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tacoguacamole · 3 days ago

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ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 11

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, Major Fluff For This Chapter, 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. Part 10. Part 11. Chapter Word Count: 12.2k+]

[Chapter Summary: Some places remember you better than you remember yourself. And in the quiet of old rooms, familiar laughter, and slow mornings, something begins to feel almost like home again—even if neither of you dares to call it that just yet.]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

The sun filters through the windshield in soft streaks, casting a golden haze over the dashboard. You’re curled into the passenger seat, legs tucked to one side, fingers loosely wrapped around a convenience store coffee bottle, something you both had bought before starting the drive.

The soft hum of Jeongguk’s playlist fills the car. It’s a mix of old and new—the kind of playlist stitched from years of quiet care. Songs you used to steal from his iPod in Uni. Ones that once played through shared earphones tangled on buses and rooftops.

Others are newer, unfamiliar to you – but they don’t feel like strangers. They feel like something he picked with you in mind. You’d recognized the similarity of the vibes between the new and old and new tracks. Like even the songs he found in your silence were meant to find their way back to you.

Jeongguk drums his fingers gently along the wheel, syncing with the rhythm playing through the speakers.

You glance over, brow arched. “You updated the playlist. They’re pretty cool.”

He hums, eyes still on the road. “Track seventeen’s for you.” With a quick tap to the screen, he switches to the track in question, and the opening chords spill softly into the car. “Been saving it.”

You listen carefully to the lyrics while he sings along under his breath, almost like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.

All the reasons why I can laugh out; All the reasons why I sing this song; Thankful to be by your side now; I'll try to shine brighter than now.

Your heart stumbles at the words. They feel too tailored, too gentle, too full — like an unopened letter. You hate how fast your chest tightens, how that ache returns — the good kind. The kind you’ve been waiting for.

“Trying to woo me through a serenade?” you murmur, trying to keep it light.

“That’d be a miracle if it worked,” he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand before returning it to the wheel.

His smile softens — not teasing now, just fond. “It’s just a good track. Thought I’d let you know it… fit you just right.”

You don’t say anything. Just reach forward, nudge the volume up by a notch. Then turn back to the window, hoping your heart beating could be drowned by the music filling the car.

You wake up somewhere along the coastline.

The sky outside is a deeper blue now — stretched wide and endless, the kind that only appears after a long drive south. You were expecting some discomfort by now — maybe the usual pinch in your lower back, or that telltale numbness in your legs from staying still too long. Instead, your body feels oddly light, your limbs loose, settled.

A blanket you don’t remember pulling over yourself is tucked beneath your arms, the seat reclined just enough to take the pressure off your spine. And your fingers — still curled in your sleep — are loosely gripping soft cotton.

You blink down slowly, adjusting to the light, only to find Jeongguk’s arm resting beside you on the center console. The fabric you’d been holding onto was the sleeve of his hoodie, stretched slightly from where your fingers had pulled at it.

The ink along his forearm shifts when he moves — just a subtle flex of muscle as he reaches over and brushes his hand gently against your knee.

“Hey,” he says quietly, voice threading through the last lingering chorus of whatever song is playing on low volume now. “You sleep okay?”

You nod, still groggy, rubbing at your eyes. “Didn’t mean to pass out on you.”

“I didn’t mind,” his thumb sweeps once over the edge of your knee before resting there, still. “Missed your snore keeping me company.”

You swat at his arm with a sleepy scoff. “I don’t snore.”

“Sure,” he says, lips twitching. “You just… aggressively breathe.”

“Unbelievable.”

But you’re smiling when you say it — a smile that’s too full to be small, tugging gently at your cheeks as you stretch beneath the blanket. The warmth in your chest has nothing to do with the sun.

The next stop is a place you recognize instantly — a sleepy little gas station tucked off the coastal highway, where the same single pump still wheezes and clicks like it’s doing its best to hang on. The sign out front is sun-bleached, one letter half-burnt out.

The convenience store beside it is exactly how you remembered it — slanted roof, uneven steps, and faded posters curling in the window like they haven’t been touched in years.

You pull in beside the pump, already working your way around. “I’ll get the gas. Snacks, please?” you call out.

But Jeongguk’s already halfway to the store, waving you off. “Don’t go overboard with the fuel!” he calls over his shoulder. “I’m watching you.”

You shake your head with a smile and set to work, tapping in the fuel code. The air here smells like brine and pine, the ocean just beyond the ridge. A breeze lifts your hair as you lean against the car, chin on your shoulder, eyes tracing the outline of the hills in the distance.

There’s a strange comfort in the familiarity. Like the past didn’t change this place. Like this stop still remembers both of you.

You’re capping the tank when you hear him — the rustle of bags, the soft clatter of snacks tumbling inside plastic.

You round the car.

And stop.

Jeongguk’s coming toward you with both arms full — not one or two, not even five — but what looks like the entire top shelf of the snack aisle. The bags are bulging, dangerously close to splitting. Chips, crackers, sweet bread, banana milk, chocolate bars, and—

Your eyes narrow. “Jeon Jeongguk.”

He blinks at you, completely unfazed.

“You planning to feed the entire town?”

He shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You didn’t say not to bring everything you love.”

Your jaw drops a little more as he breezes past you, popping open the backseat like he does this every day. He starts arranging the bags with all the precision of a man securing sacred cargo.

Among the chaos, you spot them — a whole pack of strawberry yogurt drinks. The exact kind you used to hoard in your old apartment fridge. The exact kind he used to swipe just to make you mad.

You fold your arms. “Whoever wanted those today is probably planning your downfall.”

“They’ll live,” he says, handing you one. “You come first.”

You stare at the bottle in your hand. The foil top already peeled halfway, like he remembered you never liked struggling with it.

Your throat tightens — not painfully. Just… full. “You’re impossible.”

He nudges your shoulder, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re welcome.”

You nudge him back, a little harder. He staggers dramatically, pretending to lose balance before laughing under his breath. You scoff, shaking your head — but you’re smiling, soft and involuntary.

Somehow, this moment feels like more than you expected.

More than memory. More than just comfort.

It feels like coming home to something you didn’t know still existed.

He opens the passenger door for you again without a word. Just a look that says, Ready when you are.

You sip your yogurt drink, slip back inside, and let the warmth bloom across your chest.

As the car pulls back onto the road, the silence between you isn’t empty.

It hums — quiet, warm, alive.

And outside, the signs begin to change.

Busan is getting closer.

The sun hangs low by the time you pull up to the old house nestled along the edge of the beach road. The sound of waves greets you even before the car comes to a full stop—gentle, steady, like the tide’s been waiting for you to return.

The moment you see the familiar gate—the one Jeongguk always had to yank twice when it jammed—it’s like your heart forgets how to keep pace.

