, you clean up well. And together? This is unfairly attractive.”

Chris laughed, shaking Harry’s hand and clapping him on the shoulder. “I didn’t know you were bringing company tonight, man.”

“Would’ve been a crime not to,” Harry replied smoothly, his hand finding yours again like it belonged there, fingers threading through yours with ease. “Wouldn’t survive this kind of crowd without her.”

Claire’s gaze darted down to your joined hands, then back up to your face with a knowing smirk.

You gave her a look that said be cool, but it only made her grin wider.

“So how long has this been going on?” Claire asked, leaning in, teasing but genuinely curious.

You opened your mouth, brain scrambling for the number you and Harry had joked about before, but before you could answer, Harry spoke first.

“Since your wedding” he said, squeezing your hand gently.

You barely had time to register Harry’s answer before a small crowd pulled him and Chris away, laughing and talking loudly as they got drawn into a conversation with some other guests. You were left standing there with Claire, feeling suddenly a little out of place in your heels and dress.

Claire nudged you gently. “Well, that was smooth.”

You smiled, grateful for the distraction as you chatted with her about her honeymoon and how married life was treating her. The room buzzed with chatter, clinking glasses, and soft music — a perfect backdrop for what you hoped would be a low-key evening.

Then, out of nowhere, a light tap on your shoulder startled you.

Turning around, you found yourself looking up at a man with a charming smile and confident eyes, clearly trying to catch your attention.

“I couldn’t help but notice you from across the room,” he said smoothly, voice low. “You have the kind of smile that could light up this entire place.”

You glanced at Claire, who was watching the scene with amused eyes, then turned back to the man, forcing a polite but firm smile.

“That’s very kind of you,” you said carefully, trying not to encourage him.

Before the man could continue, a strong presence settled beside you. Harry’s hand slid easily over yours, his gaze sharp and protective as he looked down at the newcomer.

“Excuse me,” Harry said, voice calm but clearly warning, “she’s with me.”

The man’s smile faltered as Harry’s eyes locked onto his, the unspoken message clear.

“Oh. Right. Of course,” the man said quickly, backing away with an awkward chuckle.

Harry’s jaw relaxed, but his hold on your hand remained steady, grounding you.

Claire leaned in with a grin. “Well, that was fast.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, feeling the heat of Harry’s closeness settle around you like a shield.

“Thanks for the rescue,” you murmured.

Harry’s eyes softened as he squeezed your hand again. “Always.

Harry’s hand slid from your fingers to your waist, pulling you just a little closer, his body warmth seeping into you. Your breath hitched, heart fluttering as you were about to let yourself fall for this protective side of him, when out of the corner of your eye, you saw her.

Lucy.

She stood across the room, wearing a stunning black dress that hugged every curve, her raven-black hair cascading perfectly over her shoulders, and those icy blue eyes scanning the crowd like a queen surveying her kingdom. Everything about her, her confidence, her presence, hit you all at once.

Suddenly, the closeness between you and Harry felt less sweet and more like a calculated move. You realized then that Harry wasn’t doing this just to keep his family off his back. No, this was personal. A game. A way to get back at his ex.

Disappointment flooded your chest, thick and sharp.

You gently pulled away from him, smoothing your dress and forcing a steady breath.

“I… I need to get some air,” you said quietly, trying not to let the hurt show.

Harry opened his mouth, but you didn’t wait for his response. You turned and walked toward the door, your mind spinning with thoughts you hadn’t expected to feel tonight.

An hour passed like slow, heavy waves crashing over him, and Harry still hadn’t found you. The party’s noise throbbed behind the walls, but inside him, everything was quieter, empty in the worst way.

He finally stepped outside onto the balcony, the cool night air biting at his skin. His eyes scanned the dim space until they landed on you, sitting alone on the ledge, wrapped in your arms like you were trying to hold yourself together against the chill.

You didn’t look at him at first, just stared up at the dark sky as if searching for answers in the stars. Harry’s heart clenched, and without a word, he crossed the distance and sat down beside you, careful not to crowd your space.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, just heavy with everything left unsaid. After a moment, Harry’s voice came out soft, almost hesitant.

“Hey”

You finally looked at him, eyes reflecting the distant city lights. “You lied to me.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“You said all of this was about your family but the truth is, you wanted to get back at Lucy fore leaving you and I’m the revenge gun.” You added.

Harry’s eyes darkened, guilt flashing across his face before he quickly masked it with something softer.

“I never wanted you to feel like that,” he said quietly. “You’re not some pawn in my past. You’re... you’re not that.”

You pulled your arms tighter around yourself, frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

“But that’s exactly what it felt like tonight. Like I was just a way to get back at her.”

Harry looked down for a moment, then met your gaze again, earnest and raw.

“I—yes, I omitted that information.” He confessed, “But getting to know you…It has been so—so magical I-.”

You let out a shaky breath, unsure if you were angry, hurt, or just exhausted.

“I’m not mad.” You said calmly, “But I’m disappointed. You lied about this and you lied about who you are too.”

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t tell me you were a billionaire either.”

Harry blinked, a slow, rueful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Yeah,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair again, the vulnerability slipping through for a moment. “I didn’t think it mattered. I wanted you to like me for me, not my bank account.”

You studied him, the weight of the night pressing down on you, but beneath it all, a flicker of something softer.

“You think that low of me?” you asked, kinda hurt by that.

Harry’s face fell the second the words left your mouth — like you’d knocked the air right out of him.

“No,” he said quickly, stepping closer, his voice rough with regret. “God, no. That’s not what I meant. It wasn’t about you. It was about me. About… how people usually are with me. I didn’t want to risk it being the same with you because you’re—”

He stopped himself, swallowing hard, his eyes searching yours in the low light.

“You’re different,” he finished quietly. “You scare the hell out of me in the best possible way. And I’ve been so terrified of messing it up, I already did.”

Your chest tightened, your arms still wrapped around yourself, and for a second you weren’t sure if you wanted to yell at him or pull him close. Maybe both.

“I’m not some charity case you get to parade around, Harry,” you said softly. “I’m not a revenge plan. I’m not something you use to prove a point to an ex. I’m a person.”

“I know,” he said, stepping even closer, his hand hesitating before gently brushing your arm, as if testing if you’d let him. “And you deserve better than what I did tonight. I swear to you… none of this feels like a game to me anymore. It hasn’t for a while.”

You closed your eyes for a second, breathing in the cold night air, trying to steady the storm inside you.

“I don’t know what this is,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “Or what it could be. But if you want this plan to keep going, you need to be honest with me. No more half-truths. No more omissions.”

Harry nodded, the weight of your words settling between you like some fragile, unspoken truce.

“I can do that,” he said, voice low, sincere in a way you hadn’t seen before tonight. “You deserve that. Hell, you deserve more than that, but… I’ll start there.”

His hand lingered at your arm, fingers grazing your skin like he wasn’t ready to let you drift any farther from him. You didn’t pull away this time, though your heart ached with a mix of too many things you didn’t have names for.

After a long, quiet moment, you huffed a breath, a ghost of a smirk tugging at your lips despite yourself. “You realize Claire is never letting me live this down if we go back in there together.”

Harry’s mouth curved into a crooked smile, some of the tension easing from his face. “I’ll take full responsibility for that.”

You arched a brow. “Including when she makes a slideshow of our imaginary honeymoon?”

He laughed, and it was soft, real — nothing polished or smug about it. “Even then.”

A beat passed. The cold didn’t sting as sharply now. The city lights flickered in the distance, and his eyes never left yours.

“Okay,” you said quietly. “Let’s finish what we started. But this time… you’re honest with me. Every step.”

“I promise,” Harry murmured.

Harry glanced at you, noticed the way your arms were still wrapped around yourself against the cold, and without a word, shrugged out of his jacket.

“Here,” he murmured, draping it over your shoulders with a tenderness that made your heart ache in a way you weren’t prepared for.

You inhaled instinctively — it smelled like him. Warm, expensive cologne and something inherently Harry beneath it.

“Thanks,” you whispered, your fingers brushing his as you pulled it tighter around yourself.

He lingered a second longer, his hands hesitating at your shoulders, as if debating whether to say more, to touch more. But instead, he just gave you a soft, crooked smile.

“You know,” he said quietly, “even when you’re mad at me, you still look beautiful.”

You rolled your eyes, though a reluctant smile pulled at your lips. “You’re dangerously close to losing jacket privileges.”

Harry chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Noted.”

Another silence fell, but this time, it felt… different. Not heavy with things unsaid, but fragile in a new, tentative way — like a beginning neither of you were quite brave enough to name yet.

After a moment, you exhaled. “Come on. Let’s get back in before Claire starts a betting pool.”

Harry grinned at that, and for the first time in what felt like hours, the knot in your chest loosened just a little.

He held the door open for you, his hand grazing your lower back as you stepped inside, light, unassuming, but enough to remind you he was still there.

You stepped back into the warmth of the party, the soft hum of conversation and clinking glasses wrapping around you like a familiar, chaotic blanket. But it wasn’t the glittering lights or the music you noticed first. It was her.

Lucy.

She was standing near the bar in that slinky black dress, her arm looped through some guy’s, but her blue eyes were locked on one person.

Harry.

You saw it plain as day, the possessive flicker, the bitterness she couldn’t quite hide behind her practiced smile. And something inside you, some heady cocktail of defiance, adrenaline, and maybe the tiniest hint of revenge, surged to the surface.

Without giving yourself a chance to overthink it, you reached out, grabbed a fistful of Harry’s shirt, and tugged him down to you.

His eyes widened in surprise just a beat before your lips crashed onto his.

And damn it if it didn’t feel electric.

The world around you blurred, the music, the people, even the cold ache of what had happened an hour ago, all of it drowned under the warmth of his mouth on yours. He hesitated only a second before his hand cupped the side of your neck, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness you weren’t ready for.

It wasn’t a fake kiss.

Not the kind meant to sell a lie.

It was something else.

When you finally pulled back, breathe a little short, you caught the flicker of shock and unmistakable jealousy in Lucy’s face.

Good.

Harry’s gaze searched yours, his thumb brushing your jaw like he couldn’t help himself. “What… was that for?” he murmured, his voice low and a little breathless.

You smirked up at him, chest still pounding. “Just reminding someone what she lost.”

His grin spread slow and crooked, his eyes gleaming with something dangerous and unguarded. “God, you’re something else,” he whispered.

You shrugged, though you could feel your pulse hammering in your throat. “Come on. Let’s go to grab some champagne.”

And for the first time that night, it felt like it was your game now.

Harry chuckled under his breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe you — or maybe like he was starting to realize he didn’t want to stop believing in you. His hand found yours again, this time with no audience, no pretend, no reason but because he wanted to.

“Lead the way,” he murmured.

You tugged him through the crowd toward the bar, your smirk lingering just long enough to catch the storm brewing in Lucy’s eyes. It wasn’t even about her anymore, not really. It was about you. About reclaiming a night that had made you feel small, powerless, and used.

The bartender raised an eyebrow as you slid two fingers across the counter. “Your best champagne,” you said, grinning. “On his tab.”

Harry laughed, leaning in close, his lips brushing your ear. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, feeling the spark in your chest catch fire, “but you like it.”

A minute later, two crystal flutes of something bubbly and outrageously expensive were in your hands. You raised yours toward him, chin lifting. “To terrible ideas.”

Harry clinked his glass against yours, his gaze never leaving your face. “And to hoping they turn into the best ones.”

You swallowed a smile, the warmth of the champagne chasing the last of the cold from your skin. But you knew this wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

Because even as you let yourself lean into the ridiculousness of it, the party, the pretend, the kiss that didn’t feel so pretend anymore, you could still feel Lucy’s stare like a needle in your back. And deep down, you knew you’d only made things more complicated.

Some time later, the night had dulled into that sleepy, glittering haze that parties get when they’ve gone on too long — the music softer, the conversations blurring together, the champagne no longer crisp but heavy in your veins.

Harry had gotten swept away by a group of older men in tailored suits, half business partners, half family friends you didn’t know and didn’t care to. You caught his eyes a couple of times across the room, his expression apologetic, but you just waved him off with a small smile. It was fine.

You and Claire ended up perched on one of those ridiculously overpriced velvet couches near the corner, away from the crowd, both of you leaning into each other like you were back in college again, sneaking out of classes and eating junk food on your dorm floor.

Claire sighed dramatically, resting her head against yours. “If one more man over forty-five tries to explain crypto to me, I’m throwing myself into that champagne fountain.”

You snorted, eyes heavy-lidded, tipping your head to rest against her shoulder. “Wake me up before you do. I wanna see that.”

“Okay.”

A comfortable quiet settled between you, the room spinning a little too warmly, the lingering scent of expensive perfume clinging to the air. You let your eyes flutter shut for a minute, feeling Claire’s steady breathing and the distant hum of voices.

“Hey,” she murmured after a while, nudging you gently. “You okay? You’ve been… quiet.”

You gave a small shrug, not opening your eyes. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

She hummed knowingly. “You know he’s into you, right? It’s not just about Lucy.”

Your eyes flickered open then, and you turned your head just enough to look at her. “Claire—”

“I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He’s a goner.”

Your stomach twisted, heat creeping up your neck. “I don’t… I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore.”

Claire smiled softly, squeezing your hand. “You’re living a little. About damn time.”

And before you could say anything else, a familiar hand brushed your shoulder.

You glanced up to find Harry standing there, eyes only for you, his tie slightly loosened, hair a little messy, looking like the man everyone in the room wanted a piece of — but right now, it felt like he only wanted you.

“Sorry I disappeared,” he murmured. “Stealing you now.”

Claire grinned, giving your hand a squeeze before letting go. “Go. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

You rolled your eyes, standing up a little unsteadily as Harry’s hand settled on your back. His palm warm, grounding.

“Everything okay?” he asked quietly.

You gave a small smile. “I want to go home.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, concern flickering across his face. His hand didn’t leave your back as he leaned in a little closer, voice soft enough that only you could hear it over the hum of the party.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Without another word, he threaded his fingers through yours, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze before gently guiding you through the crowd. You caught Claire’s knowing smirk from the couch as you passed, mouthing text me later before you disappeared through the doors.

The night air hit you in a rush, cool and sharp against your skin. You breathed it in like a balm, finally free from the thick press of the party, the expectations, the eyes.

His hand lingering at your back as he walked you toward the car. Neither of you said much. You didn’t need to. The silence was different now, not heavy, not awkward. Just… quiet.

When you reached the car, he opened the door for you, watching you slide in before joining you on the other side. The driver asked where to, and for a second, you hesitated.

But then Harry spoke, his voice low and certain.

“To her place.”

You glanced at him, and he met your eyes, a softness there that made your stomach flip.

“Only if you want me to,” he added, quieter now, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand.

You exhaled, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips.

The car pulled away from the curb, the city lights blurring past the window, and for the first time that night, you let yourself lean into him, resting your head against his shoulder, the steady beat of his heart under your cheek. He pressed a kiss to your hair, and neither of you said another word the whole ride home.

…….....

When the car finally rolled to a stop in front of your building, you sat up a little, rubbing your eyes as the exhaustion of the night caught up with you. Harry climbed out first, rounding the car to open your door like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand reached for yours again, steady and sure, and you let him help you out.

As you reached your front steps, he lingered behind you, hands in his pockets, a soft smile playing at his lips.

“You know,” he started, tilting his head as he looked up at your place, “you haven’t shown me your place yet.”

You let out a tired, slightly amused breath, glancing over your shoulder at him. “It’s pretty modest.”

He shrugged, that easy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Good. I’m sick of penthouses and marble bathrooms.”

You smiled, shaking your head as you pulled your keys from your bag and unlocked the door. “Well, don’t get too excited. The fanciest thing in there is probably my coffee maker.”

“Perfect,” he murmured, his voice low, something softer threaded in it as he followed you inside.

The warm glow of your little apartment welcomed you both. It wasn’t much, cozy couch, a few mismatched frames on the walls, books stacked where they probably shouldn’t be, but it was yours. Lived in. Safe.

Harry took it in, the way you half expected him to make some kind of teasing comment about your thrift store throw pillows or the crooked bookshelf, but he didn’t. He just smiled.