The porchlight flickers above the front steps. Once, then again. Like it remembers.

You stay curled in your seat, eyes fixed on the crooked “Welcome” sign—something you and Jeongguk had painted together on a whim years ago, the day you got rained in and had nothing better to do but argue over brush strokes and color swatches. He painted a smiley face in the corner when you weren’t looking. You’d rolled your eyes, but left it there.

Somewhere behind the house, you hear the call of seagulls, the breeze laced with salt and the faint scent of the sea. The air feels thick with memory.

You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until Jeongguk rounds the car and opens your door. He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t flinch. Just stands there, steady as ever, waiting.

You glance up at him, throat tight.

Slowly, you slip your hand into his, climb out of the car, and fall into step beside him—fingers curling around the fabric of his sleeve. He stays quiet. Lets you hold on. Walks with you to the front door like muscle memory.

The key sticks in the lock. It always did. He jostles it once, twice, and then the latch clicks with a familiar sound.

The door swings open with a quiet creak.

Inside, it smells like something warm and worn-in. A little dust, a hint of orange from that old cleaning spray you used to hoard in bulk from the local mart. The lights flicker on with a slow, humming bloom, casting the living room in a golden haze that softens every edge.

Sunlight spills across the floorboards, catching on scuff marks, the overgrown plant you left by the window, and the leaning shelf of books still crooked from the time he’d tried to rearrange it “aesthetically.”

You step in first.

The house is a mess—not in a bad way. Just the kind of disarray that happens when life gets paused mid-breath. A stack of magazines from three summers ago still sits on the coffee table. A pair of slippers peeks out from beneath the couch. One of the curtains droops slightly off its hook, like it gave up halfway.

You love the disaster. You love all of it.

Your hand trails along the back of the armchair, fingertips brushing familiar dents in the cushion. A photo frame leans slightly crooked on the mantle—one of those disposable camera shots of you and Jeongguk with wind-swept hair and sunburnt noses, taken after a long day in the water.

You pause by the dining table. There’s still a dent in the wood—Jeongguk’s fault, from the time he tried to assemble its matching chairs and sent one leg flying across the room, declaring he didn’t need instructions.

You laugh under your breath, the sound catching softly in your chest.

Jeongguk steps past you, toward the patio doors that open out to the deck. The grill’s still there—slightly rusted now, tucked in its corner near the railing.

“Hope that still works,” he says, gesturing toward it. “You nearly set the whole place on fire trying to perfect samgyeopsal.”

“It did come out perfect,” you argue, grabbing a cushion from the couch and tossing it at him.

He catches it with ease. Grins. “At what cost? You turned this whole patio into a fireworks venue.”

“It was a slight spark.”

“It was a smoke show. I had to Google ‘smoke inhalation symptoms.’”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks ache from smiling.

Later, as the laughter quiets, you find yourself near the wide window that overlooks the sand. The sea stretches out before you—soft, silver in the fading light, the shoreline curling like it’s holding something secret.

You feel him behind you before you hear him. His presence gentle, hesitant. When you glance back, you see the way his hands hover awkwardly at his sides, like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t want to cross a line.

So you do it first.

You take his hands. Bring them around your waist. Guide him closer. Let him know that it’s okay. That you want him close. He exhales against your hair, breath warm, and presses his cheek to the top of your head like it’s instinct.

“Thank you,” you whisper, voice catching on your tongue.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he murmurs, low against your ear. “You shouldn’t have had to ask me. Where you go, I go. If that’s what you want.”

Your chest pulls tight. It’s more than I could ever want, you want to say. But instead, you flick his forehead. “Back to being cheesy again?”

He startles. “Shit—sorry. Too much?” He starts to loosen his hold, about to step away—trying not to mess this up.

You catch his wrists. Pull his arms back to where they belong.

“No,” you say, quiet but sure. “Just right.”

The next few hours blur into the gentle chaos of settling in.

You find the dustpan beneath the sink—right where it’s always been, still wedged beside the broken flashlight Jeongguk swore he’d fix years ago. The same one he taped up once with colorful washi tape, insisting it added “character.”

There's a small pile of forgotten laundry in the hallway you both pretend not to see just yet. And when he yanks open the patio screen to check if the lock still works, it sticks halfway, sending him into a low mutter that sounds like swearing. You try not to laugh, but your shoulders give you away.

He moves easily around the house, sleeves pushed up, one hand on the ladder, the other fiddling with the ceiling fixture that flickered the moment you turned it on. His shoulders shift with practiced rhythm, the same kind of confidence that used to kick in when he tried to fix things with nothing but guesswork and quiet stubbornness.

You stand below, arms crossed loosely, trying to steady the ladder with your feet. “You’re not exactly built for balance.”

“Excuse me?” He peeks down at you from the top step, hair flopping a little over his eyes. “I was an athlete, you know.”

“You did taekwondo in high school,” you say. “That doesn’t count as upper-body core stability.”

He grins, holds a new bulb up like a trophy. “Still counts.”

You roll your eyes, but your hands move on instinct—reaching up to press against the sides of the ladder, thumbs resting on his jeans just above his knees. It’s thoughtless. Familiar. Until your fingers curl slightly into the denim, and you realize too late where they’ve landed.

His movement stills.

You glance up.

Jeongguk is looking at you—really looking. The kind of look that makes the rest of the room blur at the edges. There’s a flicker of surprise in his gaze, but it’s softened by something steadier. Warmer. Something like awe.

You blink, heat rushing to your face, and drop your hands like you’ve been caught doing something indecent. “I—I’m going to check the kitchen.”

You turn before he can say anything else, already retreating toward safer ground. Behind you, you can hear the quiet scrape of the ladder as he shifts slightly, as if trying not to laugh too loud.

In the kitchen, you find old dish towels stuffed in the back of the drawer, mismatched chopsticks in uneven pairs, and a forgotten bottle of soy sauce that might’ve outlived three governments. You wipe down the counters with a faded rag and open a few overhead cabinets—some empty, others full of sun-faded tea boxes and instant soup packets from a grocery run neither of you ever finished.

One drawer sticks slightly before it gives. Inside, mismatch cooking sets, spatulas that definitely need replacing, a bent knife.

That one makes you pause.

You still remember the summer Jeongguk ruined it trying to open a coconut he insisted didn’t need a tutorial. He’d marched in from the yard, shirt half-tucked, eyes bright with victory and absolutely no plan.

“Trust me,” he’d said, proudly brandishing the coconut over the counter with your best kitchen knife. “This is what vacation homes are for.”

You raised a brow from the sink. “Property damage?”

He flashed you a grin. “Adventure.”

The blade barely made it through one awkward jab before it bent sideways like it gave up. You tried not to laugh. But by the time he wedged the coconut between his knees and muttered, “Okay, wait, I got it now,” you were doubled over at the counter.

It took both of you, a rock from outside, and eventually the heel of your shoe to get it open. He fed you the first bite with coconut water dripping off his fingers.

Now, the knife is still slightly warped. You pick it up, smile to yourself, then set it aside with a little sigh.

Behind you, footsteps.

Jeongguk passes by to grab a sponge, tossing a look over his shoulder, inspects the dish rack. “We’ve got to replace these ugly mugs. Doesn’t match the house’s aesthetic.”

You glance up from where you’re rinsing the bent knife. “They’re not ugly. They’re vintage.”

He points at one near the sink. “That one has a cat with laser eyes. Swear, I felt it watching me sleep four Christmases ago.”

You snort. “You and your boring aesthetic shit.” Then rinse the mug anyway. “I’m keeping them.”

Jeongguk gasps, mock-betrayed. “Even the cracked one?”

“Especially the cracked one. You gave it to me.”

He groans dramatically. “I’ll get you a new one.”

“No,” you say, drying it with a hand towel. “Mugs stay. You get out. Go fix the patio screen before mosquitos invade.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mutters. Then lower, more to himself than to you—“Happy wife, happy life.”

You hear it. Try not to smile. But you can’t help it. Your lips tug upward as you tuck the towel over the oven handle and shake your head, letting the warmth in your chest settle right where it belongs.

Most of the house has been dusted, rearranged, and gently revived from its long slumber by the time evening settles.

The couch covers—once black, heavy, and impossible to lint-roll—have been replaced with soft cream ones you and Jeongguk wrestled over earlier that afternoon.

“You’re really mourning furniture right now?” you’d teased, tugging the old slip off one corner while he clung to the other like it was a family heirloom.

“It’s not just furniture,” he’d said. “It hides everything—fur, takeout spills, and yeah... maybe some drool.”

You’d arched a brow. “All the more to get rid of it. That’s disgusting, Gguk.”

He let go after that. Grumbling, but smiling.

Now, the new covers stretch smooth across the cushions, soft and clean. Like the house had been waiting to exhale.

Some other things have changed, too.

A new mat by the back door. A pair of slippers with tags still on, left near the stairs. The spice rack finally hung straight. Nothing too fancy. Just small, quiet replacements—like things had simply found their way back home, no fanfare needed.

You’re fluffing the cushions when your eyes catch something different by the side table—just beside the couch. There’s a photo frame there you don’t remember placing.

It’s a picture from your Uni days. You and Jeongguk are sitting on the campus steps, knees drawn up, two bowls of convenience store ramen between you. His arm’s thrown lazily around your shoulder. You’ve got a french fry in your mouth. He’s laughing at something, head tilted, eyes almost shut.

Another one sits behind it. You and him from a summer beach trip in Incheon Islands, both sunburnt and wild-haired, balancing a melting ice cream cone between you like it was some kind of game.

You blink, heart fluttering on the sudden flood of memory.

“I found those while cleaning out some boxes in Seoul,” Jeongguk says from the kitchen, not looking up. “Figured they’d want to come home.”

You glance at him. He’s wiping down the counter with a worn towel, but there’s something in his tone—quiet, a little sheepish.

Your chest tightens. “Thank you,” you say softly. “For remembering.”

He gives a one-shouldered shrug, but there’s a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Even if you picked that photo with that horrible mint-choco chip in it,” you add with a teasing lilt.

That earns you a laugh. “Always the number one hater.”

When the plates are cleared from your quick takeout dinner—something you both agreed on after realizing neither of you had the energy to cook—you stretch, already headed for the guest room out of habit.

Only to stop short.

The door pushes open an inch before it hits resistance. You peek inside.

Wall-to-wall storage.

Boxes stacked high with old clothes, spare blankets, tangled light cords, and what looks like the entire bottom half of Jeongguk’s studio—tripods, folded light stands, crates of photo books and film reels. None of this was here during your last visit.

“Guess someone’s been using this as storage,” you murmur, nudging the door open further.

Jeongguk peers over your shoulder, wincing. “I moved some of my stuff here when my studio in the city ran out of space. Didn’t think I’d be back so soon.”

You turn toward him. There’s no accusation on your face—just surprise. And a quiet softness that steals across your expression before you can hide it.

“Thank you,” you murmur. “For keeping this place in your heart, even if it’s just in clutter.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “This is home.”

He starts stepping around you, muttering something about making space, already pushing a box aside when you stop him with a hand on his wrist.

“It’s late, Gguk. We’re both tired. I’d really like to call it a night and not hear you rattling with your tripod in the dark.”

He blinks. “Wait—are you suggesting—?”

“Our bedroom,” you say, like it’s obvious. “It’s not like we haven’t shared a space before.”

He raises a brow, genuinely surprised at your nonchalance. “Yeah, but when we last did...I mean we haven’t...You okay with that?”

You scoff, turning just enough for him to catch the confident flick of your hair over your shoulder. “I offered, didn’t I? It’s just a room. What’s there to be awkward about?”

But Jeongguk’s eyes linger on you, and you know he sees it—something faint beneath your easy smile. The slight flutter of nerves you’re trying not to betray.

You clear your throat. “If you want the couch, be my guest. But don’t come begging for back massages in the morning.”

He clutches his chest, mock-offended. “Charming. And to think I was going to offer you my cuddling arm.”

You lift a brow.

He grins, eyes playful but voice soft. “I never said anything about being awkward. Was just making sure you were okay with it. I mean, as much as I want to be close to my wife...”

You freeze. And that’s it.

That’s what does you in.

The blush starts behind your ears and spreads so fast you nearly trip on the hallway rug.

Without answering, you spin on your heel and march straight toward the master bedroom.

“Pillow stays between us!” you call back over your shoulder, barely keeping the squeak out of your voice. “And use the guest bathroom to freshen up. If you’re not back in ten, you’re sleeping in the hallway!”

You don’t wait for his reply, but you hear the sudden rush of footsteps behind you, followed by the softest, fondest laugh.

He’s still laughing when you close the bedroom door behind you, heart hammering like it’s in your twenties again.

You shake your head, already reaching for your pajamas in the room.

The bedroom walls are still that familiar pale cream—faded just slightly in the corners, like sunlight once curled there and decided to stay.

The curtains are drawn shut, fabric heavier now with disuse, and the faint scent of sea salt lingers beneath a quiet layer of dust and memory.

One window is cracked open just enough to let in the hush of waves from the beach down the slope.

You move through the room quietly, hair still damp from your shower, a loose braid skimming your shoulder. The towel’s already folded over the bathroom door. A faded tee hangs soft over your frame, sleeves slouched, paired with worn sweats you’ve long claimed as your favorite.

The corners of the bed are still unmade from what feels like lifetimes ago—pillowcases crumpled, a forgotten blanket tossed toward the end, untouched since your last visit.