“I love it,” he said quietly.

You hung up your coat, his jacket still around your shoulders. “You want some tea or…?”

But before you could finish the question, he crossed the room, cupping your face gently, his thumb brushing your cheek.

Your heart gave a helpless tug in your chest.

“Harry?" you whispered.

And before he could overthink it, he closed the space between you, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that tasted like exhaustion and honesty and the quiet promise of something you weren’t quite ready to name yet.

The kiss was slow, unhurried, like neither of you wanted to be the one to pull away first. His hand slipped to the back of your neck, holding you there like maybe this was exactly where you were meant to be all along.

When you finally parted, breath mingling, foreheads nearly touching, you managed a wry little smirk, your fingers still gripping the front of his shirt.

“You’re breaking rule number three,” you murmured against his lips, your voice soft and teasing, but there was no hiding the way your pulse fluttered.

Harry chuckled, low and rough, his thumb brushing your cheek again. “Yeah,” he breathed, eyes locked on yours. “I’m starting to think I want to break all of them.”

💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌

💌tags<3: If you would like to be removed of perhaps you don't like this anymore, please tell me.

@jasminedragoon @stcrrjoon @sptbear @picketnifflerniffler @greenwitchfromthewoods @fallout-girl219 @suzysface @aomi-recs @capuccinodoll @fvispunk @orcasoul @joeldarling @mystickittytaco @onlythehobi @darkheartgatita @isabella-rose-trastamara @spencercmlover @brittmb115 @correapunk @aomi-nabi @annulmaelae @32-flavors @berriesarepunk @joelmillerpascal

@lotusbxtch @dean-and-baby343 @pedrofan @hisuccubus @daryltwdixon @sourrollercoaster @holholliday @loveisacowboyyy

@hhallefuckinglujahh @primadonnasdream @chewie-bars @starstriker027 @glitterspark @casualbananapatrol @06nasyrah13

@unicornsandpugs @orcasoul @grayandthyme @sincerelywithheartt @starstriker027 @poor-unfortunate-soul9927

@ro-nahime-things @kimi01985 @pastelpinkflowerlife @isabella-rose-trastamara @majuia @secretlettersfromyourlove @he-is-the-destined @thalitxa @copperhalfcent @throttlepascal @avengerfan25

[honeyncherry]

all good things ii - joe burrow

summary you thought you'd mastered the art of letting go, turns out you'd just gotten really good at looking the other way

content angst, fluff, idk what im talking about in half this

part one

"Why are you here?"

You don't look up from the glass you're drying when you ask it, but you can feel him settling onto the barstool across from you. Same spot as always—third from the left, close enough to the corner that he can see the door but far enough from the other customers that conversation stays private.

"For a drink," he says, and there's that familiar hint of amusement in his voice, like he knows you already know the answer but enjoys the routine anyway.

Without thinking, your hand finds the bourbon, muscle memory from months of the same dance. The bottle feels heavier tonight, or maybe it's just you. Maybe it's the report waiting on your laptop at home, or the way certain thoughts have been circling back when you least expect them.

“How was Denver?” you ask, sliding the glass his way.

He catches it without looking, thumb brushing along the rim before taking a sip. “Great. Got a good win.”

You lean in, resting your elbows on the bar, giving him your full attention now. "Yeah? How good are we talking?"

"Really good." He grins, the kind that reaches his eyes and makes him look younger than he is. "Like, career-defining good.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself, the pride bubbling up quicker than expected. “That’s incredible. I’m so happy for you.”

He drops his gaze a little, almost shy about it. Compliments still make him weird. But you can tell it means something—coming from you, maybe, or maybe just being heard out loud.

“Actually,” he says, reaching into his jacket, “I got you something. Well, two things.”

That makes you pause. He's holding out a small wrapped box, the kind that comes from hotel gift shops or airport stores. The paper is slightly wrinkled, like it spent the flight home pressed against other things in his carry-on.

"You didn't have to do that."

"I know." He places it on the bar top between you and then grins. "But I saw it and thought of you. Plus, I have some news." There's something sweet about it, the casualness of the gesture with no hidden agenda. 

You peel the paper back carefully, and inside is a snow globe, tacky and perfect in the way only tourist gifts can be. Denver’s skyline is centered in the middle, suspended in that fake snow that never quite swirls right.

“It’s terrible,” you say, but you're already smiling.

"Absolutely hideous," he agrees, sipping his drink. "But you collect weird shit, so I figured you'd appreciate it.”

He’s right. Your apartment’s full of it—odd little trinkets that don’t belong anywhere but somehow belong with you. Salt shakers shaped like ducks. Postcards from places you’ve never been. That cracked ceramic owl from your grandma that you still won’t throw out. 

"Thank you," you say, setting the snow globe on the shelf behind you, next to the register where you can see it while you work. "Okay, so what's the news?"

"Remember that California project I mentioned? The sports coverage thing?" He's trying to play it cool, but you can see the excitement barely contained behind his eyes. "I got you the spot."

Your heart stops. "What?"

"I put in a word with the hiring manager. Told them about your work, how good you are with people." He leans forward slightly. "They want you to fly out next week. Production assistant role, technically, but it's exactly the kind of experience you need."

You stare at him, mouth slightly open. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious. You're going to California." Quinn's fingers drum once against the bar, a nervous habit you've taken note of over months of Thursday nights. Sometimes Tuesdays too, when his schedule allows it. He'd started showing up around the time you stopped flinching every time you heard calls of a certain name, when you could make it through a shift without checking your phone for messages that never came.

That was just over a year ago now, right when everything felt like it was crumbling—when you'd left that hotel room and came home to an apartment that felt too quiet and a life that suddenly seemed smaller than it had before. You'd been serving drinks like you were underwater, going through the motions of existing without really living in any of it.

The first few times, Quinn was just another regular. Bourbon, two fingers, splash of water. He was the best tipping regular you’ve ever had and never lingered too long. But then one night you'd been particularly frustrated, slamming glasses a little too hard after another rejection email, and he'd asked if you were okay.

"Just job hunting," you'd said, the bitterness leaking through despite yourself.

"What kind of work?"

"Anything that uses a communications degree, apparently." You'd laughed, but it came out hollow. "Four years of college to be really good at serving drinks."

He'd been quiet for a moment, then: "My company's always looking for interns," he'd said, casual as anything. "Might be good experience."

That conversation lives in your mind now, growing roots in the spaces between doubt and possibility. Three months of showing up to offices that smelled like expensive coffee and ambition, of learning that your degree wasn't worthless after all, just misplaced. Quinn had opened a door you didn't even know existed, and now here he is, trying to push it wider.

"I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll pack a bag." He finishes his drink and leaves cash on the bar, always exact change plus fifty percent, never more or less, and stands to go. "They'll email you the details tomorrow."

He hesitates for a moment, like he wants to say something else, then seems to think better of it. Instead, he just nods and heads for the door.

"Thank you," you call after him. "Really. This means everything."

"You earned it," he calls back over his shoulder. "I just made sure the right people knew." 

When he's gone, you’re left with the rich smell of bourbon and the snow globe that glimmers under warm spotlights. Underneath it all lies the strange, fluttering feeling that comes with being cared about in small, uncomplicated ways.

───

The folder hits your hands like something dropped from a height, thick enough that the pages buckle under their own weight. Sarah's already talking, words streaming past in that efficient way people have when they've explained the same thing a dozen times before.

"So you'll be handling athlete transport today," she says, gesturing vaguely toward the folder while her attention drifts to her phone. "Everything's in there—pickup times, studio assignments, the usual."

You flip the cover open to pages of schedules and headshots, names printed in blocks that your eyes catch without really processing. Sarah keeps talking about the logistics and backup plans, but her voice becomes mumbled as you scan down the list.

Micah Parsons - 9:30 AM pickup, Studio A 

Lamar Jackson - 10:45 AM pickup, Outdoor Setup 

Cooper Kupp - 12:15 PM pickup, Studio A 

Tua Tagovailoa - 1:30 PM pickup, Studio B

Names that mean little to you, faces that melt together in professional headshots. You're half-listening, trying to make sense of time slots and meal breaks, when Sarah's voice sharpens.

"—and Quinn should be here any minute with an early arrival."

The sound of voices approaching makes you glance up from the folder. Quinn appears in the doorway, that easy smile already in place, talking to someone just behind him. You look back down automatically, eyes finding the next line on the schedule.

Joe Burrow - 3:00 PM pickup, Studio B

Your stomach drops like you've missed a step in the dark. The letters blur, then sharpen, then blur again. You blink hard, certain you've misread, but the name sits there like something burned into the page.

When you look up, he's standing three feet away.

And he's already looking directly at you.

The folder stays open in your hands, but the words might as well be written in a language you don't speak. Everything else in the room—Sarah's voice, the hum of equipment being tested, the distant sound of someone setting up lights—fades into white noise. There's just him, standing there in dark jeans and a jacket that probably costs more than your rent, looking exactly like he does in your memory of that morning in the hotel room, except somehow more solid. Real this time.

His expression doesn't change when your eyes meet his. No surprise, no recognition he'd let anyone else see. Just that steady, unreadable look that used to make you feel like he could see straight through you.

"Perfect timing," Quinn says, completely oblivious to the way everything seems to have tensed up around you. "This is our impromptu production assistant I was telling you about." He gestures toward you with the kind of enthusiasm that makes you want to disappear. "She'll be handling your schedule today, making sure you get where you need to be."

Quinn turns to you, still smiling. "Joe got here early—his flight landed ahead of schedule, so I figured we'd get him checked in now instead of making him come back later. Hope that's okay?"

You force yourself to close the folder, to stand up straighter, to remember that you have a job to do. That you're not the same person who used to fly across the country for crumbs of attention.

"Of course," you manage, extending your hand in what you hope looks like professionalism and not the careful choreography of someone trying not to fall apart. "Hi."

Joe's eyes flick down to your outstretched hand, then back to your face. For a second, you think he might not take it. That he'll let you stand there with your arm extended like an idiot while Quinn watches.

But then his hand closes around yours, warm and familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

"Nice to meet you," he says, voice perfectly polite like you're a stranger. As if he's never traced the curves of your body with his tongue in the dark.

The handshake lasts exactly as long as it should and no longer, nothing that would make Quinn raise an eyebrow or Sarah look up from her phone. But his thumb brushes across your knuckles once before he lets go, so quickly you almost think you imagined it.

"She's fantastic," Quinn continues, either missing the tension entirely or choosing to ignore it. "Really knows her stuff. You're in good hands."

The irony of that statement sits heavy in the space between you and Joe. You've been in his hands before and you know exactly how that story ends.

"Alright," Sarah pops her head up suddenly from beside you. "Let's get you set up for hair and makeup first, then we'll run through the shot list." She's already guiding Joe toward the door with the kind of practiced authority that doesn't leave room for argument.

Joe follows, but his eyes find yours once more before he disappears into the hallway. The look lasts maybe two seconds, but it's long enough to remind you of every sleepless night you spent wondering if he thought about you at all.

"Ready for Micah?" Quinn asks, already checking his watch. "He should be set by now." You nod, grateful for something to focus on. Something that doesn't involve navigating the minefield of seeing Joe again.

Quinn studies your face for a moment, "you good?"

"I'm good," you say, forcing a smile that feels more convincing than it probably looks.

"Good. Because we had to shuffle things around. Lamar's flight got delayed, so we bumped Joe up to right after Micah." He pats your shoulder in that paternal way that makes you remember why you trust him. "You've got this, kid."

───

Micah Parsons turns out to be exactly the kind of interview subject that makes your job easy. Charismatic without being overwhelming, thoughtful in his answers, the kind of natural storyteller that probably makes every journalist he talks to feel like they're getting something special.

You escort him from hair and makeup to Studio A, making small talk about his off-season training while mentally taking in the way he carries himself—confident but approachable, the kind of details that might matter for the piece you're supposed to be writing.

Because that's the thing Quinn arranged that makes this more than just a production assistant gig. You're not just managing logistics; you're also shadowing the main journalists, taking notes that will help with a behind-the-scenes article to accompany the video content. It’s what manages to turn this little side gig into real experience that could actually matter for your future.

It had been Quinn's idea, pitched to his partners as a way to get more comprehensive coverage without stretching the budget. "She's sharp," he'd told them, according to what he'd shared with you later. "Give her the PA duties but let her gather material too. Two birds, one stone."

He'd stuck his neck out for you in a way that meant something. Which is why you're sitting in the back of Studio A with a notebook, jotting down observations about Micah's interview style and the way he deflects certain questions with humor while being surprisingly vulnerable about others. 

Quinn had been right—you were good at this. At reading people, at catching the moments between the soundbites that revealed who someone actually was.

Which is exactly why seeing Joe again feels like such a potential disaster.

By the time Micah wraps up, you've filled three pages with notes and feel like you're truly starting to understand the rhythm of this kind of work.

"Joe should be ready now," Quinn says, appearing at your elbow as you escort Micah to his next location. "Studio B."

Your stomach tightens, but you nod. This is your job. This is the opportunity Quinn fought for you to have and you can't let seeing Joe ruin it.

The walk to Joe's dressing room feels dreadful. Each step is like walking through quicksand, carrying you toward something you're not ready for but can't avoid. When you knock and push the door open, he's sitting in the chair by the small mirror, scrolling through his phone with careful focus.

"Ready?" you ask, the word coming out more clipped than you intended.

He looks up, nods once, and stands with no acknowledgment beyond basic professionalism.

The hallway to Studio B stretches ahead of you both, and the silence that follows is different from anything you've experienced today. Not comfortable like it had been with Micah, who'd filled the space with easy conversation. This quiet feels intentional. Measured like you're both working very hard not to disturb something that might break if handled wrong.

"Studio B," you say when you reach the door, gesturing unnecessarily.

"Thanks."

He disappears inside, and you take your position in the back corner. Notebook ready, pen poised. The same setup as for Micah's interview; professional and focused, gathering material for the article.

But something shifts the moment Joe starts talking. His voice carries that familiar cadence, the one that used to lull you to sleep during late-night phone calls when distance felt manageable. You find yourself leaning forward, pen moving across the page in ways that have nothing to do with journalism.

The little things catch your eye. The way he touches his jaw when considering an answer. How his shoulders settle when he's comfortable with a question. The pause before he responds to anything about pressure, weighing what's safe to share versus what's true.

You catch yourself, redirect your attention to actual content. This is work. Quinn's faith in you made everything tangible, you can't let this pull toward someone who used to matter ruin what you've been given.

But it's difficult to ignore the familiarity, the way certain moments remind you of hotel rooms and conversations that felt bigger than they were. 

This is likely the only time you'll see him again. A one-off encounter that doesn't have to mean anything beyond coincidence. You've made progress, moved forward. You can't let a single afternoon undo the work it took to get here.

When the interview wraps, you've filled two pages with notes—half meaningless observations about Joe rather than context about the content. You close the notebook as he thanks everyone with practiced grace, then finds you in the corner.

"All set?"

"All set."

The walk back is similar to the walk there in every way. By the time you reach his dressing room, you're almost convinced you can end this cleanly. You open the door and stand to the side.

"You're done for the day. Someone will coordinate transport when you're ready."

Joe settles back into the chair by the mirror, phone already in hand. You should leave now. You've completed your assignment, same as with Micah. But professional courtesy demands you ask. The same question you'd posed to Micah, the same standard you'll maintain.

"Is there anything else you need?"

Joe hums to himself then looks up, and for the first time all day, really looks at you. Not the careful glances he's been offering, but the kind of direct eye contact that used to make your heart race.

"Just curious," he says, voice level but edged with something sharper. "Are you supposed to say that, or am I just special?"

The question hits hard. You feel it in your stomach first, then spreading outward, a slow recognition that you're not getting out of this room without acknowledgment. 

Because that’s the thing: he was special.

In the way you still dream about his voice. His hands. 

In the way you never really got around to donating the shirt he left behind, even though it stopped smelling like him months ago.

In the way you still scan for his face on the screen when a game is on at work, even when you tell yourself you’re not supposed to.

Something shifts in your face, you can feel it happen. The twitch of your eyes, the press of your teeth into the inside of your cheek, just a second too long. Like your body is betraying the careful neutrality you’ve been maintaining all day. 

He catches it, of course he does.

"Just part of the job, Mr. Burrow." The formality tastes wrong in your mouth, but you need the distance it creates and the reminder of where you are, what this is supposed to be. 

You're already turning away before the words fully settle, hand reaching for the door handle like it might save you from whatever comes next. "Have a good rest of your day."

───

The wine tastes expensive in a way that makes you hyper-aware of everything. From the conversations flowing around you that you can't quite step into, to the way everyone else seems to belong here without thinking about it.

"Market yourself," Quinn had said earlier, straightening his tie in the mirror of his hotel room. "There are some serious people here tonight. Network. Make connections. This is how careers get built."

Easy for him to say. He moves through crowds like he was born into them, shaking hands and remembering names and making everything look effortless. You feel like you're wearing a sign that says imposter in flashing neon letters.

The venue is exactly what you'd expect from Quinn's company—all exposed brick and elegant lighting fixtures, floor to ceiling windows, the kind of casual that costs more than most people's rent. Servers weave between clusters of well-dressed people holding wine glasses that catch the light just right. 

You take a sip of wine and scan the room for someone who might seem approachable. Someone who won't immediately see through whatever facade you're trying to maintain. The conversation nearest to you is about market projections and quarterly reports, which makes your experience feel even more inadequate than usual.

"Why are you standing by yourself?"

The voice comes from beside you, close enough that you feel the words more than hear them. You don't have to look to know who it is, you've been hyperaware of his presence since the moment he walked in twenty minutes ago.

"I'm supposed to be marketing myself," you say, not turning toward him, voice dry with the kind of sarcasm that feels bitter. "Networking. Making connections."

There's a pause. You can feel him looking at you.

"Well, you shouldn't have any problem doing that looking like that."

Your fingers tighten around the stem of your wine glass. The comment slides under your skin in a way that makes you feel uneasy. It’s like you're back in some hotel room where his opinions about you mattered.

You turn to look at him and something in your expression must give you away because his face changes immediately.

"No, no, that's not—" He stops and runs a hand over the bottom half of his face, looking genuinely panicked. "That came out wrong. I just meant you look good. Like, really good. Not that—fuck. That was all wrong."

And despite everything, despite the way your jaw is still tight with irritation, you have to bite back something that feels dangerously close to a laugh. Because Joe Burrow, who takes hits from three-hundred-pound linemen without flinching, who never seems rattled by anything on or off the field, is standing here stammering like a teenager who just got caught red-handed.

You compose yourself, finding that professional tone again. "Okay. Well, thank you." You set your wine glass on the nearest table, already turning away. "Have a good night."

His hand catches your wrist before you can take a step, gentle but insistent enough to stop you. "Wait." You follow his gaze to a quieter corner near the windows, away from people. 

“Can we talk?”

Part of you wants to say no, to keep walking and maintain whatever distance you've managed to create. But a bigger part knows that if you don't do this now, you'll spend the rest of the night, maybe longer, wondering what he would have said.

"Okay," you say, and let him guide you toward the windows.

The space feels more intimate immediately, the noise of the party fading to background hum. Joe runs his hand through his hair, a nervous habit you remember, and looks out at the city lights for a moment before turning back to you.

“I was an asshole,” he says. The bluntness of it surprises you, how he doesn’t sugarcoat it or try to spin it. "This afternoon, I mean. And just now. I was just—I was doing what I always do, being defensive because seeing you here threw me off, and I didn't know how to handle it."

You wait for him to continue, watching the way he struggles with words that don't come as easily as the ones he uses for interviews.

“I was hurt,” he says, a little softer now. “When you left. Not just because you did. But how fast it felt. Like one second we were figuring things out and the next... you were just gone.”

There’s a long pause where neither of you says anything. You’re not sure what breaks you down first—his voice or the fact that it’s not angry in the way you last remember it. 

“I didn’t leave because of that night,” you say eventually. “If anything… I stayed because of it.”

Joe finally looks at you and your hands tighten around your arms.

“I meant what I said,” you continue, slower now. Like the words are heavy in your mouth. “I believed you. What you said. How it felt. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like that before.”

The words keep coming even though your mind is already starting to regret opening your mouth. You should stop. You should just stop.

“I think part of me was already bracing for the quiet,” you say. “For things to go back to normal the next day. I don’t know. It’s like… the moment was everything I wanted, but it didn’t feel safe.”

You see the flicker in his eyes. You almost backpedal, almost say never mind, but you’ve already gone too far.

“It's not that I didn’t trust you,” you continue. “I just didn’t trust that version of us to last. And I didn’t want to stay long enough to watch it fall apart again.”

Joe’s silent. You shift your weight, suddenly aware of how exposed you feel, how fast your heart is beating now that the words are out there.

“I didn’t stop feeling it,” you murmur, eyes darting toward the window. “That was the problem. I finally let myself feel all of it. And once I did, it felt like too much to carry alone.”

He exhales slowly, like your words knock the wind out of him.

“So it wasn’t just the night,” he says eventually. “It was everything before.”

You nod. “Yeah. It was the before. The buildup. The silence. The feeling like I was always one step ahead of you.”

There’s a pause. Then, almost like a reflex, you add, “I know you meant what you said. I really do.” He looks at you then, something raw behind his eyes. “But I think I’d spent so long waiting for you to mean something,” you say, voice tightening, “that when you finally did, I was already halfway through learning how to let go.”

“I get that,” he says. You nod, surprised by the relief you feel at being understood. "So you left because you had to," he says, not a question.

"Because I had to."

The silence that follows feels different from all the others today. Not loaded with tension or unspoken accusations, but something closer to understanding. Like you aren’t standing on opposite sides of it anymore.

Joe straightens up slightly, and something shifts in his expression, still serious but with a hint of something lighter around the edges.

"So," he says, extending his hand toward you with a small, almost shy smile. "Hi. I'm Joe."

The gesture is so unexpectedly dorky that you feel a laugh bubble up before you can stop it. "Are you serious right now?"

"Starting fresh," he says, hand still extended. "New note."

You look at his outstretched hand, then back at his face, and despite everything—despite the history and the hurt and the complicated mess of what you used to be—you find yourself smiling.

"This is ridiculous," you say, but you take his hand anyway. "Hi, Joe,” you introduce yourself in the same manner.

The handshake lasts longer than necessary this time, in comparison to the one you shared earlier. When you finally let go, your fingers feel warm where his touched them.

"Much better introduction than this afternoon," you say, and Joe laughs—a real one this time.

"Yeah, well, I was trying to play it cool earlier."

"How'd that work out for you?"

"Terribly," he admits, grinning. "Clearly not my strong suit when it comes to you."

"Well," you say, and there's something softer in your voice now, something that feels like a door opening instead of closing. "There's plenty of time to get better at it."

The words hang between you, simple but loaded with possibility. Not a promise or a plan, just an acknowledgment that time exists now where it didn't before. That this new beginning, this fresh start, doesn't have to be figured out tonight.

Joe's smile changes, becoming something quieter. "Yeah," he says. "I think there is."

In that moment you realize the difference between starting over and starting fresh. One erases everything that came before; the other builds something new on a foundation that was always there, just waiting for the right moment to matter again.

[michellesneptune]

Future spouse PAC🕊️

hi guys! as of lately, i’ve been obsessed with the idea of marriage🫠🫠. (a subtle wink wink at my boyfriend) (not the 7 house also being the house of open enemies👀, maybe that’s why it’s occupied my thoughts iykyk). devoting yourself to one person, gathering all the sureness and love one can have in order to create something much stronger than you’d ever be able to be on your own.

i’ve never done this kind of content before so make sure to tell me how you feel about it!🐚

and now. take a deep breath and relax. be mindful about it — consciously give yourself permission and time to connect with your heart. you don’t have to rush, you don’t have to be on top of your shit for a peaceful moment. pick a card that speaks to you, that you feel has something important to tell you, relax, and listen.

card number 1

i feel like you guys could be a lot like me when it comes to the idea of marriage. somewhat traditional — looking for the one and only forever love, the fairytale. i feel like you could have libra+scorpio placements and truly value your relationships, put them on a pedestal even.

i also get the feeling that you could be struggling with your self worth right now, being self conscious. let me tell you right here: YOU ARE SO HOT!! your energy lures people in, you are soft, understanding and composed. they sense that there is A LOT to you, you have so so much to offer. anyone would be LUCKY to go out with you!!

you could’ve been mistreated in the past, betrayed by a lover and that made you cautious and guarded. it’s not surprising, your heart is a precious one so there’s a lot to defend. but the right spouse will treat you like a QUEEEEN.

i feel like they will make you think “maybe all the shit i went through was worth it”. every day you will wonder how did i get so lucky, you could be a bit suspicious even. but you will open up and learn to trust, gradually. they will be genuinely interested in your thoughts, plans and opinions, i even get the feeling that making your dreams come true will be a priority to them!!

my advice to you: pour into yourself, fill your cup up. ask yourself a question: “what would make me happy with myself?” then go do that. it can be small, just do it this week. it’s your homework! my personal suggestions: go out for your favourite food, meet up with your friends, draw or paint something, go to a bookstore, read. anything that will make you more reassured in yourself and your identity. explore yourself, there’s so much to you!!

card number 2

i’m getting that you are quite a practical person, you like to get shit done. CEO girlboss stuff. you take no crap, you’re responsible and dependable, some earth placements??

but here’s your little secret: you are a big softie inside and even though YOU WILL NEVER ADMIT IT, you dream about romance. you create fake scenarios every night before you go to sleeppp. but you’re scared to pursue it, scared of being vulnerable and someone seeing your weaknesses. you put on a brave face and do what you’re expected to do.

i can sense that you’re tired. that you just want to curl up and cry in a corner, not be the strong one anymore. you dream about someone taking you into their arms, taking the responsibilities away. you are worthy even when you don’t provide everything!!!!

you are strong and fiery and i admire people like you so much. your future spouse will also be strong but they will not dare to fight with your fire. they will be in awe of what you’re capable of and even a tiny bit scared. they’ll remind you to take care of yourself and relax once in a while. i feel like they will want to have kids with you and are very family-oriented, making your home cozy, safe and beautiful. possibly healing the wounds from your childhood, giving you what has been lacking.

and if you don’t want children, i see a bunch of puppies/cats/any other pets running around!!

my advice to you: take a leap of faith!! if you’ve been invited to a date or an event, or a trip but thought about bailing because of work, deadlines blah blah blah— GO! you won’t regret it!!

card number 3

i sense aquarius energy!! independent and unique, your approach to love and relationships is equally remarkable and untraditional.

that energy is sooo attractive to potential suitors🥵. we want most what we can’t have. they all chase you but you’re unbothered, not because you’re commitment-phobic, but because you’re waiting for someone to join you on your perpetual adventure instead of try and change you to fit their mold.

you know you thrive in freedom and you know you’re one of a kind. every day with you is exciting, when they let you be yourself.

here’s the thing though: you’ve mastered your own individuality but it’s not a crime to depend on others. i know you’re smart and i know you’re talented, but there are people who will love you even on those boring days, where you just sit in silence because there’s nothing new and nothing exciting. and i think that you’ll grow to appreciate the routine!!

i feel that you and your partner will give each other lots of space to develop as individuals and indulge in your own hobbies. then you’ll talk about them and fight over who gets to tell their story first😂.

they will be loyal and an exceptional person, just like you are. but i feel like you will fall in love with something more, something deeper in them. you will recognise it in each other and never stop noticing that special thing even in your biggest chaos and storms. they will love you by keeping up with your beautiful mess.

my advice to you: don’t worry, if life has seemed boring lately. take this time to get to know yourself, maybe slow down a little. have you noticed the flowers blooming everywhere? when did you last drink your morning coffee without scrolling? when did you last clean your refrigerator? indulge in some routine

ฅ^>⩊<^ ฅ

that’s all for today my loves!! this has been really intuitive and fun for me ;)) i hope you can find something in here for yourself and i hope it can bring you some joy💕💕⭐️

till next time

Michelle~~

[puppysuh]

so… we all know how i feel about meanie!haechan, but what about nerd!haechan who’s never seen or touched a pussy in his life but is surprisingly really freaky?

if you’re wondering why i’m so obsessed with him, just watch a couple of clips of him from the university festival performance. those glasses… ouh get him in me NOW!

you approach him because you feel bad for him. he’s always alone, nose in a book or fingers tapping rapidly at his laptop, and whilst your girlfriends like to make fun of him for being such a loser, you’re surprisingly quite intrigued by him.

when you approach him the first time, you begin to see what your friends mean. he’s shy, his glasses falling down his nose as he avoids eye contact with you like the plague. he’s right to be cautious; what are you, the campus sweetheart, doing talking to him, the guy who’s rumoured to only shower once a week and lock himself in his room to jerk off to cheap porn?

you should be laughing in his face, ridiculing him for being such a freak of nature but no, instead you stand in front of him, voice sweet like honey whilst you twirl your hair and await his responses with bated breath. and when he finally looks up at you, into those beautiful eyes he spent so long avoiding, he’s completely gone, and he decides that he must have you.

nerd!haechan would overthink your interaction for the next week. seriously, why were you talking to him? did you like him? did you want to get to know him better? or worse… did you just want sex? that’s what most people are after nowadays anyways, so he begins to train himself up for the next time he talks to you.

instead of avoiding your group like a disease, he begins following you discreetly, taking note of everything you like. that coffee shop just opposite your dorm? he’s memorised your order. your seat in the library? he scares off anyone who tries to sit there by sitting directly opposite it, only moving when he sees you come through the door. and he’s stalked your social media too; all of your highlights are screenshotted and placed into a special album in his phone, reserved solely for you.

he also has another album, a hidden one, full of… other photos.

at first glance, it looks normal. a picture of you at the beach holding an ice cream, or another of you posing in a party dress. all standard highlight posts, posts nobody would suspect nerd!haechan would jerk off to almost every night, glasses fogged up as he memorises every curve of your body, toes curling as he focuses on the way your tongue flicks out to lick the top of the ice cream, a dribble of white cream running down your chin.

he doesn’t know how he manages to face you at school, but he does anyways, and when you finally ask him for some ‘tutoring’, he happily accepts, pushing his glasses up on his nose and trying to divert his eyes away from the cleavage displayed by your dangerously low cut top.

he’s surprised how quickly you jump on him the moment you get through the door of his apartment. you probably think you’ve caught him off guard, slamming your lips into his and grinding your hips forward against his crotch. you think you’re doing charity work, fucking the college loser so nobody else has to.

you couldn’t have been more wrong.

you see, along with his extensive jerking sessions to your instagram posts, haechan has been doing some studying, and not the academic kind. he knows how to make you feel good despite never having a chance to, and when he lifts you up against the door and presses your back flat against it, you’re nothing short of shocked.

“you thought i didn’t know?” his voice is quiet, and whilst his tone carries little to no conviction, it travels straight to your core. “i’m your little passion project, right? fucking the loser so you can feel less bad about yourself.”

before you can open your mouth to answer, he’s pushing his hips upwards into your clothed core, and any protests are replaced by a soft whine. “haechan, that’s not—”

“shut. up.” he thrusts forwards again, and the back of your head meets wood, arms wrapping around his neck as shocks of pleasure roll up your spine. “i’m not some fucking charity case.”

it’s safe to say he’s rendered you speechless. you look down at him, and where before you saw an unkempt loser, now you see someone hungry with lust, and you like it. “kiss me,” you breathe, and he complies, his mouth crashing into yours as he carries you across his living room.

you’d always wondered if he would keep his glasses on during sex, and that night, you got your answer. they slide down the bridge of his nose as his rams his cock into your cunt at a dizzying rhythm, one hand clasping your wrists together above your head, the other rubbing at your clit furiously.

“say you were wrong,” he grunts, sounding almost pained as he repeatedly bumps the tip of his cock into that spot that makes you squirm. “say i’m good, better than anyone you’ve ever had.”