You take your time with the sheets. The new ones you brought are soft and cool to the touch, a dusky lavender base splattered with inky black swirls like someone had spilled watercolor across the sky.

You’d found them at a tiny stall in Gwangjang Market—half-covered by old quilts, the last set left on the rack. The style felt like something between you and him. Colorful, but grounded. Quiet, but bold where it mattered.

You smooth the edges, tuck them in neatly. Then reach for the pillowcases—freshly laundered—stacking them into place.

Yours on the left. His on the right.

And like it’s the most natural thing in the world, you leave the smaller pillow for him. The one that never gave him neck pain. The one he used to grumble about replacing, only to reach for it every single night.

Three more pillows are added in between. A soft, padded wall of quiet understanding.

Near the dresser, the chipped corner on the lower edge is still there—jagged, a little worn from time. You remember cracking your knee on it one summer night while dancing in your pajamas to Jeongguk’s playlist.

It had been raining outside, wind rattling the windows. You’d been mid-spin, holding a spatula, singing off-key. He’d laughed so hard he nearly dropped the strawberries he’d brought for you.

Fingers brushing over the crack light, a smile tugs at your lips.

Your new diffuser now sits quietly on the nightstand, sleek and soft grey. The old one was probably long dead, its motor wheezing one too many times by the end of that summer. With filtered water already in from your flask, three drops of lavender go in next.

Your usual.

His favorite.

The one he’d learn to bulk-buy from the herbal stall outside Mangwon Market, ignoring the sign that limited customers to two bottles per purchase.

When the ajumma got strict, he brought Taehyung the next day to double up. Said it was worth it, even if Taehyung teased him for being obsessed with ‘air perfume’.

He’d once told you that scent helped him unwind. That it settled behind his ears like breath beneath skin. Something that held him steady when everything else spun too fast.

The diffuser hums to life with a low whirr. A soft stream of mist curls upward into the room—faint, floral, familiar.

You take a slow breath.

Then step back, settling by the edge of the bed, legs tucked beneath you. Fingers absently trail across the topmost pillow—the one marking your invisible boundary—and you let the quiet wrap around your shoulders like a blanket.

The calm is slow. Earned.

Like the room itself waited for you to return to it.

And then—soft footsteps pad against the hallway floorboards.

The door creaks open—slow and careful.

Jeongguk lingers in the doorway, towel draped around his neck, damp hair curling slightly at the edges. Grey drawstring pants and a plain black shirt that clings faintly to the last traces of heat from his shower. Sleeves hanging just by his elbows. Barefoot. Relaxed.

His eyes sweep across the room slowly. Like he’s searching for proof that something sacred hasn’t changed.

Then his gaze lands on you—and softens immediately.

“You made the bed,” his voice's low, almost careful, as the door clicks shut behind him.

You glance back toward the diffuser, watching the mist curl in lazy spirals. “Sheets were dusty.”

He pauses near the nightstand, breath catching slightly as the lavender settles into the room around him. “Mangwon?”

You nod once. “Same store. Same scent. Thought it might help you sleep. Don’t want you tossing around saying you can’t breathe and waking me up at 3 a.m.”

A soft huff escapes him. “Ah, so it’s self-preservation.”

“Obviously.”

He smiles—wide and quiet, eyes crinkling—and steps further in. “Still. You didn’t have to think of me.”

You shrug like it’s nothing. “Always have.”

That stalls him for a moment. Just long enough that he exhales something soft. Long enough for his eyes to linger on yours.

He moves to the other side of the bed—and pauses again when he sees the pillow barrier.

“Three pillows?” he asks, brow lifted. “Really? One wasn’t going to do the trick?”

“With how fidgety you get?” You nod at them. “Three’s generous.”

“I’ve evolved,” he protests lightly, easing onto the bed and adjusting the smaller pillow behind him. “Sleep like a turtle now.”

“Eomma said you rolled off the couch last time,” you say, settling onto your side.

“That floor was slanted.”

“Tell my mother about how her house isn’t architecturally structured right, and you’ll never hear the end of it.”

He just grins. Sinks into the mattress with a sigh that sounds like his whole body’s giving in. Then his fingers brush the blanket. “These are new.”

You nod. “It reminded me of us.”

That quiet smile returns. “They do.”

You try not to read into it. Instead, you adjust your corner of the blanket, watching as the lavender mist curls a little higher.

A peaceful quiet lingers. Then softer – more tentative, “Do you…want the lamp on?” he asks, glancing over.

It catches you off guard—not the question, but the softness in it. He used to switch it off without thinking.

Now, he waits.

You look at him—really look at him—and the realization hits slow but full; he’s waiting for your comfort. Letting you set the rhythm.

Still, your voice is quieter than expected. “Yeah. Leave it on.”

He nods. Reaches over to turn the dial just low enough that it glows like an ember, soft and golden against the cream walls.

You both settle in slowly, blanket tugged over your waists. There’s space between you—but not the kind that feels like distance. Just the kind that says we’re still learning this again.

Your eyes wander to the ceiling, catching the soft glow of sun-shaped decals still faintly visible, their yellow edges peeling away with time.

The memory of that first summer together floods back—Jeongguk balancing on a stool, you guiding him with a mischievous smile, and a ridiculous number of pattern inspirations from Google on how to stick them right.

They turned out chaotic – far from those printouts – but it was both of you. The sun decals have been up since then.

“Comfortable?” he asks quietly, head turned toward you now, eyes soft in the lamp light.

You nod, pulse thrumming somewhere behind your chest. Unable to find the words to say. Heart stuck in your throat with the way he was looking at you.

The silence that follows is full of soft breathing, of warmth, of sea wind rustling gently against the windows. Of lavender and cotton and the quiet knowledge that this—this—isn’t just memory anymore.

And just before sleep starts to settle in—just before your eyes fully close—

You feel it.

His hand finds yours, reaching across the pillow wall. Not demanding. Just there.

You don’t even think before your fingers curl into his.

And somewhere between the blur of exhaustion and the softness of it all—you think you hear him whisper something into the hush.

“I missed you.”

You don’t know if you imagined it. Sleep’s already tugging at your thoughts.

But if he said it—you know your heart heard it.

The light comes in slow, pooling through the sheer curtains in streaks of gold, settling across the bedsheets in warm gradients. The room is quiet except for the hush of waves, the call of gulls somewhere in the distance. The lavender diffuser hums faintly near the nightstand, its mist now faded to little more than memory.

And you… wake to warmth.

Not the soft weight of your blanket, or the breath of the sea through the cracked window. But something warmer. Closer.

The pillow wall is gone.

Your cheek is pressed to Jeongguk’s chest, his heartbeat a quiet thrum beneath your ear. His arm rests heavy and loose around your waist, hand tucked gently beneath the hem of your shirt. One of your legs — oh, god — is hitched over his, as if you were always meant to be tangled this way.