“you’re s-so good!” you can barely speak— barely even breathe, not with the way his hand moves from your clit and to your throat, forcing your chin upwards to look at him. “f-fuck, ‘m sorry, haechan.”

and for the first time since you met him, he smiles a genuine smile, one that almost seems deranged, obsessive. “that’s right,” he says, “the best you’ll ever have.”

a/n : i’m so obsessed with the idea of him being borderline evil its insane. please feed me more haechan delusions guys i think i might love him 💔💔

edit : I MADE A PART 2 check it out if you love me (or nerds)

[rayraelleaizawa]

Hi! How are you doing? I was wondering how would Shanks react if someone (stranger or family member) insulted his lover like "I wish you were never born" to them? How would the Red-Haired Pirates react? Can you write a one shot about it?

Hi! sorry it again took me ages to write this tho i love the idea!

I hope this is will be to your liking :) I imagine Shanks being more of the quiet guy when he's really angry. Quiet, but deadly.

Shanks x Reader

Female reader mentioned but only 1 time.

It started as a normal day where the Red Force docked on an island and you were out with Shanks roaming through the streets and looking at vendors and shops.

You two have been dating for quite some time, and the world knew you as red haired Shanks' better half, so most of them treated you extra nicely in fear of the emperor. Still, Shanks was always near you, due to his relationship with you you became a target to his enemies.

You and Shanks were having fun, him being his usual self, joking and trying all kinds of alcohol at the different food and drink stands.

Lime Juice and others of your crew were at one market stand, and Shanks and him had a small drinking competition. You leaned at a house wall and watched them smiling as Shanks laughter got louder and louder over the minutes, as someone next you said your name suddenly.

"Is that really you?", said the voice as you turned around and your mother stood there.

You were suprised. You haven't seen your family in ages, and the good-bye with them wasn't a very good one either. You didn't miss your family, especially not your mother, who only cared about image and what others thought of you.

"I shouldn't be suprised seeing you here, after the announcement came that pirates docked at this island", she said in a condescending voice.

You swallowed, as you weren't prepared to suddenly meet your mother again. You haven't told Shanks about your relationship with your family, but he never asked. He seemed to understand that your family was a chapter in your life which you had closed already.

"At first I was suprised when I heard the rumors that you and red haired Shanks were a couple. I couldn't believe that an emperor of the sea would be interested in my child", she laughed.

"But then when there were pictures of you in the newspaper, next to that man, i finally believed it. And in the end it all made sense to me. Why haven't I thought of this before? Of course would my inconsiderate good-for-nothing kid go with a drunk criminal without even thinking what it meant for family. What it meant for me! My child is now a criminal! Can you even imagine what the neighbors thought of your father and me?! We had to move to another island so people would stop looking at us"

You looked at your mother with wide eyes as she started getting louder and louder.

"Don't talk about Shanks that way! He is more than just that! He and his crew are the best thing that ever happened to me", you spoke back, and a heated argument between you two arose.

Your mother yapped about having born a criminal and that it is your duty to repay her for giving birth to you, while you argumented back that all you ever did was living for her, how she wanted you to be.

The fight between you and your mother quickly caught the attention from the people around. Shanks stood up and walked closer, but he didn't intervent for now. He knew you could fight your own battles, eventho he was concerned what exactly was happening. Lime Juice, Hongo and others of your crew also watched closely, ready to jump that woman if she went too far.

"Shanks gave me a family I'm proud of. They accept me for who I am! All you ever did was pressing me in a role of the perfect child with the perfect mother!"

"You ungrateful brat! I did everything to make you look good and you can't even thank me for that? I should've thrown you in a trash can when you were a baby. I wish you were never born!", she yelled at you and slapped you across the face.

You stood there, motionless, as you slowly realized what just happened. Before you could turn your head back from the slap, Shanks moved infront of you. His Haki was flowing around him as the crowed quickly got smaller as the smart ones all went to hide. Your mother tried to act tough, but it didn't even last a few seconds as she crumbled before him, tears streaming down her face in fear.

"You can insult me as much as you want, but never. ever. say a bad thing about my queen."

His aura alone got your mother to apologize endlessly and to beg him to spare her life. Shanks was angry, and an angry Shanks is something you never want to witness. He isn't loud and he isn't throwing hands, he is just, quiet, consuming of all your senses. He's your nightmare.

You stood behind him, holding your cheek as Hongo touched your back. His eyes were checking over your frame for injuries. You could also see Benn standing a few feet away, leaning against a house wall as he watched everything with his brows furrued.

A feeling of protection came over you, but your heart still ached. You never had the best relationship with your mother, but she never said anything so cruel to you. You slowly turned around and started walking towards the Red Force. You knew you could leave the rest to Shanks. He wouldn't kill her, she was still your mother, but he'd make sure she'll never came near you again. His crew followed you, with a respectfull distance to not smother you, but still close enough that everyone could see they were ready to kill for you.

Back at the Red Force you went to your joined room with Shanks. You sat on the bed and stared at the wall. Only after some time did you realize you were crying. Not long after you heard the door opening and then quietly closing again. Shanks walked up to you and slowly sat on the bed behind you. He moved his arms around you and gently brought you to his chest.

He didn't talk at first, just let you settle in his arms and cry. He kissed your forehead from the side.

"You are the world, darling. The only good thing this woman has ever done, was bringing you into this world. I couldn't think of what I'd do without you. I love you, and I want you to know that you're appreciated for who you are."

At first you didn't respond, you just moved and buried your head in his chest as he gently held you.

"Thank you for being my family", you said after some time, and Shanks smiled into your hair, pressing gentle kisses on your hairline.

"Always, my love"

The next day, Lucky made your favourite food. Benn lend you one of his infamous notebooks he wrote about his past adventures in that no one was allowed to read. Monster wanted to play with you, and the others all did little favours for you over the next week. Appreciating you even more than they already did. Telling you "thank you" for small things you did, but with the meaning that they are gratefull you exist. And Shanks did everything to let you know that he was the most gratefull of that.

[yanderemommabean]

Have you ever thought about yandere yuta?? I feel like he would be more terrifying than Gojo, but that's just my opinion. Because of Rita (I think that's her name, don't get mad at me).

What are your thoughts?

I have! Also i would never get mad at you for not knowing a characters name, that's toxic and the only toxic we like are yanderes❤️

Yuuta, especially in a no curses AU, would be such a sweet and adorable man with a dark and terrifying obsession. he's always been odd. Well meaning but off putting. People either understand him or keep their distance.

He's tall, lanky, quiet, and just craves attention. Like a stray cat you unfortunately adopted. he loves to lounge on you, have you play with his hair as you do your tasks, asks you questions about this and that, or stays content and quiet as you do your work or even some games.

You assume he's just this big sweetheart who's misunderstood, who couldn't harm a fly! But you don't see what other people do. The harsh looks, the threatening gestures, the way he stalks behind you like some sort of body guard or feral animal.

He can't help himself when it comes to you. Yuuta loves to look at the pictures of you he has, stroking his fingers over the portrait of your face, a lovesick smile on his face. he simply sits and waits for you to come home most days. There's no point in doing anything if you aren't there. What's the point in eating or sleeping if you aren't there? What's the point in letting his mind wander to other tasks if you aren't there to ease his aches or make him smile?

No. It's best to sit here and wait. Then you can tell him about your day, what you want to do for dinner, how you want your tasks done, and so on!

There's a flash of anger when he thinks of anyone else having this with you. Holding your hand, kissing up your arm, touching your hair, trying to worship you the way that he does.

There isn't anyone on this earth that could worship you the way he does. The way he craves. He just wants to lay at your altar and be your perfect toy to use. Doesn't matter if he climaxes, it he ever reaches that peak of pleasure, because he only wants that for you. It's a blessing to even be allowed in your home let alone to think of what awaits once you two finally cross that line. There's a pulse of pleasure right down to his cock as he pictures it. How you'd ride his face and yank on his leash, have him climaxing just from how rough you handle him and keep him in line. Would you ride him? Would you reprimand him and keep him in a cock ring? Make him your personal dildo while you chase your high? Fuck. Fuck. He's too excited. He can't picture that right now, can he? You...You didn't give him permission and... Maybe just this once? It's not like you know he wants this kind of life yet...You don't have established rules yet...Maybe he can just blow off some steam and then see?

-Mommabean

[tacoguacamole]

ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 9

Summary: All you wanted was time. Time to love your husband. Time to feel him love you back. To see his smile again, not shadowed by grief and resentment. Time to share laughter instead of silence, warmth instead of distance. To feel his arms around you, not the cold of where he used to be. Time to hear “I love you too” before it’s too late. Time should’ve been simple.

But somehow, it always slips through your fingers just when you need it most.

[Pairing: Creative Director!Jungkook x Ceo!Female Reader]

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn, Splice of Life]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.Part 5. Part 6. Part 7. Part 8. Part 9. Chapter Word Count: 9.5k+]

[Chapter Summary: There was a kind of farewell threaded through everything—spoken without drama, carried in glances and gestures, in the way hands didn’t linger but didn’t let go. You didn’t expect the weight of it, or the way comfort found you in the smallest places: in old shoes, in the soft edge of his voice, in silence that didn’t ask for more.]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

The house breathes around you. Not in silence, but in that particular hush of well-tended spaces—alive with rhythm, yet never loud.

You hear the soft shuffle of slippers on polished floors, the gentle thud of distant doors closing with care. Somewhere upstairs, someone is vacuuming, the sound muffled like it’s been politely turned down just for you.

You don’t have to look to know someone is dusting the stair rail again, same as they do every morning. The chandelier lets out a soft mechanical sigh as the air shifts. You listen to it all like it means something—because it does.

This kind of quiet isn’t empty. It’s full of other people’s motions, of intention, of care. Of life, still moving, even when yours feels like it’s pausing to catch its breath.

Your mother is already in the kitchen by the time you step in, sleeves rolled to her elbows, her movements practiced and unhurried. She stands over the stove, stirring something slow and fragrant in a wide pot, steam curling up to kiss her face. The rice cooker hums beside her, its lid covered with a neatly folded cloth she must’ve placed there out of habit.

She doesn’t startle when you enter – just shifts slightly to make room for your silence, then adjusts the flame, wipes a splash from the counter with the back of her hand.

It’s a kind of quiet choreography, the kind you grew up watching. Everything she does is muscle memory by now, but there’s care in it too. A softness.

“Made too much,” she says, without turning around, already expecting you’d be joining her with the day that awaits.

“You always do,” you settle into your usual seat at the counter, the wood smooth and cool beneath your palms.

She doesn’t answer right away—just lifts the lid from the pot and stirs with a gentle hand. “Do you want me to pack some for him?”

You blink, amused. “Change of heart, Eomma?”

“Those flowers looked like it could grow in our garden,” she tries to hide the smile slipping out but her eyes already betray her. “Guess he could get a point for that. Just for now.”

There’s an ache in your chest – the good kind – to hear the slightest warmth in her voice. “He spoils me.”

“He owes you,” though she’s back to her motherly protection, you’re thankful to see the slight change.

The silence that settles between you isn’t sharp. It lingers the way shared understanding does—unspoken, but unmistakably there. You watch steam rise in ribbons from the bowl as she sets it aside and rinses the ladle under a thin stream of water.

“You’ve been quieter lately,” she says after a while. “Is it work?”

You shake your head. “No. Not really.”

“Then what is it?”

“I’ve just been thinking,” you say, your voice softer than before, “about where I want to be. Later.”

She dries her hands slowly on the towel hanging by the sink, then turns to face you. The light catches on her skin—sharp at the collarbone, soft at her jaw. Even in the stillness, she holds herself with the kind of strength that doesn’t ask for attention.

“You were always gentler than me,” she says. “I built my life on noise. You… you always found your peace in the quiet.”

You rest your chin in your hand, eyes drifting toward the window. “Busan was always the quiet, wasn’t it?”

Your mother is silent for a moment. Then, “Your father proposed to me in Busan. We were still striving then. He didn’t even have a ring.” There’s a faint smile on her lips. “We were staying in this rental room by the port. You could hear the foghorn at night. I was going to tell you that story one day.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She hesitates. Then says, “Because it always felt like yours. That city. The way you lit up when we went. The way you listened to the sea like it was speaking just to you. Even back then, I think I knew—if you were ever going to heal, or start over, or fall in love… it would be there.”

You look at her more closely now, something stirring low in your chest.

She takes a slow breath and adds, quieter – “Maybe I built everything in Seoul… but I started everything there, too.” She steps closer and places a hand on your wrist. Not firm, not demanding—just there. A quiet tether. “If that’s where you want to be… I’ll make sure it’s yours. Make sure it feels like home again.”

 “That sounds dangerously close to you giving me your blessing to quit everything and disappear.”

“Disappearing is dramatic,” she deadpans. “I’m imagining something more peaceful. Like an early retirement. Or a very long vacation.”

You huff out a laugh, the tension unspools just a little. “You always did know how to rebrand my crises.”

“I’m excellent at it,” she returns to the stove. “Should’ve gone into PR.” She slides the rice container into a cloth bag and folds the towel over the top with practiced care.

You drift toward the window, fingers brushing the curtain aside as morning light filters in—gentle and calming.

Outside, the sky still wears the last of dawn’s haze, soft and silver at the edges. The chill lingers on the breeze, not sharp, just enough to wake your skin.

Jeongguk’s already there—like he always is now—leaning against the driver’s side of his car with one hand tucked in his coat pocket, the other holding a bouquet of purple tulips.

Smaller than yesterday’s. Still lovely. Still him.

You smile faintly. “He’s here.”

Your mother simply closes the bag, sets it gently in front of you. “Tell him to eat properly,” she murmurs. “He looks thinner these days.”

You glance at her. “He’s the same.”

“He isn’t.” Placing a gentle kiss on your cheek, she walks away, off to get ready for the day that awaits ahead. Doesn’t say anything else. Knows she’ll see you later.

Reaching for your scarf, you take the bag in hand, slip on your shoes by the door, breathing in the morning air that greets you outside like an old friend – brisk, clean, edged with something familiar. The scent of tulips fades in quickly – sweet, earthy, familiar, carried in on the wind.

Jeongguk holds them out as you approach, a little tentative, like he’s still learning how much is too much—and what’s just enough.

“These look suspiciously normal-sized,” lifting a brow, you take the bouquet. “No wild field this morning?”

Tucking his hand back into his coat pocket, a quiet smile slips on his lips. “Thought I’d save you the trouble today.”

Ignoring the flutter in your chest, you follow him toward the car, walk in sync, routine, old habits. He opens the passenger door for you, waits until you’re settled, then rounds to the driver’s side and climbs in. His fingers tap once against the steering wheel before he starts the engine.

“That your mom’s cooking?”

You lift the cloth bag slightly. “She says you’re getting thinner.”

“Thinner?” He scoffs. “I’ve added the eight ab back recently. That’s premium real estate.”

You blink. “You’re counting now?”

He nods. “I monitor growth. We’re talking micro-sculpting at this point.”

“Didn’t you call me last week, interrupted my meeting, because you got stuck halfway through a sit-up?”

“That was a tactical pause,” he says flatly. “Part of the method.”

You reach over, and poke his stomach. “Too bad. Kinda miss the flabs. That version was more huggable.”

He softens instantly. “I’m suddenly feeling donuts and samgyeopsal. You know that 24-hour one by Uni? Maybe your mom was right, I am getting skinny.”

You laugh, head falling back against the seat. The kind of laugh that surprises you with how easy it is. “As long as you have those for later. I’m not really in the mood for a big breakfast.”

“Breakfast might be your favorite meal, but I know you never eat much in the morning. Don’t worry – just the usual café for now.” He smiles, eyes fixed on the road—the way they always are when he’s trying to keep things light, careful not to let the moment sink too deep.

Morning unfolds around you in quiet layers – storefronts stirring to life, café windows fogging over with warmth, a delivery truck double-parked beneath the weight of crates and chatter. The city doesn’t rush. It stretches, exhales.

And beside you, Jeongguk drives like he’s not part of it. Like this—his hand steady on the wheel, the other folded into yours over the console—is the only version of morning that exists. His thumb brushes over your knuckles now, lingering longer on your wedding ring, absentminded but constant. Like a promise he doesn’t say out loud.

The café is tucked between an old bookstore and a laundromat, easy to miss if you’re not looking for it. Its wooden sign is weathered, the paint at the corners flaking like it gave up trying to be noticed.

It’s ritual by now, somewhere between the second morning and the seventh, the place just stuck, but you always look forward to this. It’s more than you ever got in the past three years.

Inside, the air carries the warmth of toasted bread and cinnamon, soft enough to feel like memory. A low jazz melody winds through the space, mellow and unbothered. Plates clink gently. The espresso machine hisses, not with urgency, but with rhythm. Conversations murmur around you, blurred at the edges. No one looks too long. No one moves too fast.

It’s the kind of morning that doesn’t take anything from you. That lets you arrive without shape. That lets you stay.

Jeongguk returns with a tray balanced in one hand, the collar of his coat still turned up from the wind outside. Barley tea for you, his usual black, two soft-boiled eggs, cinnamon sugar toast, and your mother’s rice rolls—still warm through the paper wrapping, like they’ve carried a piece of home with them.

He sets everything down with a practiced kind of ease, sliding into the seat across from you like this is how it’s always been.

“You’re getting predictable,” you murmur, wrapping your fingers around the warm tea. “Same order. Same seat. Same scowl.”

“It’s your favorites,” he says, “And, maybe I just wanted to get something right for once,” tears a piece of toast in half. “Anyway, just happy you didn’t bail this morning. Was ready to eat your share out of spite.”

You snort. “So noble of you.”

“Yeah, well. I’m complicated like that,” he mutters, tries keeping a straight face, but you notice the crinkle in the corner of his eyes. Tries to shrug it off by handing you the bigger piece. “Bread based revenge and all.”

You both eat without rush, letting the moment stretch. Time feels like it’s favoring you today – soft around the edges, unbothered by urgency. He peels the eggs with deliberate care, and as always, sets one gently into your bowl without a word.

It’s nothing. But it’s also everything.

You glance at him. He meets your eyes just long enough to offer a small, almost shy smile — the kind that seems like he’s grateful for this rhythm between you, like it never left.

A breeze filters through the cracked window beside you, carrying in the faintest scent of roasted beans from next door.

You wrap your fingers around the tea cup, letting the warmth sink into your palms. “No calls? No emergencies?”

He shakes his head, easy. “Took a leave.”

It catches you off guard—not in a dramatic way, but just enough to stir your thoughts.

Jeongguk’s never been one to slow down, at least not in the past few years. Sure, there were days he slacked off or get burned out, but the ones where he chased perfection always carried more weight.

He’d worked late into the night, refining pitches and brand decks no one had asked for yet. That was just how he was—quietly driven, unable to rest until everything met or surpassed expectations.

You want to ask what changed. Why now. What he plans to do with the time he’s carved out of a life that never really slowed down.

But the questions stay lodged in your throat — too close to overstepping, and you’ve worked too hard to keep this peace. This fragment of normalcy.

Instead, you offer a softer one, “You sure your team can survive without you till then?”

“They’ll thank me for the silence,” he says with a quiet chuckle. “Taehyung’s probably halfway to Daegu. I know he misses his family.”

You smile behind your cup. “Look at you, being all selfless and mysterious.”

The morning drifts gently between you — sunlight pooling across the window, the low murmur of jazz curling through the air, the scrape of a ceramic plate as he divides the last of the toast.

Outside, a car hums past, tires hissing softly on damp pavement. You lean back a little, letting the quiet settle into your bones.

“Haven’t seen that in a while.” Jeongguk breaks the silence, eyes flicking toward your blouse.

You glance down. “What?”

“You wore that once in Jeju. The hotel with no heating. The umbrella incident.”

You blink, caught off guard. “That’s a very specific memory.”

“Hard to forget when you babbled for forty-eight hours straight and threatened to file a class-action suit.”

“It was forty-eight minutes,” you huff, folding your arms. “And it was a bad hotel. Was going to close my first big client and they gave me a shitty conference room. Had to use the umbrella nearby for the pipes that bursted that day.”

“Pretty blouse though. Think it brought you luck. Got to close that deal after all.”

You look at him. His gaze is soft but steady — not lingering, not loaded. Just... noticing. Like it matters to him that he remembers, and that you’re wearing it now.

Your eyes drop again. Smoothing out the fabric at your wrist, unsure what to do with the way his attention settles — warm, familiar, and too much all at once. “I’m skipping dinner tonight.”

“Again?” His tone lifts, borderline betrayed. “Was breakfast supposed to be compensation?”

You should’ve seen the dramatics coming. Still, you roll your eyes. “Go find something to do. Bother someone else.”

“I wanna bother you,” Jeongguk blurts out, pouty and reckless, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. The kind of thing he used to say when he’d drape himself over your arm and call it his “emotional support limb.”

You turn to your tea, lifting the cup just high enough to hide the smile threatening at your lips. “Well, you can’t. It’s Jin’s anniversary dinner. I’ll be out late.”

He groans like you’ve personally betrayed him. “And I can’t tag along?”

“Nope. Go away.”

“Will you be wearing a pretty dress?”

The question catches you off guard, soft and sudden. You try to brush it off, toss the crumpled receipt at his chest. “Nothing new. But I guess it’s… decent enough.”

“That’s your way of saying pretty,” he mutters, still pouting. “This sucks.”

“You’ll live.”

He slouches deeper into the seat, dramatically defeated. “Debatable.”

But he’s smiling again. And so are you — not wide, not showy. Just enough to carry the rest of the day.

Breakfast had to end at some point. You didn’t want to, never wanted to. Jeongguk doesn’t seem like he didn’t either. You’re not sure. Just noticed the way he kept ordering almost like he was trying to stretch out the morning.

You follow him to the car. He moves with his usual ease—opens the door for you, then, this time, leans over to fasten your seatbelt, his hand brushing lightly against the side of your waist.

Your heart skips a beat, but you quickly look down at your phone, pretending to check a message, allowing him to settle in after.

The drive settles into a comfortable quiet, the kind of silence that’s familiar and easy between you. No need for words or music — just the soft hum of the road beneath you. His hand reaches over, finding yours across the console, fingers intertwining naturally.

You don’t speak, but the small pressure of his thumb moving over your knuckles says everything.

When Jeongguk pulls up outside Seora, you fix the strap of your bag and glance toward the glass entrance.

The morning air feels sharper here. Realer. Breakfast already feels like it happened hours ago — soft, slow, somewhere else entirely. This part of the day had to come eventually, but that doesn’t make it easier.

Beside you, Jeongguk watches. He doesn’t press, doesn’t ask, just sees — like he always has.

And even though you try to keep your hands tucked beneath the cuffs of your sleeves, the slight tremble gives you away.

Silently, he reaches across the console. Takes your hands in his — warm, certain — and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, to your ring. It’s so gentle you almost miss it. But your eyes lift on instinct.

He doesn’t know what you’re walking into. Doesn’t ask. Just says, “You’ll do good. Whatever it is, you’ll kill it. You always do.”

And for a moment, it’s enough. Just that quiet certainty in his voice — like the past hasn’t touched it.

The boardroom looks smaller than you remember.

Not physically — the walls haven’t moved, the polished glass table still stretches from end to end, and the minimalist light fixture overhead still hums with its usual low thrum.

But there’s something about the air today. Something quieter. Weightier. Like the room itself knows what this is.

There’s a version of you here — younger, stiffer, barely holding it together in heels that didn’t quite fit and a blazer you borrowed from your mother’s closet. Her voice had echoed in your ears that morning, “Straight spine. Firm grip. You’re not asking to be here — you belong here.”

You’d nodded, heart pounding, your palms already slick.

You remember that first day clearly. The door had felt heavier when you pushed it open. The eyes that lifted to meet you weren’t cruel — just… expectant. Measuring. Curious to see if the daughter of the legend would crumble or crown herself.

Seora was already powerful then. The kind of brand that didn’t just follow trends — it forecasted them. Your mother had built it with unapologetic vision, sharpened by years of instinct. And now, she was stepping back — not entirely, but enough — and all of it was landing on your shoulders.

The transition wasn’t gentle.

You’d barely sat in the CEO seat when the board began circling. Whispers of delay. Dips in projected growth. A shift in market behavior.

And you — too young, too soft, too untested — were an easy place to point the uncertainty.

“I want to go back to fabric-first,” you said, voice even despite the tremor in your fingers. “Not silhouettes. Not celebrity faces. I want to build a collection that moves like memory. Not trend.”

They looked at you like you’d spoken in poetry instead of numbers. Someone coughed. Another asked, “And the investors? What will you tell them when this doesn’t land?”

You answered, “I’ll tell them I bet on the long game. And then I’ll show them why I was right.”

Your mother hadn’t said a word that meeting. She hadn’t stepped in to save you — hadn’t looked your way once, in fact.

But afterward, when you passed her in the hallway, she’d paused, adjusted the cuff of your borrowed blazer, and said quietly, “Next time, wear your own clothes.”

It had been her way of saying you’ve earned it now.

The first collection came out seven months later. Sparse. Intentional. Textures and seams hand-picked by you. Critics had called it a risk. Then a revival. Then a reminder that art, when done honestly, outlasts algorithms.

You didn’t cry when the glowing reviews came in – praise flooding your inbox, critics calling your work a quiet masterpiece. Not until you were alone in your office, shoes kicked off, heels blistered, watching the light fade through the tall windows as silence folded around you like a long exhale.

That was the moment you finally belonged.

And now, standing in this room again — years later, steadier, softer in different ways — you feel the full circle of it press gently behind your chest.

Maybe it’s the light — filtered in through the sheer blinds, diffused and quiet — or maybe it’s just the way empty chairs always feel a little more final than full ones. The room smells faintly of fresh paper, polished wood, and someone’s morning espresso coming from the hallways.

There’s a rhythm to this place that lives in your body; the creak of the leather chair you always pulled back too quickly, the slight buzz in the overhead light above the third seat to the left, the exact spot your heels used to click when you were late and trying not to show it.

You run a hand over the table's edge as you pass. It's smoother than it used to be — or maybe you're just noticing it now.

For a moment, you pause at your usual seat.

You don’t sit. Not yet.

The door clicks open behind you, and Mark steps in, coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, shoulders a little too relaxed for a morning like this.

“You trying to win the punctuality award now?” he says lightly, setting his cup down beside you. “Little late for that legacy grab.”

You smile without turning. “There are worse reputations to leave with.”

“Mm.” Mark glances around the quiet room. “Always thought you’d go out in chaos. Yelling into your phone, throwing last-minute notes at interns, maybe flipping a chair for dramatic effect.”

You raise a brow without turning. “I’m not that chaotic, Tuan.”

He leans against the table, elbow brushing the edge of your sleeve. “That’s ‘cause I’m always around to keep you steady.”

You huff a soft breath. “Should I say thank you?”

He pretends to consider it. “Nah. Just promise you’ll actually enjoy that vacation, yeah? At least one of us gets an early retirement.”

You glance at him then, smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “You know, I can always talk to your parents about it. They love me.”

Mark grins — but it’s quieter than usual. “That they do.”

A pause stretches between you. He nudges the seat beside yours gently with his knee but doesn’t sit yet. His voice stays light, but his eyes don’t quite follow.

There’s something there. Not pressing. Just present.

And he doesn’t say anything more.

The others file in not long after — a few from legal, two from international, your lead brand strategist, and finally, your mother.

She doesn’t say much at first. Just offers you a quiet nod as she takes her seat. She doesn’t sit at the head — not yet. Waits until you do.

You let the room settle before speaking — not because you need the silence, but because you want to remember it. The way it holds people you’ve trusted. Grown with. Fought beside.

Your fingers rest lightly on the table. You don’t grip. Don’t fidget.

Just breathe in. And begin.

“I won’t pretend I’m not emotional. Most of you have seen me cry over less — like that one logistics error that turned into a two-hundred-piece embroidery delay and a minor existential crisis.”

Laughter bubbles — soft, genuine. Even your mother smiles behind her cup of tea.

“But this… this isn’t panic. It’s not pressure. It’s something else. This is full-circle.”

Your eyes flick to your mother, seated quietly across from you. Not the woman who raised you — not just — but the woman who handed you a world and asked, without saying the words, what will you do with it?

“Seora didn’t start with me. It started with her. Her dream. Her name. Her fight. And years ago, she gave it to me — not as a gift, but as a responsibility. One I wasn’t sure I was ready for at the time.”

A few heads nod. Mark’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“But I tried. And I kept trying. And together — with all of you — we grew it into something that didn’t just hold her story, but carried mine, too. Yours. Everyone who touched this place. We didn’t just expand the brand. We expanded its voice. Its heart.”

You pause for a sip of water. Not because your throat’s dry — but because your chest is tight in that very specific way that happens when something is about to end.

“I’ve loved every version of this chapter. Even the ugly ones. The long nights. The near-disasters. The off-white debates. But I know when a season has done its work.”

You look around the room. The people who made your dream theirs. The ones who trusted you even when you weren’t always certain how to lead.

“So I’m stepping back. Not out of defeat. Not because I’ve lost love for this place. But because I believe in the shape of what’s next. And I believe in the people sitting at this table to carry it forward.”

A glance toward your mother softens your expression, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “Especially her.”

The words hang — not like an ending, but like a thread waiting to be carried forward. “She won’t ask for help. Not in the way I did. But she’ll need it, just the same. So keep building with her. Push forward with her. She knows this company in her bones — but you’ve all become part of its heartbeat.”

You pause, voice softer now. “Keep fighting for the version of Seora that makes space. That dares. That tells stories.”

Another silence — but this one feels full, not heavy. Like breath held, not grief swallowed.

And just as it threatens to linger too long, “Also… if any of you email me past midnight, I will block you. With affection, obviously.”

Laughter rolls in, catching on the edges of something bigger.

The applause fades slowly, giving way to the soft scrape of chairs and the low murmur of voices. One by one, they rise — not in a rush, but with the kind of pause that means something.

Minjae is the first to approach. “You proved every single one of us wrong,” he says, not unkindly. His handshake is firm, his smile quieter than usual. “Take care of yourself kiddo.”

Next is Hana, always pragmatic. “I still think your spring silhouettes in ‘16 were too ambitious,” she teases, then adds, “but they sold out in a week. You were right.”

Iseul, pulls you into a quick, careful hug. “Call if you get bored,” she says against your shoulder. “Or if you miss arguing.”

Others follow — brief nods, murmured thank-yous, the kind of glances that carry entire seasons of shared pressure and persistence. You take each one in without needing to hold on.

Someone from logistics leaves a neatly wrapped sketch on the table beside you — a rendering of one of your earliest Seora designs. Inked carefully. Labeled with the original file name only you would remember.

You press your hand over it for a moment. Not to take it. Just to feel the paper beneath your palm.

Your mother is last to stand. She offers a small, steady smile — the kind that carries both pride and relief. Her eyes meet yours for a heartbeat. “You did well. I’ll see you in a bit.”

Mark lingers near the door, shoulder propped lazily against the frame like he’s been waiting for this part all along.

Only silence remains with just the two of you in the room now. He moves toward you – not with fanfare, just his usual quiet weight.

“You gonna cry now?” he says, voice low.

You smile faintly. “Not here.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “I wouldn’t know what to do.” He helps you gather a few loose folders, but you don’t rush. The moment doesn’t want to be rushed. “You want me to help pack your things?”

“Not yet,” you say. “I want to do it slowly.”

He nods. Doesn’t question it.

There’s a box half-packed beside the window, the edges already taped but not sealed. Some things you’ve scattered around the boardroom, just enough to ease the coldness that once filled the space. The rest can wait. You want the quiet of the room by yourself — just once more.

“You’ll still answer my calls, right?” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “Or are you ghosting the whole company now?”

“I’ll screen you creatively.”

“Bold of you to assume I don’t know how to guilt-trip your mother.”

You smile again — softer this time.

He stands at the edge of the room like he’s about to leave. “I’ll be back, you know.”

You glance up. “To visit?”

He shrugs — but this time, it feels heavier. Surer.

“To get you.”

You blink. “Get me?”

He doesn’t look away. “Seora’s not Seora without you.”

You try to answer, but nothing comes.

So instead, you move toward the box and brush your hand across the top. He tapes it gently, just once, but doesn’t seal it. Just presses his palm over the center like he’s holding something still.