His shirt smells faintly of the old detergent you used to fight over in the store — the one that reminded you of late summer and new notebooks. But under that, the deeper scent of his cologne curls around you too, the same one from his Uni days — fresh and steady, like pine and river stone, like the Jeongguk who used to wait at your lecture hall with warm drinks and sunlit smiles.

He’s still asleep.

Your entire body locks up.

The pillows — three, very intentionally placed pillows — are now on the floor, scattered like fallen dominoes.

Of course they are.

It’s always been like this over the years. Cold nights would end with him stealing the comforters, only to toss them off minutes later because he’d get too hot. He’d complain, then cling to you anyway, mumbling something about how body heat beat overpriced stuffy cotton any day.

And sure, fine, maybe you’d allowed it a few times. But you’re confident — almost painfully sure — that you aren’t the one who tosses and turns. You’ve never been a fidgety sleeper.

Which means…

It only means—

You shift, just slightly, trying to gently peel yourself away. A slow, careful attempt to wiggle your leg off his—

But Jeongguk shifts too, murmuring softly. Hand sliding just slightly along your waist. He pulls you closer, tucked neatly to his chest.

You freeze.

Then panic.

With an embarrassing, squeaky gasp, you scramble backward in a wild, tangled motion of limbs and blanket and flailing dignity. The edge of the mattress slips out from under you, and you tumble—

“Aish…shibal!”

The mattress creaks. Blankets lift. Jeongguk jolts upright, limbs tangled and hair a tousled mess, blinking like a man yanked straight from a dream. “What’s happening? Baby, where are you?! Are we under attack?!”

Just when you thought the chaos of limbs and hearts beating too close couldn’t get worse, the slip of that nickname makes your stomach flip — in a dangerously good way. But your face heats anyway; it makes you squish your face into the hardwood like a panicked hamster trying to burrow into safety.

Jeongguk’s head pops over the edge of the bed, peering down at you. He blinks; takes in your crumpled form on the floor, brows lifting. “Did you…did you just fall out of bed?”

You groan, face down, cheek flattened against the wood. “No. Was doing push-ups.”

There’s a beat of silence — then the unmistakable smug in his voice. “Oh yeah? How far’d you get?”

You blindly grab the nearest pillow and hurl it at his face. “Jeon Jeongguk!”

He catches it one-handed, fully awake now, then tosses it somewhere across the room. “What? I’m just asking. How many push-ups, hmm?”

“I used to lift with you!” you snap, climbing to your feet and brushing yourself off. “Used to do ten sets in case you’re forgetting.”

He snorts. “A point-five kilo dumbbell over ten sets barely counts.”

“Yah!” you whine, tossing your hands up in mock outrage. “That’s not the point! You removed the pillows! So much for respecting the barrier!”

“I didn’t touch the pillow wall.” He raises both hands like a man accused. “You started crossing over at 2 a.m. Clung to me like a baby sloth. Squished me half to death.”

“You’re making that up,” you grumble, tugging down your sweatshirt sleeves, trying to ignore the heat climbing up your neck. “I’d never do such a thing.”

“Tell that to your arms,” he says, tone teasing. “Every time I rebuilt the wall, you threw them off like a traitor. Not that I’m complaining. I’m all in for my wife’s clinginess, just say the word and—”

“Lalala! Shut up!” you squeal, scrambling to your feet and beelining for the bathroom, already hiding your face in your hands.

Behind you, you hear him laughing softly as you slam the bathroom door and flick on the light.

Your reflection meets you in the mirror — hair tousled, cheeks flushed, lips parted from sleep.

“I’m a grown-ass thirty-three-year-old woman,” you whisper, horrified. “What in the teenager-level fuck was that?”

You groan again, turning the tap on full blast and splashing cold water over your face — hoping it’ll shock some sense back into your nervous system and rinse the blush off your chest while it’s at it.

Outside, the floor creaks again.

You hear the quiet patter of footsteps — Jeongguk padding around the bedroom, probably grabbing his bag, maybe rummaging through the mini fridge for his usual morning Gatorade, or heading to the guest bathroom to get ready. Already slipping into the rhythm of the day, like it’s his turn to take care of things.

You let out a long breath, fingers still pressed to your damp cheeks.

Part of you wants to hide in here forever.

But the other part — the quieter one, the steadier one — reminds you that this is okay.

That this is safe. This is home.

That waking up tangled in Jeongguk’s arms shouldn’t feel like something to escape from. That it’s just going to take some getting used to — not because you don’t trust him, but because he’s doing everything right. And that kind of right? It’s hard to believe in when you’ve lived without it for so long.

It’s the kind of right you never thought you’d get back again.

But it’s here. It’s real. And you want it.

And somewhere beneath your chest, that old flutter stirs — not fear, not uncertainty — but the quiet ache of a heart learning how to be held again.

The house smells like coffee, cinnamon, and toasted bread by the time you step out into the hallway. Soft waves crash faintly from beyond the shore. Morning light pours in from the terrace doors, casting a lazy golden wash across the wooden floors. The house feels alive but quiet—like it's holding its breath for something sweet.

In the kitchen, Jeongguk stands by the stove with his back to you, already plating scrambled eggs beside a neat stack of cinnamon toast. The sleeves of his hoodie are pushed up to his elbows, hair still damp at the nape of his neck.

There’s a slight bounce to his stance, a rhythm in his movements that reminds you of Sunday mornings long ago. He looks domestic. Steady. Yours. And it makes something in your chest ache with the kind of warmth that threatens tears.

You walk toward him quietly, arms sliding around his waist as you press your cheek to his back. He stills mid-motion, the eggs tipping from his spatula and landing squarely onto the plate with a soft sizzle. Then, after a breath, you feel him relax—shoulders sinking into your hold like he'd been waiting for this, too.

“Breathe, okay?” he says gently, not turning around.

You nod, eyes fluttering closed. “Mmhm.” You pause. “Sorry for the...acrobatic start to your morning.”

He chuckles, setting the pan aside. “It was memorable. Thought I’d have to fish you out of the tub, though.”

You snort. “Please. We took freediving lessons. Swam with sharks. Outswam coast guards that one time we trespassed on that restricted island in Jeju when we were twenty-five. And you’re telling me I’m going to drown in a bathtub not even a foot deep?”

Jeongguk turns slightly, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I don’t know, maybe you’d find a way to fold yourself under the water. Or crawl out the window to avoid me.”

You laugh, staying close for another moment before peeling away and sinking into the bar stool across the counter. He joins you, setting your plate in front of you and placing a steaming cup beside your cat mug—the one he pretends to hate but always refills first. The scent of coffee and almond milk and cinnamon rises between you.

“Thank you,” you murmur, already biting into the toast. “This… this is amazing.”

It tastes the same. The way it used to when he'd cook for you in college—after a week of your all-nighters, when he knew all you wanted was something warm, something comforting the morning after. Like this.

“You’re welcome.” He lifts his own cup. “Figured we’d start our first morning here with something homey. Something familiar.”

He pauses, watching your expression carefully. “Hope it isn’t too much?”

You shake your head. “It’s perfect.”

The silence that follows is peaceful, comfortable, just the two of you enjoying a good meal. Somewhere in the distance, a boat horn sounds—a low, drawn-out echo reminding you that the world outside still moves, even if yours feels paused here.

The kitchen hums softly with the tick of the wall clock, the occasional creak of wood as the house settles. It’s not loud, but it’s alive—like the house is listening in, keeping its voice low to let you breathe.

“About earlier…” you say, fingers curling around the mug in your hands.

Jeongguk sets down his fork, turns to face you. “We don’t have to talk about it if you’re still uncomfortable.”

“I want to,” you whisper. “I just… want to get it out. It’s unfair—one minute I’m okay with having you close, asking for it, and the next I’m just panicking and—”

“—doing non-existent push-ups?” he says with a wry grin.

You flick a toast crumb at him, rolling your eyes—grateful for his ability to meet your vulnerability with lightness. His boyish laugh fills the air, and your chest feels a little lighter.

“I panicked,” you say after a pause. “Not because I didn’t want you near me—because I did. I do. God, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this.”

He listens carefully, elbows resting lightly on the counter, posture open but not pressing.

“I guess…” you go on, voice quieter. “I wasn’t ready to feel that familiarity again. It’s stupid, I know I asked for this. Even made that list with Jin when everything was falling apart, but having it now—naturally, without trying—it’s just... different, you know?”

Jeongguk nods once. Not too eagerly. Just enough to let you know he’s with you.

“I understand,” he says. “If it’s too much to take in, I’ll give you time. I’m sorry if I came on too strong.”

“No, please don’t apologize.” You set the mug down, fumble with the hem of your shirt. “If anything, you’ve done everything right. I don't want what we have to change. I know I’ve been weird. The kiss at the tram, our visit to Uni, this morning… probably a hundred more times in between. I told you why I ran, but it wasn’t the full story.”

He sees the tremble in your fingers before you do. Quietly, without needing to ask, he reaches over and laces your hand with his.

“Meant what I said,” he tells you, voice steady. “I’m all in now. You don’t need to tiptoe around me.”

You smile, eyes damp. “That’s not what I’m thinking anymore. I see that. I see you. It’s just… us being this close again. It’s so easy. Like no time passed. Like nothing broke. And that scares me. Not because I blame you—I never did. Maybe I’m just scared for you.”

His brows knit together, soft and confused. “You don’t have to be scared for me. I don’t know why you are.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. “My head’s just… everywhere. I think a part of me still can’t believe this is real. That you’re real. That this version of us—soft, safe, in love again—isn’t just some dream I’ll wake up from.”

He exhales slowly, like the weight of that truth settles into his chest.

“I’m so sorry you had to feel like that. That I ever made you feel like I was a dream you’d lose.” He leans in a little closer. “But I’m here. I’m staying. And I’ll keep proving that every day until you believe me. Until it feels real for you.”

You finally look up.

And Jeongguk, eyes locked on yours, reaches over and gently tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brush along your cheek, linger like they’re memorizing this moment.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “So you can stop running.”

You nod once, breath catching. “I’m really sorry.”

He shakes his head, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Hey. Don’t be. Baby steps, right? Anytime, I overstep, tell me.”

“What if I just want to hold hands forever?”

“And that’s a bad thing, how?” he teases. “Holding my wife’s hand for the rest of time? That sounds like a dream.”

You laugh, heart full and aching all at once.

“Besides,” he adds with a glint in his eye, “I think it’s really adorable how you still get all flustered when I’m close. Reminds me of how we couldn’t even get our first kiss right.”

You groan, burying your face against his chest. “Oh God, that was a disaster. Didn’t we go through a whole mint pack first?”

“Yup, had to run to the store downstairs at the old apartment just to get a second one.”

His chest rises with a quiet chuckle, and you press your ear to it, listening to his heart beat in steady rhythm beneath the fabric. His hand traces gentle circles along your back, grounding you.

“We’ll be okay, right?” you whisper.

He presses his cheek to the top of your head, voice soft. “We’ll be fine. I promise. Just say the word if you want to cling to me again tonight. I’ll throw out those damn pillows.”

The tension breaks, laughter bubbling up your throat as you gently shove him away.

“I knew you were going to be a smug little shit again.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he grins, catching your hand in his. “Let’s just finish breakfast for now. I’ve got big plans for you today.”

“Oh yeah? Where are we going?”

Jeongguk nudges your foot with his. “Do you want to see Junebug?”

Your brows lift. And in the soft silence that follows, he reaches over to brush a crumb from your cheek—grinning like he’s waited years to ask you this again.

It’s strange how the places that knew you once always seem to remember.

You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until the glass doors part and a wave of cool air brushes against your skin. The scent of saltwater and steel greets you like an old friend. Overhead, blue-tinted lights cast shifting reflections on the floor, and somewhere nearby, the low hum of rushing tanks fills the space like a familiar song.

The aquarium hasn’t changed. Not the way the glass tunnels curve like the inside of a dream. Not the soft lull of water against acrylic. Not the way this place always made the world feel quieter—softer. It still feels like the version of you who used to come here on rainy weekends hasn’t left at all.

You remember those weekends: when the city was too loud, when your heads were too full. You’d weave through the halls with fingers brushing and laughter spilling like secret rebellion. You always pretended to be lost, even though you knew exactly where the clownfish were.

You ran through the echoing tunnels, got scolded for being too loud, and Jeongguk—always your partner in crime—would nudge your elbow and whisper, “Run.” And then you’d bolt, hearts light, joy uncontained.

“Still smells like seawater,” Jeongguk says, voice low beside you, a smile hidden inside it.

You turn to him, already finding his gaze on you—soft, knowing, a little wistful. “We used to love the smell of seawater,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

His eyes crinkle. “We still do.”

He reaches for your hand and holds it there, palm up, like he’s offering you a moment to choose.

You slide your fingers into his without a word, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steadiness in the way he squeezes once. Your other hand gently presses over the back of his.

“We still do,” you echo, holding on.

And just like that, the two of you begin walking—into the tunnels of light and color and time, where the water sways above your heads like a sky you used to believe in, and the world quiets, just for a while.

The air is cooler in this part of the aquarium exhibits, tinged with salt and something clean, like filtered sea breeze. The shallow pool glistens beneath the overhead lights, rippling softly where little hands and curious fingers explore.