“You’ll let me know when you need someone to show up,” he says — voice barely above a whisper. “Doesn’t matter where, right?”

You nod. Don’t say anything more.

Because it’s already understood.

The house greets you in silence.

Not the kind that feels hollow or abandoned—but the kind that folds around you gently, like a long-held breath. It wraps around your shoulders as you step inside, steady and full, as if the walls themselves know how much space you need right now.

You climb the stairs slower than usual—not from tiredness, but something quieter. Like your body knows this moment holds weight. Like something is waiting to unfold.

The late afternoon light bathes your bedroom, golden and soft against the floorboards.

A framed photo sits on your dresser—taken after your first international runway show, years ago. You’re barefoot on a cobblestone street, gown gathered in one hand, laughing as your mother stands beside you with her arm linked through yours.

The glass catches the sunlight now, washing both your faces in gold, like the past hasn’t quite let go.

You set your bag down with care. Sit on the edge of the bed without really thinking. Your heels click once against the floor—sharp, then soft. You let the sound fade.

The door eases open behind you, quiet and deliberate.

You don’t look up. Know it’s your mother the moment she steps into the room—trailing the familiar scent of vanilla, her presence soft and steady, like it always has been.

Draped over her arm is an ivory shawl, its hand-stitched edges delicate with age. You recognize it instantly.

“You wore this to your first board dinner,” she says softly, almost like she’s remembering it aloud to herself.

A quiet laugh slips out of you, weary around the edges. “You made me take it off halfway through because I spilled wine on it.”

A small smile touches her lips. “Yes. But for the first half, you looked beautiful.”

She crosses the room and lays it beside you, smoothing the fabric with practiced hands. “It’s warmer than it looks,” she adds. “And lighter than you remember.”

You look up at her then. The corner of her mouth lifts—not quite a smile, more like something held back.

“Just in case the evening gets long,” She stays for a moment longer than expected, hesitating—then, almost like it’s an afterthought, she pulls something small from her pocket. A square box. Carefully wrapped. No ribbon. No tag.

“This was delivered earlier.” her voice is quiet, measured. “It was left for you.”

You take it from her slowly, the weight of it strange in your hands. She doesn’t explain further. Just reaches up, brushes a strand of hair behind your ear like she used to when you were little, and leaves you with your silence.

And then you’re alone.

But not really. Not with the box still in your lap. Not with the weight of it already pressing gently into your thighs like it knows what it’s carrying.

You run your fingers along the edge—once, then twice. The wrapping is simple. No name. No flourish. But it’s careful, the way it’s been folded. Deliberate in a quiet way, like someone thought about this. Like someone meant it.

You peel the paper back slowly, each motion softer than it needs to be. As if rushing might ruin whatever’s inside.

And then you see it.

A bracelet.

Silver. Clean-lined. Minimalist, but not plain. The kind of thing you might have picked for yourself in another lifetime. But it’s the charm that holds you still—small, barely larger than a fingernail, shaped like a tulip just starting to bloom.

Your breath stops.

Because it’s not just any charm. And this isn’t just any bracelet.

Tucked beneath it, pressed against the velvet like a secret, is a worn piece of black cardstock. There’s a faded gold foil stamp in the corner. A tulip icon.

You’ve seen it before—peeking out from the folds of Jeongguk’s wallet, half-slipped inside his camera case, once forgotten in the crease of his coat pocket when you helped him pack for a trip.

You never asked about it. But it had always been there. Like background noise. Like something he couldn’t quite throw away.

You stare at it now. At the bracelet. At the charm.

Because you know this shape.

You’ve seen its twin for years, just beneath the edge of his sleeve. On his wrist, always. When he reached for your hand. When he leaned forward to pour your tea. When he held your ankle on his lap to rub the soreness out after a long day in heels.

“This one’s just always felt right on me,” he’d said once, half-laughing, when you asked why he never took it off.

You’d only been teasing—asking if it had magical powers or if it was secretly tracking him. He hadn’t offered anything else, just that simple shrug and that quiet look he always gave you when he meant more than he was saying.

You never thought much of it. Just figured it was something he liked. A piece of his personal style. A little Jeongguk-ism that made sense in a quiet, steady way.

But now—now there’s a second one.

You don’t know exactly when he bought it, or how long he’s had it tucked away. But the cardstock suggests it’s been a few years.

You’re not sure if he meant to give it to you when things were still whole, or if he held onto it through the mess because some part of him still remembered what it was supposed to mean.

There’s no note. No name.  And yet… this is him.

Undeniably him.

You reach out and touch the charm with your thumb. It’s cool. Smooth. Familiar in a way that hurts.

Because how many times did you see it on him? How many times did you trace that edge with your eyes without realizing you were memorizing it?

A sound escapes you—half laugh, half breath. Fragile. Almost embarrassed by its own tenderness. “Jeon Jeongguk, you cheeky little shit.”

You lift the bracelet, wrap it slowly around your wrist. The clasp closes with a soft click. Effortless. Like it belonged there all along.

You sit still for a long moment, eyes on your hand. The charm settles right above your pulse. And somehow, just feeling it there—solid, quiet, real—it brings back the ghost of something you thought you’d lost completely. Something simple. Something good. Something yours.

You close your eyes.

And for the first time in a while, you let yourself remember. Not the fights. Not the silence. Not the years of distance.

But Jeongguk.

The way he used to look at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Like you were the softest part of his life.

The way he kissed you when you were half asleep, muttering that you’d never know how much he loved you. The way tulips meant something—something only the two of you ever understood.

He’s not here now. But the bracelet is. And maybe that’s his way of saying he didn’t forget.

That not everything slipped away. Not everything was abandoned.

Some things—just a few—still choose you back.

Soirée sat tucked away on a quiet street in Gangnam, its dark wooden door framed by climbing ivy and tiny flickers of candlelight. Garden light spills through tall windows, falling across crystal and candles.

Everything smells like lemon water and wax. Inside, the soft murmur of well-dressed guests mingled with the clink of glasses and the distant trill of a violin.

Guests move easily, familiar with one another but never close enough to pry. You catch glimpses of faces you recognize — people who’ve been part of Jin’s life in pieces; friends from charity events, family acquaintances, names you only heard in passing. Their smiles are polite, edged with just enough warmth to feel genuine without crossing the distance.

You make your way inside, pausing only when you catch a familiar laugh echo from the far end of the room.

It’s Jin’s.

You spot him easily — tall and polished in a navy suit, one arm draped casually around his wife’s shoulders. He’s talking to an elderly couple you vaguely remember from his wedding photos, his smile soft and something older than it used to be.

When his wife leans in to adjust the boutonnière on his lapel, he doesn’t flinch or laugh it off. He just lets her.

And for a second, something settles low in your chest. Not quite envy — more like a memory brushing past your chest.

You think of the bracelet still tucked under your sleeve. Jeongguk’s bracelet. Yours now too.

You step away before you can feel too much all at once.

Dinner is polite. Elegant. You nod at old friends and pretend to remember names. The room glows with soft laughter and candlelight, the kind of warmth that clings to skin and memory.

Halfway through dessert, someone taps a fork against a glass.

Jin rises slowly from his seat near the head of the table. His jacket is slightly askew, his tie loosened at the throat — like he’s already halfway into the part of the evening where he can be himself again.

He doesn’t raise his voice. Just looks at his wife — that same look you remember from when you were young, witnessing the couple in their early phases, when Jin thought love meant grand gestures and handwritten poems.

Now he just smiles.

“This time last year, she told me to stop being dramatic,” he says, nodding toward his wife. “So this year I promised I’d keep it short.”

A soft ripple of laughter moves through the room.

Jin’s fingers tighten slightly on his glass. “I used to think loving someone meant saying everything all the time — every thought, every moment, every word that could possibly matter. But she taught me that love doesn’t always need volume.”

He pauses. Lets the quiet stretch just enough.

“Sometimes, it’s just… staying. Even when it’s not easy. Especially when it’s not easy.”

His wife blinks quickly, the tears she’s holding back catching the light from above.

Jin raises his glass. “To the quiet things. And to the people who make them feel loud anyway.”

Glasses clink. A few people laugh again — one of those soft, emotional kinds, too full to be casual. Jin sits down and wipes at his nose like he’s blaming the wine.

Speeches come one after the other – from Jin’s wife, their closest friends, more toasts take up the evening.  

You linger near the window a little longer than needed, sipping some sparkling wine and a delicate slice of raspberry cake you don’t remember picking – long enough to pretend you’re just admiring the garden. Long enough to ignore the quiet way Jin steps beside you.

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” he says.

You don’t glance over. Just hum. “Couldn’t miss you getting sentimental. You did promise that.”

“I was going to say more,” he admits, lips tugging into a crooked smile. “But I figured you’d heckle me.”

You turn, brows raised. “You think I’d heckle you during your anniversary dinner with the missus?”

“I know you would.”

You sigh — exaggerated, dramatic. “I’m not bitter, you know.”

“No?”

“I was never bitter. Just… stuck.”

“And now?” he asks, quieter.

You don’t answer. Not really because you don’t want to — more because you’re still figuring it out yourself. So you shrug. Let it hang in the air.

“Are we here to talk about my emotional development,” you say, “or are we finally getting down to business?”

Jin lets out that ridiculous windshield-wiper laugh — one you’ve grown used to over the years, but it still manages to embarrass you every time it draws unwanted attention.

“On the one night I’m supposed to be celebrating love and domestic bliss,” he says between chuckles, “you really want to drag me into logistics?”

“Come on. I know you’re itching to know.”

“Well, your mother already sent a draft.” He raises a brow. “I skimmed.”

You scoff. “You’re annoying.”

“And you’re impatient.”

“You gonna help me or not?”

His expression softens. “Always, Sunshine. You know that.”

A quiet pause settles between you — not awkward, just full.

Outside, the lights in the garden flicker back on. Warm gold against shadow. Somewhere across the room, cutlery clinks against porcelain. The violinist resumes something soft and barely there.

You let out a breath, low. “I…” The words struggle to get out of your throat but still needed to. “I want to do it right. I’m not trying to rewrite anything. He’s always going to be part of her — I know that. I’m not taking that away.”

“No one said you were.”

“I’m just— I’m the one who kept it going. Made sure she still had love. Warmth. That her space stayed hers even when everything else felt like it wasn’t.”

He nods slowly. “You’ve always done that for her.”

“I don’t… I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You won’t.”

You look at him then. He’s not being diplomatic. He means it.

“She should be somewhere that belongs to her. Not borrowed.”

“She will be,” he says gently. “She’ll be home. In the way that matters.”

You swallow hard. Blink up at the ceiling once.

“It’s not going to be easy,” he adds after a moment. “But it’s not impossible. You’ve already done so much. I should be able to handle the rest.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, Sunshine.” His voice is steady. “We’ll make this work. I’ll be with you until then.”

The air outside bites gentle at your skin once you’re left alone.

You slip out through a side door, away from laughter and linen, away from polite smiles that mean well but ask too much. The garden is mostly empty — just the soft hush of the fountain, the clink of distant glass, the violin’s song muffled by walls.

You wrap your shawl tighter around your shoulders, fingers brushing the silver at your wrist. It’s not cold enough to hurt. Just enough to feel.

You pull your phone out without thinking. His name is already there. As if some part of you knew, before you even stepped into the night. You press it.

He picks up on the first ring. “Hey.”

Your throat tightens at the sound. “Are you busy?”

There’s silence. Not hesitation — just a moment held between breath and heartbeat. “No.”

You look out at the garden pond, where the lights ripple like a memory you haven’t named yet. “I’m tired.”

He’s quiet for half a second. You hear some rustle in the background, things dropping. Don’t question him. Let him speak. “Still at Jin Hyung’s anniversary dinner?”

You nod before you answer. “Soirée.” Even though he can’t see it. “Can you come get me?”

This time, he doesn’t wait. “Already on my way.”

You don’t reply. Just close your eyes and let the night settle. The bracelet is cool against your skin. Your heels ache. Your heart less so.

Somewhere, inside, someone laughs too loud.

But out here, you wait — for headlights, for footsteps, for something that feels like home again.

You don’t wait at the curb. Too many eyes inside. Too many questions.

So you slip through the side garden, past the candlelight and music, until you reach the far lot near the service gate — where the concrete turns to gravel and the air finally feels like yours.

Jeongguk’s car pulls up before you even call again. Headlights low. Windows tinted. Familiar in the way his voice has been lately; quieter, but still sure.

He gets out the moment he sees you.

Neither of you say anything at first.

But when he opens the passenger door, you catch the way he lingers by the seat — like he’s bracing himself, like he’s been waiting for this moment without knowing what it’s supposed to be.

“I brought these,” he finally says, reaching back into the car. “You told me to find something to do. Was cleaning the house. Found them.”

He pulls out a pair of worn canvas shoes — your old chucks, still intact, still marked with the tulip doodles he once scrawled across the fabric. The colors have faded, but they’re still there. Soft and stubborn.

Your breath hitches. “Thought I lost these in the move. These were my lifesavers back then.”

He nods. “Didn’t think you’d want to spend the rest of the night in those heels. These always got you through, didn’t they?”

Jeongguk opens the passenger door fully, gestures for you to sit. You blink — surprised — but sink into the seat anyway. He helps you tuck the shawl closer around your shoulders, his hand brushing over your arm for just a second too long. You don’t pull away.

Then – without a sound – he kneels. Right there, in the gravel, without hesitation.

“Gguk—”

“Let me.” He’s gentle when he unbuckles the first strap. Careful with the second. His hands never rush, even when your breath catches as his thumb brushes your ankle.

You watch him — quiet, stunned — as he slides the old shoe onto your foot like it never left you. And then the next.

When he stands again, he doesn’t ask how you’re feeling. Already knows with the way your feet swings happily. “Ready?”

You nod. Not because you are — but because he makes it easier to be.

Silence becomes both your comfort along the way. The city falls behind you, buildings turning into memories, until the road grows quieter.

Until the tram tracks start to appear — crooked and rusted, swallowed by weeds and time. The fairground behind them is closed now, just a skeleton of what it used to be.

The old tram creaks as it settles around you. Still and quiet. A place that shouldn't feel safe, but somehow does — maybe because it's been touched by memory too many times to stay cold.

Jeongguk follows your lead, head ducked slightly, careful not to bump against the rusting arch. Puts his hand over your head when you nearly bump yours into one of the hanging light fixtures. He says nothing as you both slide into the side bench. The air is cooler in here, still, like time held its breath.

Outside, the fairground slumbers — all overgrown grass and empty stalls, the ghosts of laughter clinging to rusted poles. It should feel eerie. Forgotten. A little too quiet.

But it doesn’t. Not with him beside you.

“You remember the fireworks?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

Jeongguk leans back against the glass, gaze lifting toward the dark stretch of sky. “Ah,” he says, “the sparklers you made me sneak into your bag.”

“They weren’t illegal.”

“They were still banned from park grounds.” His mouth twitches. “You made me light five in a row and nearly set your sleeve on fire.”

You laugh — soft, real — and press your hands between your knees, like the sound surprised even you. “Still worth it.”

He turns to you with the kind of glance that lingers. That doesn’t need a smile to be gentle.

You look down at your shoes. The canvas worn soft over time, tulips still faintly blooming where his pen once touched.

“I forgot how this place sounded at night,” you murmur. “Everything else fades. Everything’s peaceful.”

“Just like us before,” he says, quieter now. He shifts slightly, thigh brushing yours as he leans forward, forearms resting on his knees, fingers loosely laced. “Thank you for letting me come.”

“Thank you,” you meet his eyes in the low glow of the tram’s single flickering bulb. The stillness wraps around you both like breath. “For not hesitating when I called. You sounded like you were in the middle of something.”

“Cleaning the house can wait,” Jeongguk lets out a breath, as if he was holding it the entire time. “You? You come first.” The silence returns, but it’s full of something now. Not heavy. Not light. Just… there.

You pull your shawl a little tighter around your shoulders, like it could somehow fold you small. Like it might be enough to hide your face too — but fabric only stretches so far.

And Jeongguk… doesn’t look away. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t fill the quiet.

Quietly, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over you in one fluid motion. Not dramatic. Not even something he thinks about. Just instinct. Like routine.