You remember sneaking in here during off-hours once—just to dip your hands and watch the creatures swirl beneath the surface like a living galaxy.

One small darting fish catches your eye—orange and white, with a fin that wobbles like it’s swimming offbeat. For a second, the world folds inward, back to your tiny apartment with cracked tile floors and noisy neighbors.

“Is that…?” you murmur, leaning closer. “Gguk, Gguk, it’s Junebug!” You nearly tear up as the familiar orange-and-white streak slips through the shallow current.

Jeongguk follows your gaze, eyes widening before he lets out a breathy laugh. “Told you we’d see him today. Our first and last pet—born from your full-on PMS meltdown."

“Blame our sea life movie marathon that day!” you laugh, nudging his shoulder with yours. “The Little Mermaid one, two, and three. Finding Nemo.”

“Don’t forget those deep-sea documentaries on National Geographic.”

“See? You remember.” Your gaze follows the fish as it swims farther, blending back into the ripple of orange and white near the rocks. “Thanks for getting me Junebug—even if it was during a weird time. Too bad he died after a week.”

“Who knew water bowls needed changing.”

“Every person who’s ever owned a fish?”

“That was our first,” Jeongguk gasps dramatically, laughing so hard tears prick at the corners of his eyes. “Next time you break down, please ask for anything but a fish.”

“Next time I break down, and I ask for ice cream, get the right flavor, hmm?”

“Okay, okay—that was on me. No double dutch on PMS days. It’s rocky road or nothing.” He leans closer to the edge of the pool, watching as the fish flicks past again. “We miss you, Junebug. Sorry about the toilet funeral and the short life. But you were a warrior.”

You smile, soft and fond. “He always swam funny. But he never stopped swimming.”

The moment lingers, warm like sea-glass in your palm—strange how a fish you barely had for a week can still make you feel this way.

Eventually, the two of you wander into the quieter halls, following the curve of dim lighting and low blue ceilings until you reach the otter tank. A hush settles over the space, broken only by the occasional drip of water and the soft shuffling of little paws.

Two otters are curled up inside a plastic barrel, legs kicking lazily as they float together in a sleepy, swaying rhythm. It’s peaceful here. The kind of quiet you both settle into naturally now—without trying.

Beside you, Jeongguk pulls out his phone, silent and careful. A soft click cuts through the hum of the water.

You glance at him. “Stealing photos of me again?”

He shrugs, a little bashful. “It’s you… with the otters. Mostly the otters.”

A teasing lilt tugs at your voice. “I bet you still have those photos from ten years ago. Hidden in some secret folder.”

“They were never hidden.” His gaze flicks to yours, the corners of his mouth curling into something soft—unhidden, unguarded. “Besides, you’ve seen my Instagram. It’s still all you.”

You bump his arm gently with yours, leaning closer into his side. His warmth anchors you. “Just take pictures of the otters, Gguk.”

You point with a grin, pressing your face close to the glass. “Oh look! They’re kissing.” Your eyes light up like they used to, the reflection catching just enough of it for him to notice.

“I could kiss you right now,” he murmurs, so low it nearly gets lost beneath the soft music and faint speaker commentary. But you hear it. You always do.

He keeps snapping photos, casually—of the otters, the signs, the tank displays. Then you notice the faint Instagram logo blinking at the corner of his screen.

Your heart skips. Your palms grow warm. A dozen thoughts tumble through your mind, but they all quiet when you lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek—right as he angles the camera for a selfie, otter couple in the background.

The shutter clicks. And you know that picture definitely has you in it.

“Come on, I’m kind of hungry,” you say breezily, already turning away.

But before you do, you catch the smile forming on his face—boyish, full, real.

It’s the same smile you feel pulling at your own.

The snack break happens on a quiet bench tucked between two exhibits—low lights, blue walls, a bubbling tank just behind you. There’s a sign overhead that clearly reads No Food or Drinks, but you ignore it.

You pull two familiar wrappers out of your bag anyway.

Jeongguk’s laugh is immediate and low, lips curling at the corners. “You’re unbelievable. I thought they banned those years ago.”

“Fine, more for me.”

“These bars are our favorites. Can’t say no,” he says, already reaching for one without hesitation.

You toss him a packet and tear open your own. The chocolate’s slightly melted and sticky between your fingers, but the taste is the same—like your Uni days. Like cramming at dawn, sneaking onto rooftops, whispering secrets into dusk. Like stories that always ended in maybe, and one day, and eventually.

“I just wanted to remember what it felt like,” you murmur, eyes on the swirling tank ahead. “To be reckless with you again.”

Jeongguk leans in slightly, his knee nudging yours beneath the bench. “You always had the craziest moments.”

“Not denying that,” you say through a mouthful of chocolate. “But you always followed me. No matter how risky it was.”

He chuckles, shaking his head like he still can’t believe it. “You once made me sneak into a lecture hall just to graffiti our names on the back of a chair.”

You grin, completely unrepentant. “That was art, thank you.”

His eyes linger on you then—just for a second too long, like he’s cataloguing every version of you that’s ever existed. The reckless girl, the brave woman, the one beside him now.

“I’d still follow you anywhere,” he says softly, with that look in his eyes again. “Even to prison. If we ever get caught in one of your schemes.”

You gasp, mock-offended, flick a chocolate crumb at his chest. “Tsk. Like we’d ever get caught. Hello? Seora’s heir here. I got you.”

You flash him a wink, the smug tilt of your head daring him to doubt it.

Just then, a sharp voice cuts through the calm, “Excuse me—no eating in this area!”

You freeze mid-bite.

Jeongguk looks up like a guilty teenager, wrappers still in hand.

The staff member starts approaching, and before either of you can think, you’re on your feet.

“Come on, come on,” you whisper, don’t wait.

He laughs—half in disbelief, half in delight—and takes off behind you, barely pocketing the chocolate.

You dart around a corner, past a sleepy seahorse exhibit, and crash straight into the entrance of the gift shop. Jeongguk barrels in right after, breathless and laughing, grabbing your arm as you both duck behind a rack of overpriced plush stingrays.

Your hands fumble through a basket of souvenir hats, adrenaline still thrumming. Without warning, you shove one onto his head—a ridiculous blue cap with a cartoon shark grinning across the front.

“What the hell is this?” he hisses.

“Disguise,” you whisper back, slipping a matching one over your own head with a proud little smirk. “Now we’re invisible.”

He stares at you, deadpan—and then breaks. Shakes his head, laughter bubbling out of him as he leans in, forehead pressing briefly to yours.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs.

“But you love it,” you grin, nudging him with your shoulder.

And he does. You can see it in the way his eyes stay on you—flushed cheeks, soft-edged smile, gaze so full of you it nearly takes your breath away.

And for a moment, tucked between plush toys and panicked giggles, it really does feel like you’re young again.