Like him.

The fabric settles over your arms. Warm from his body, heavier than it looks. His fingers skim your shoulders — brief, unintentional — and it’s not the chill that raises goosebumps.

You shift beneath it, not sure what to do with your hands.

So you do what you always do when the air gets too thick — drift to another subject. “Besides cleaning the house, what else did you do today?”

“Cleaned the studio in the basement,” Jeongguk leans back again, this time more relaxed, his head tipping lazily to the side as he watches you under hooded eyes “Found your Chucks.”

You glance down — at the tulips still faintly etched into the canvas, stubborn as ever. “What else?” you ask, eyes flicking back toward him.

He smiles, a little sheepish. “Experimented with some new recipes. One might’ve involved pickled radish and maple syrup.”

You groan. “Jeon Jeongguk.”

“I’m serious! The sweet-salty combo? Kind of genius.”

“You know I love your cooking,” you mutter, trying not to smile. “But the hot sauce in the fruit salad was enough. Can’t you just be normal and feed me?”

“Just say when. What. I’ll cook you anything you want.” His laugh fades into something quieter, something softer.

You don’t say anything for a while, just let the silence settle again. It wraps around the two of you like the dusk outside — pale and tender, not quite dark yet.

Eventually, you shift. Lean just slightly until your shoulder finds his, the familiar press of him warm beneath his jacket. He doesn’t flinch. Just lets you settle. One breath, then another.

“Long day?” he asks, looking ahead the tracks in the open.

You nod once against him. “Felt like it never really ended.”

He hums — low, understanding. “One of those?”

“Mmh.” Your fingers curl lightly into the fabric of his sleeve. “One of those where everything feels… bigger than it should be.”

He doesn’t push. Just lets the silence stretch again, this time with your breath syncing up to his.

“I think I’m just… tired,” you add, quieter now. “The kind that sits in your bones.”

Jeongguk shifts slightly, just enough to tilt his head against yours. Not pressing, not prying — just there, like he always used to be.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “You can just sit here. I’ll be here.”

For a second, you don’t know how to take it.

But then — his hand shifts, just barely. Fingers brushing down, then resting gently near yours. Not touching. Not asking. Just there, close enough for you to find if you want to.

Like he used to.

His shoulder stays steady beneath you, not stiff, not uncertain. He leans into the moment without saying a word more, gaze fixed somewhere outside the tram — like he’s giving you space even while anchoring you.

And just like that, something in your chest eases.

You believe him. Maybe not with your whole heart. Maybe not in the way you once did. But in this quiet, flickering moment — with rusted tracks beneath you and time standing still — you believe him enough.

Your hand shifts beneath the fabric draped over your shoulders, brushing faintly against the inside of his jacket — where his warmth still lingers. You don’t reach for him. Just stay close enough to feel the outline of where he was, where he is. It steadies you more than it should.

“…Thank you,” you whisper, after a moment. “Thank you for being with me.”

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything. Instead, his hand lifts slowly, carefully, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His knuckles linger just a second longer than they need to. Like muscle memory.

You should look away, say something dumb, laugh it off — but you don’t. The air feels different now. Charged and quiet.

And for a moment, all the noise inside you stills.

You draw in a breath. “Would you be mad if I asked you something?”

He shakes his head. Voice soft. “No. Please…”

The night outside hums low. A moth flutters near the broken tram light. The smell of old metal and wood, the hush of memory — it all folds in around you.

You glance at your knees instead, at the way your shoes nudge against his. Then up, to his face in profile. He’s looking at you now, really looking — eyes gentle, unreadable.

You know the question will change everything.

But you ask anyway. “Can I kiss you?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. The silence that falls breaks your heart.

You should’ve seen it coming. Already regretting the stupid words that came out. Already regretting the sparkling wine that lingers in your stomach. How can a stupid sparkling wine make you say stupid things? You’ll never know.

But then Jeongguk breaks the quiet. “You don’t have to ask.”

And with that, you close the space between you.

The kiss starts soft – the kind you lean into with caution, not certainty. A quiet press, uncertain but real. But it deepens quickly, like breath you didn’t realize you were holding, like memory flooding back in motion.

His lips part against yours, and you feel it — the slow burn he’s been holding back since the moment you settled into his car or maybe even before that.

Your hand rises instinctively — fingertips brushing the edge of his jaw before sliding up, threading gently into his hair.

He’s warm. Too warm. And under your palm, you feel it — the slight tremble when you grip just a little harder.

He exhales into the kiss. Like it’s killing him to stay gentle. Like it’s killing him not to.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips. “You’re still you.”

You don’t answer. Just kiss him again — deeper this time. A silent confession.

Jeongguk pulls you closer, hand settling at your waist — not desperate. Just grounding. Just wanting to memorize the way you still fit.

When your thumb strokes the earring dangling on his lobe, you hear it — soft, involuntary.

“Baby.” It slips out. Like it never left his vocabulary. Like maybe it never could.

Your grip tightens in his hair, a breath caught between want and heartbreak.

“Wait,” his forehead drops to yours, breath uneven and warm. “God, you’re making this hard for me to stop.”

You don’t pull away. Just hold him there, eyes still closed, like maybe if you don’t move, the moment won’t end. You hate how small your voice comes out when you ask, “Do you want to stop?”

Jeongguk’s hands tremble where they rest on your waist, like he’s afraid even this fragile hold might break you both. He pauses — not because he doesn’t know the answer, but because saying it out loud might unravel him.

“Baby, no…damn it, no,” his voice comes low, threaded with restraint. His fingers brush your face, wipes the corner of your eyes where you don’t realize the little tears had started to build. “But we still have so much to talk about. I have so much to say to you.”

Your chest tightens at the name — not because it’s unfamiliar, but because it used to be yours. Maybe it still is. You don’t know anymore.

“Let’s just stay here for a bit, breathe.” he says gently, like a promise. “Then let me take you home after. We’ll figure this out, okay?”

You nod — not because you’re ready, but because you trust him to mean it.

Just for now.

He presses one last kiss to your forehead — slow, steady, reverent.

And then you both just sit there.

Fingers still tangled. Hearts still racing. The silence between you no longer sharp, but soft. Settling.

Outside, the rusted tram tracks stretch into the dark, curving toward somewhere that used to feel like the future.

But for now, you let yourself stay here — between what was, and whatever comes next.

[xesnox]

@illwilledomen had pitched this idea to me on insta a little while back, so here’s my personal interpretation on some of the Enderlings! The concept art for this isn’t the best but I think people would see the vision.

Lore, warning badly written, I’ll get back to it later.

The endermen were the first, and therefore act as a kind of umbrella species to the other end-humanoids.

The enderlings are a subcategory of what is known as a secondary enderman. A secondary enderman is a humanoid that did not originate from a human person, meaning they were born an enderman, not made one. Even if they originally appeared human, they were always biologically intended to appear the way they do now, were born in the end, and have completely adjusted to the environment within the dimension. Meaning they can for an example sustain high radiation levels without any long term damage.

There are different types of secondary endermen, but the enderlings specifically mark a time within history where thought to have been long lost gods returned to their people.

The hosts eventually grew bored of watching their creations. No longer did they start wars or build funny creatures, they just sat around doing nothing. Sometimes one or two of them would break down, but such a thing wasn’t interesting.

The Testificates were unlike the artisans had been. They didn't start wars, the people of the cult tried to, sometimes, but their most powerful people preferred to reside within mansions too far from civilization to cause any real trouble. And they had no plans on letting the old artisans out of their celestial time out corner just yet.

So they decided to see what would happen to the increasingly desperate becoming, hopelessly religious grouping of former protectors would they give them children that were, to them, objectively disturbing to look at. The concept had been funny to them.

They were gods, they didn't understand the concept of human suffering, or the moral and ethical implications of splitting the human race into multiples whilst they believed they were living through their darkest hour, it was all just play. Like watching a show that had gotten so boring overtime they wished for conflict.

Atleast that’s what scholars think.

The enderlings are deformed humans, biologically. It might’ve been radiation, it might’ve been some Devine beings doing, whatever one chooses to believe. They’re a hypothetical species that hasn’t been sighted in over two millennia, we only have verbal accounts to go off of.

I hadn’t thought of the enderlings much in terms of Ancient Ruins before so this interpretation was a little harder than usual. The species is now largely extinct, but other secondary Endermen still exist, I also feel it is important to mention that there are different types of endersent! This isn’t every single one, it’s just the one that fits this biological niche.

If you have any questions ask me, I’ll try my best to answer.

[mullermilkshake]

Late night caller

Part 17 <- Part 18 -> Part 19

You and Jinwoo talk, because it's what builds a healthy relationship.

Yandere!Jinwoo Sung x Fem Hunter!reader Tags - Pregnant reader, not much besides discussing relationships/ relationship strain, kissing

<<< For more Dark/Yandere content, click this link to go back to the Masterlist! >>>

<<< Or back to this fic's Master list. >>>

I have only watched the anime and haven't gotten round to reading the manhwa yet. Please refrain from spoilers.

TAG LIST CLOSED

Please let me know in the comments for any Korean baby names you'd like to see in the randomiser for the babies names!

“That was wonderful, my dear.”

The Chairman cleared his plate and bowed his head respectfully to you with a smile. Jin-chul had been quiet most of the night, only small talk with you and answering questions asked and not the other way around.

Jinwoo looked dessert drunk, eyes glossed over with a sweet smile in your direction now and then. His hand found yours under the table, discreetly padding his fingertips over the back of your hand during conversation.

“Thank you, Chairman. You’re too kind.”

You weren’t exactly at ease, but the night went better than expected. It continued through the evening with light conversation and discussions about the twins and polite questions that still put you on edge.

“We aren’t finding out their genders until they’re born.” Jinwoo stated the fact precisely and to the point, regardless of the two other men in the room looking at him like he was mad.

“You aren’t? Hunter Cha is finding out tomorrow, actually. Maybe you could go with her?”

Going with her was inappropriate, you weren’t nearly as close to Hae-in as some people thought. You were not best friends, nor sisters, just two people with an understanding and no ill will.

“Yeah, we decided to leave it as a surprise. But I think Jong-in is the best person to go with her, seeing as he’s the father, don’t you think?”

The Chairman nodded in agreement as you cleared his plate. “I understand, it’s just that with the second pregnancy, Hunter Choi has taken on more responsibilities.”

You hardly ever saw Jong-in any more. It was a harder pill to swallow than most, knowing each other before you awakened later than most. Jong-in was reliable, usually consistent and kind, but lately, his behaviour changed drastically.

He just wasn’t around anymore.

“Maybe I’ll call in on Hae-in tomorrow, see how she’s doing at least.”

After speaking with her last night, her jittery behaviour put you on edge. There was something about her shifty eyes, watching Jong-in every so often as he sat with the other woman the Chairman dumped on him. In truth, Jong-in appeared quite smitten, though that could have been a show he put on to make the association happy.

Shame. I really thought he and Hae-in would make it. 

“That sounds perfect, thank you… Well, we better go, it’s getting late.”

Chairman Go stood first, Jin-chul hung on every movement and followed him towards the front door with a chorus of thank you’s and reassuring words that the association would back away.

After he left, Jin-chul remained for only a moment, adjusting his tie to waste time to be out of earshot.

“Tonight was eye opening. But, if you wish to go down this road, be sure to make it wholeheartedly true, not as one-sided as it is.”

You didn’t anticipate the audible gasp that slipped your lips out into the hallway. But everyone heard. As Jin-chul left for the exit, you stood there watching him.

Was it that obvious for how conflicted you were about Jinwoo’s confession and where your own heart lied? In truth, you were confused, you wanted to let go and let things proceed in their own way but how could you?

After the front door closed, the tension shifted. Jinwoo turned and wandered into the kitchen before you could say a word. Shit. He said it didn’t matter if you felt the same, but obviously he was just as conflicted too. He was the father of the babies you were carrying, and he made you feel safe. Was that really enough to settle with and give it a real try? Wasn’t that what you were already doing?

“Jinwoo.” You said, hugging your arms and swaying a fraction as he started washing the dishes with his back to you.

“Jinwoo...”

“Dessert was so good, we should make it again sometime soon.”

“Jinwoo.” More authority this time.

“Dinner too, that was spectacular, we should really keep that recipe handy-“

“Jinwoo… look at me please.”

He stopped sorting the dishes, running the steaming hot water into the basin to create enough bubbles to clean the dried up sauces on the ceramic.

“What is it, baby?”

Despite the tugging in your stomach because Jinwoo didn’t look your way, you kept your distance. “About what Jin-chul said… I-I think we should talk-”

“Ignore him. He’s being dramatic, we’re just fine how we are. If people take issue, then let them.”

That wasn’t the point.

“I’m not talking about whether people have an issue… What Jin-chul said about-”

Jinwoo finally turned to you with the sweetest smile that never reached his eyes, his hands dripping soapy bubbles at his feet. “Don’t worry about that. We talked about it already, didn’t we? I don’t expect anything from you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Could you see yourself being married to him, for real? Like real, real. Not just pretend and make believe to keep the Chairman at bay, which clearly worked, but for a real shot at married life with a man you never saw yourself with until the programme brought you together.

Did you need him? Could you want him as much as he wanted you? You weren’t even sure how much that really was, in honesty. In other words, you had no clue about him, more than just his favourite hobbies or the colours that didn't interest him, the dessert that he could never refuse and the pair of shoes he could never throw out because they were too comfortable to lose.

You weren’t sure what you needed, and considering it confused you, shook your foggy brain up with an imaginary centrifugal force to make you dizzy. What did you need? What could you possibly want?

He loved you, he did so much for you and you still were in the dark.

“Jinwoo… Just how much do you actually love me?”

His eyes widened a fraction, he blinked rapidly in an attempt to fool you and stifle it though you noticed immediately. He dried his hands and took yours so that you followed him. 

“Come with me…” He led you towards the bedroom and halted between the threshold. “You can stay up tonight, Beru. But keep the TV down.”

Beru emerged and knelt, never saying a word which still startled you. He kept his head down as you backed away, though Jinwoo kept moving. You never had time to stand and watch the ant’s movements over towards the living room.

Standing in silence set your stomach on a fine edge, a pit of something you couldn’t register on his face like a mask. You couldn’t tell if he was going to lecture you, or the opposite, but you weren’t even sure what that was.

“Jinwoo-”

“Come sit down, we’ll talk in here.” He warmly patted the space beside him on the bed.

“O-okay.”

When you did, Jinwoo took your hand lovingly and placed it between his own with a reassuring squeeze. “You really want to know just how much I love you? Because I was going to wait until the twins were born, or maybe when we got married… but, if you want me to be transparent about it, you need to let me say everything. Can you do that?”

You just nodded, the anticipation was slowly killing you.

“I never thought that I would have ended up here when I first saw you. It took some time, but when I realised, I fell hard for you… You’re beautiful, intelligent, and you make me smile on dark days. When I’m exhausted and dirty from a dungeon, you are the first person I want to be around. You challenge me, push me to be the man I know I always was deep down. The man I want to be… I was truthful when I said I’d let you walk all over me.” He chuckled, but it didn’t match his expression.

“I love you to the point that I’d do literally anything you ask, in a heartbeat. I just don’t want to be away from you, I couldn’t bear it. I know it’s been difficult adjusting, and it’s not the way I would have done things either, but it’s the cards we've been dealt with and we should make the most of it, together. But that’s if you want it too, so don’t listen to Jin-chul, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

You lingered in the pause, a moment in silence that was not wasted on you. Jinwoo continued. “I love you for you, and I’d do anything for you. Anything. I never wanted to spring it on you like this in case it drove you away. I’d hate not to see you all the time.”

He spoke to you like a husband of twenty years. But he wasn’t. Not yet. But he could be.

“You love me.”

“I do.”

“I…” You couldn’t say it until you were sure. 

So you did the next best thing until you could sort your head out. You kissed him.

Sweetly, without an ounce of passion or lustrous touches. Just a kiss, then another, and another. Jinwoo caressed your cheek, cupping it so that your head rested into his palm. Each pull from your lips, a long drawl of poetic sounds in a room with a heavy silence that weighed less with each second.

“I love you, baby.” He said, pulling away for only a second before gravitating back to you.

Jinwoo felt his way to your belly, grazing it before touching your waist before you disappeared in his arms. It was desperate, but he held back like he was afraid to go too hard because it would break you.

“How much?”

He never missed a beat when he pulled you onto his lap, shuffling back for more space. “More than the world.”

You sucked at his bottom lip and pulled off his cardigan in an agonisingly slow motion. “And you’d do anything for me?”

Just how far would this man go for you? You weren’t sure.

“Anything.” 

The way Jinwoo slipped the straps from your dress off of your shoulders tickled your skin into goosebumps. Your heart swelled by how his fingertips ran down the exposed skin on your arms as though he was admiring art, taking in each inch with a careful eye and every subtle, invisible word under his breath.

“Would you still love me if I was turned into a magic beast?”

Jinwoo stopped and watched you with a quizzical look, he softly tittered and played with a strand of your hair as you sat over his thighs. “Of course I would. Out of all the things you could ask, why that?”

It seemed perfectly logical in your mind, things like that could probably happen, it probably happened once already and no one found out yet. How could they if the person turned into a magic beast couldn’t talk?

“I don’t know.” You drew back, a little embarrassed by your impulsivity. Jinwoo pulled you closer and pressed his lips on your collarbone to the crook of your neck. “With the way things are going and what’s happened so far, anything is possible, I guess.”

“I’d love you even if you were a magic beast, if you were a worm or if you were somehow transformed into a toaster, I’d still be here.”

You let him kiss you again, but your mind grew more curious in challenging ways. It was as though you wanted to test him, to see just how far he’d go. While it wasn’t wise, your sudden inquisitivity merited more depth.

“Would you change yourself for me?” You weren’t sure if you wanted the answer, but still asked.

“If that’s what you wanted me to do-”

“Don’t do that. Please, don’t change, Jinwoo.”

He never said anything after that, he just continued locking lips, casually adding tongue whenever it was appropriate. If he would willingly change himself without hesitation, what else would he do?

What if there was a dungeon break and something like Jeju island happened again? Jinwoo would keep you and the babies safe, that was a given. Despite your S-Rank status, your abilities weren’t exactly combative to fight something of that calibre.

You had missed Jeju island, you hadn’t awakened until two months later. Though it was discussed, you only knew of the aftermath, not the full details. Everyone seemed to want to forget it, but just the thought of another break like that made your skin crawl.

It was likely you’d never know the full details, not from Jong-in, Hae-in or Baek, anyway.

But what came after a break like that? If Jinwoo couldn’t maintain order with the association whilst you just kept strategic exits plastered around the place, transported tools and only healed yourself, what happened then? 

Raiders. Thieves. Bad people who would take the shirt from your back just because they could and hurt you and the babies in the process.

You wondered how Jinwoo would handle something so atrocious.

“Would you kill for me?”

Jinwoo halted and froze, his eyes wide open enough to tell you had gone too far. “Shit. I’m sorry, I’m just thinking out loud, we’re having children together and I’m getting worried about stuff that’ll never happen-”

“I would.” He said, so sure of himself. “We’re going to be parents… I think when push comes to shove, we’ll both do it if it came down to it.”

He had a point.

“I don’t really know what I’d do until I’m in that position-”

The bedroom door knocked, heavily though singular. Three clunks, followed by a controlled response.

“Sire, my sincerest apologies for the intrusion. Someone is at the door for you!” 

Jinwoo dropped his head to your shoulder and cursed under his breath. “Just ignore it, Beru. Finish watching your show.”

The brief moment of quiet was enough for Jinwoo to taste your skin again- “ My Liege, they are quite insistent!” 

You left Jinwoo’s grasp before he could protest, he yanked the door open faster than you were certain he meant to. “Beru, we’re busy-”

The front door knocked, well it was more of a frantic banging. Beru hunched over, his head missing the ceiling with his posture.

“Wait here.” Jinwoo marched on over to the door.

You ignored his instruction and followed behind him at a distance, clutching your baby bump on instinct. When the door opened, you stood next to the rather large ant and watched on in awe at someone you didn’t expect to see this time of night.

“It’s late. What are you doing here?” Jinwoo asked, his hands defensively on the door and the frame like a barrier.

Jong-in cleared his throat and tried to rub away the dark circles under his eyes. “It’s Hae-in. She’s missing, and I can’t find her.”

Part 17 <- Part 18 -> Part 19

Thank you for reading and all of the support on this fic! ❤️ Likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated and I appreciate you all! See you next time 🤗

Tag list - @bubera974 @snowy-violet @sky2lar @starrynights23x @kamiliora

@yessirr7 @aussie-boys-wife @yihona-san06 @mashiromochi @daiyanomochi

@justatimidcreator @alia-17 @otomegamesforlife @m00n-estelle @towomatos

@stormnightingale @johnnysactualgf @solarisstarrsolomonsbeloved @johnnysactualgf @notleclerc

@minkuro @misakicchi @lovingyeet @soft-dots @gina239

@sabrina-senpai @tsukimoon-chan @afkmylajah @livelaughlovekuni @keiva1000

@delusionillusion322 @dreamingoftomorrow @gina239 @blxuqueenie @stardust0709

@chahaezii @athanasia10 @crutoyu @thetruepair @lostpsycho13

@dragoonsuki @sashagaming1012 @maria-trisha @dyavorange @mommydelicious5272

@shortchubbytat @celesteelysia @forgotten-moon94 @sleepyamaya @applepi405

DISCLAIMER - Crossposted from my AO3 - I do not own any of the characters or anything from the anime or manhwa. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

Also please don’t post any of my work without permission thank you!

[neunnnnnnn]

Meeting a homeless shifter

I was at a local park the other day, having a solo date when a man approached me, I was cautious at first and was gathering my stuff because I didn't want to deal with any negativity that day but he ended up stopping me and telling me that he means no harm and ofc I wasn't going to believe him, but I did have this feeling that he wasn't violent?

Anyway I put my stuff down and he sits across from me and I offer him a burger that I had bought and he refuses it so I'm like "huh? How comes" then he goes on to explain to me that he's vegan........ And I'm like HELL NAUR😭 this has to be satire, so I point blank tell him not to piss me off because I was not in the mood. Then he goes on to explain to me that he's actually not lying, so I ask him how comes?! Cause like...... I didn't want to be rude but cmonnnn😭

He laughs telling me that he was vegan before he was homeless and has maintained it even after. I also tell him that I have been interested in turning vegan for sometime and I had been meditating, which made him light up and he excitingly tells me that he also meditates and does OBE, so I'm like.... OH is he lying or is he actually saying the truth, so I ask him some questions and he indeed does know A LOT about it.

I gather up the courage to ask him about shifting because👀.... Most people that are spiritual don't believe in it. And he says HE KNOWS ABOUT IT! So I'm like there is no way, he knows about it and he's homeless right?😭. Anyway he goes to explain that he's shifted before but he mostly astral projects, so that's where my question comes in....... how are you homeless and you can shift and do obe? He laughs saying that he can understand my confusion and that he has thought about leaving countless of times.

He looked sad for a sec and explains that he's kind off attached to this reality, which confuses me more so I ask him if it's because he's comfortable with his situation and he just shakes his head. So I'm now confused and I ask him what is it that would make him want to continue living like this when he literally has the power to change it.

I could see how ashamed he looked but he opened up explaining that he used to be abusive to his ex wife and was locked up for it and during his time in prison he was literally tormented with guilt and had "attempts" and that's how he actually shifted for the first time. He said after he "attempted" he woke up in another reality where he was a woman and he explained how everything felt extremely real and he even used his 5 senses to make sure it wasn't a lucid dream. After he got out he got the news that his wife passed away which destroyed him completely. So I ask why can't he shift to a reality where you know everything is okay. But he shakes his head saying that he wants to live out this life the way it is and that he doesn't want to run away from the problems that he caused. Atp I'm quiet because I genuinely have nothing to say but it did make me think of me of how I haven't permashifted because I am low-key attached to this reality and I feel like I want to "achieve" something before I actually go. I also shared my experiences with him and he tells me how lucky I am that I discovered it at such a young age and gives me some life advices that I weirdly have always wanted to hear from the people in my life.

It was honestly enlightening talking to him and I felt some kind of relief afterwards, I offered to buy him lunch but he refused saying that he's okay. I also showed him my blog😂 and he smiled saying that he liked it and thanked me for giving him the chance for us to talk.

There are some stuff that we also talked about but I can't remember them 😭

And I am grateful that I did stay to talk to him.

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

Lifting Spirits | Thunderbolts*!Bucky Barnes x Female! Reader | Drabble 895 words |

It's been a long time since you and Bucky were able to sneak off, and it's starting to show.

Warnings: 18+ for suggestive language, thoughts and situations. Thunderbolts* spoilers.

HBS Week 1: “Mind your own damn business.” | [Secret Sex/Relationship | Embarrassment | Denial]

@buckybarnesevents

Masterlist | Hot Bucky Summer | Bucky Barnes

No one was supposed to know about you and Bucky. You hadn't meant to make the relationship secret, it'd just sort of…happened. If you could even call it a relationship, mostly it was just…fucking. Stress relief, unwinding.

You had a system and that system mostly involved sneaking into each other's bedrooms as much as humanly possible, which wasn't very often when you shared a weird superhero tower with five other, very nosey, people.

It'd been a while, to be honest, since you'd had any kind of opportunity to sneak into Bucky's room, and it was starting to wear very thin.

The memory of his body under yours as you'd taken your pleasure from him in the huge Jacuzzi tub on the balcony was just a memory. The feel of his hands on your hips, holding you still as he drove you both into his headboard and over the edge of pleasure was just a dreamy sensation.

Now you were contending with your own hands and the few toys you managed to sneak in past your fellow heroes.

"Are you alright?" Bob asked from his nest of cushions and beanbags by the ridiculously huge windows.

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine. How're you, read anything good lately?"

He frowned, looking at you sideways.

"I was just — nevermind, you must not have heard me." He went a little pink at the ears and you realised he'd been talking about his latest read for at least ten minutes while you looked at the balcony and tried to recall, in detail, what Bucky's cock felt like inside you.

"Sorry, Bob, just, in my own head at the moment. Nothing to do with you."

You half-smiled, but still couldn't take your eyes off the covered tub.

You fell back into your own thoughts until the elevator dinged open, making you start.

"I told you, Yelena, I'm fine."

"Bucky, you do not seem fine." She grumbled back, "you broke so much stuff, you know how much all that stuff costs?"

"No."

Even the sound of his gruff voice was sending tingles down your spine. Fuck. You needed that sound in your ear, telling you every disgusting thing he was going to do to you just as soon as you got some time alone and —

"Hey, are you oh-kay? What is it with you two lately."

"She's fine, 'Lena, she said she's fine." Bob raised his eye brows, not brave enough to say anything, but he sure was fond of suggesting.

"Ergh, there's nothing wrong, leave me alone." You flopped back into the couch cushions, one eye open.

You tracked Bucky's movements across the living area, he shrugged his jacket off, pulling it down each muscled arm, you licked your lips, when he tugged it free and shook it out you could see his broad shoulders, biceps swelling.

Bob followed your eyeline.

Bucky stretched, his t-shirt riding up and revealling a slither of his lower belly, a dusting of dark hair, a hint of muscle.

You sighed dreamily.

He sat down, kicking his boots up onto the coffee table and searching for the remote before reaching his vibranium hand behind him to ruffle his long hair.

"Okay, I'm going to bed." You announced, slapping your thighs and pushing yourself up.

"It's not even dinner yet?" Yelena said, confused. "It is like half past six in the evening, you can't go to bed."

"I'm…very sleepy." You insisted, faking a yawn and stretching your arms in your best attempt to show off your own body.

Bucky looked at you then, the same hunger in his eyes when they trailed down your body and back up. You were only in a big t-shirt and shorts, but when you moved you knew he could see the curve of your hips, the arch of your back — his favourite places to grasp and pull at.

"Yeah, we've all been very tired." He agreed, his voice slightly stilted. "It's good to rest — sleep."

"Going to lay down. In my room. On my bed." You backed towards the elevator, toying with the bottom of your shirt.

Bucky stood too, eyes locked with yours as if he was stalking you like prey. Every footfall of his boots echoed in the otherwise silent penthouse.

"You guys are weird." Bob mumbled, but he couldn't look away either, picking his milkshake back up.

Finally you were both in the elevator, backs against each wall, still eyeing each other.

The doors closed heavily.

"They're so weird." Bob laughed, taking a long, loud, slurp of milkshake.

"Too weird."

Yelena pushed the call button again and, sure enough, the elevator came straight back, the doors opening slowly to reveal you and Bucky tangled together.

He'd lifted you into his arms straight away, wrapping your legs around his waist so you could press yourself against his hardening length. He was kissing you so deeply you didn't even notice Yelena stood in the open door.

"Oh my god, 'Lena! Look!" Bob shouted and Yelana nodded in agreement.

"Oh fuck." You laughed, burying your head in Bucky's neck to cover your embarrassed shock.

But Bucky didn't falter, he pressed the button for your floor, continuing to kiss up your neck and, as the doors were shutting, turned to Yelena.

"Mind your own damn business."

[technicallyastar]

*appears inside their walls*

1x4 x shy/nervous y/n when??😈😈

(I would love nsfw :3)

Art belongs too @4equorea) on X

I hope this isn't mischaracterized if you think so please let me know and I'll do my diligence too fix it

1x is a tunnel-visioned, broken-hearted creature who spends most of their energy seeking out their creator and killing them as their meaning of life and a reason to live. He is very passionate about his life goal. Otherwise, she is apathetic. He does remain cordial with people, though.

This relationship would take a good while to develop because neither 1x nor you are likely to initiate it. When he does interact with others, she expects it to be strait-laced. Anything else is a waste of their time. Be sweet on them, they'll break with time. They haven't been offered a lick of kindness since birth, when confronted with this enigma she'll be distrustful, but it's like leading a horse too water be patient and gentle.

-She's also one of the tallest in the Realm, so feel free to hide behind him when you've earned your established relationship with them.(Congrats, Pat yourself on the back that's quite a feat.) Again, they really dont care about much of anything besides their goal and you now... Apparently. If you hide under or behind something else, they just nonchalantly pokes her head in when he needs to say something to you.

They're not crazy with PDA, but once again they truly do not care and 1x does like leaning close to talk, and plays with your hand whenever their's are free. He always checks with you before trying to initiate PDA in a new kind of situation, but after that she just trusts it to apply to all similar ones...

You are called a catalog of nicknames whether derogative or complimentary whatever works too flusters you the most is what they will refer to you as. They find it very amusing.

-The only time he ever gets frustrated by your shyness is if it causes problems while you’re in danger. If those situations ever do arise, 1x is quick to throw you over her shoulder and remove you from the situation himself, their status and reputation as a killer be damned, regardless of any protests. Safety and health come before comfort.

NS/FW(Minors DNI)

- 1x is a little different about your shyness here than in public; he’ll let you get away with it in the bedroom for all of five minutes. After that, rough manhandling comes into play.

-1x will respect a genuine boundary, but she thinks claiming ‘you’re shy’ is just another way of playing hard to get. And 1x is hard…that’s it, they've got a hard-on. She's ready to go.

-No she will not leave the room pitch dark just because you’re embarrassed about being naked. And no, he won’t let you hide under the covers the whole time either. And no, you will not hide your red face behind or muffle those pretty little sounds with your hands. Try it and they’ll rather effortlessly pin your wrists over your head with one hand.

After some time, She thinks it’s fun to make your shyness a game, after they've lain with you several times and you still keep this reserved nature of yours... Well, it’s clearly because they have to earn seeing your best expressions

Cue 1x doing their damnedest to suck your very soul out, only pulling away periodically to ask through pants of air, if they’d “earned it yet?” No? Well, he's not done yet. At some point you’ll be driven wild enough to choose pulling their hair over shielding your face. (I know it's not 1x's Canon look but betrayed's hair is so pretty on them. Sue me)

While they prefer too hold both of your hands with their own too. They are also privy too you putting your arms around him? She can deal with some angry red marks on his back for a while. Just expect to receive the same x4.