The Glass Bottom Boat station sits quietly near the deeper tanks, tucked beneath the glow of soft blue lights. There’s barely a line—weekday stillness keeping the crowd away—and for a brief moment, it almost feels like the place belongs to just the two of you.

This was always your favorite.

Back when you were younger, when time still felt generous, you’d wait an hour just to board the glass boat together—just to watch sharks slip underneath your feet and feed the fishes side by side like kids pretending they ruled the sea.

Jeongguk steps forward to confirm your names, bouncing lightly on his heels, eyes already gleaming with excitement. But you pause.

Quietly, gently, you pull one of the staff members aside with a polite smile.

“Excuse me,” you ask, lowering your voice. “Do you still have the same… health restrictions for this?”

The staff’s face softens. Kindly, they explain—nothing’s changed. For safety, only guests in full physical condition are recommended to board. Just precaution. Nothing alarming.

Just like before.

You nod, offer a small smile. “Maybe next time.”

And maybe that’s the part that stings—the quiet hope that this time, it would be different.

When you turn back, Jeongguk’s eyes are already on you. Bright. Expectant.

“You ready?” he asks, practically glowing. “Dory’s right there, baby.”

The nickname tugs something in your chest—tender, familiar. You reach for his arm, catching him just before he moves.

“You should go,” you say gently.

He freezes. “What? But this is our favorite part.” He frowns, confused. “You love this part.”

“I know.” You manage a smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “But I think… it’s better if I sit this one out.”

He blinks, a question forming—but you press on before he can ask it aloud.

“Feed the fishes for me, yeah?” your voice light, like it doesn’t ache to speak.

For a second, he studies your face again—eyes searching, reading the space between your words.

But he doesn’t push.

“Only if you promise to take a hundred photos of me being cool,” he finally says, trying to lift the moment.

You smirk, grateful. “Only if the fish like you.”

You keep your promise.

From the bench by the jellyfish wall, you snap photo after photo of Jeongguk on the boat—him waving dramatically at a stingray, pretending to narrate like a wildlife host, posing with a childlike grin that scrunches up his nose. The soft glow of the tanks spills across his face, making him look younger, brighter, like someone you used to know and someone you still do.

When he returns, cheeks pink and hair wind-tossed, he’s practically bouncing. The sight of him makes your chest ache in the sweetest way.

You lower the phone and smile. “Enjoy yourself?”

He plops down beside you, nudging your knee with his. “Think I got splashed.”

“You think? You smell like the whole ocean.”

“You like the ocean,” he shoots back, lips tugging into a smug grin. “Therefore, you like me, noh?”

You sigh, full of affection, no hint of denial. “I do. You already know that.” You glance down at his phone, now in your hands, thumb swiping through the ridiculous photos you took. “Now… did the fish like you too? Or should I delete the evidence?”

He gasps, scandalized, snatching the phone back and stuffing it into his pocket. “You wouldn’t dare. The Nemos and I—besties. The sharks? I think the hat ruined my odds.”

You look up, just in time to see him adjusting the ridiculous shark cap from the gift shop, tugging it down with mock seriousness.

“You should’ve left that behind.”

“This?” He pats the hat proudly. “This outdoes every Seora piece you’ve ever given me.”

You huff a laugh, shaking your head. Instead of replying, you lean in—resting your cheek against his still-damp shoulder. He shifts instinctively, settling closer, letting your body weight fold into his.

The glow of the jellyfish tank hums around you, gentle and surreal. The creatures move like silk threads in water, pulsing and drifting like stars floating in a liquid sky.

Neither of you speak for a while.

Then, quietly, he says, “We should come here more often.”

Your gaze stays on the glowing glass. A long breath. A beat of quiet.

“You should,” you murmur. “Even when it’s just on your own.”

Beside you, Jeongguk stills. His head turns slightly, gaze falling on your profile. You don’t meet it.

You lift a hand and press your fingers gently to the glass.

“They look like stars, don’t they?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he watches you. Lets the silence settle in, warm and full. Lets you hold onto this moment—this soft, forever kind of day that feels like falling in love all over again.

By the time you get home, the sky is painted in soft streaks of lilac and gold, settling gently over rooftops like a lullaby. You both take your shoes off quietly at the door, the hush of the house wrapping around you like a blanket.

“Wait here,” Jeongguk says, already stepping toward the porch.

You tilt your head, eyebrows raised, only to find him crouched by the front door, hauling in a familiar cardboard box.

“You didn’t—” you blink. “You did.”

A sheepish grin pulls at his lips as he lifts the box with practiced ease. “You were getting tired after the otters. Figured we’d skip the grocery crowd.”

You press a hand to your chest, mock-gasping. “You had groceries delivered while we were out on a date?”

“I planned ahead,” he says, full of quiet pride. “Wanted to cook for you. Didn’t want you sneaking off to ‘rest’ and magically make dinner appear again. Or disappear. Can’t risk the house experiencing the Fourth of July.”

“I only did that once.”

“Twice. Let’s not have Busan’s fire department show up at this hour, hmm?”

You fumble with the keys as you speak, childlike in your insistence, sticking your tongue out slightly in concentration.

“Two fire incidents and it’s like the end of the world,” you mutter, finally unlocking the door with a triumphant click. “My cooking’s improved, by the way. You did teach me.”

He just watches you for a second longer, smile soft. “Just let me take care of you.”

He’s already disappearing into the kitchen before you can answer, and you follow—feet slow, heart full. The warm scents of the house greet you again—clean, lived-in, familiar, like it never stopped being yours. The sea still lingers on your clothes, in your hair, or maybe it’s just Jeongguk, still wearing that ridiculous cartoon shark hat like it’s a crown.

You settle onto a bar stool as he unpacks the bag with smooth efficiency: fresh garlic, noodles, thinly sliced beef, green onions, sesame oil.

“Wait,” you narrow your eyes. “Is that—?”

“Yukgaejang,” he confirms, flashing a wink. “Well, my version. Comfort food. Fire-free. You’ve been craving spicy again, haven’t you?”

You rest your chin on your palm, eyes soft as you watch him move. The way he wipes down the cutting board. The way he hums under his breath, a tune from nowhere in particular. The way he glances up now and then, just to make sure you’re still there. Still watching. Still his.

You start snapping pictures between prep—first, Jeongguk proudly holding up the cutting board stacked with ingredients like a contestant on a cooking show. Then one of you stealing a half-cooked strip of beef from the plate. He swats your hand away with a mock scowl, scolding, “Hey! My precious meat supply!”

“You’re not feeding me fast enough,” you mutter around the bite.

“Then quit stealing my ingredients, woman. I’ll finish faster.”

“So mean,” with a playful pout, you manage to catch the moment on his phone. “Smile. Eyebrows too.”

He huffs but obeys, smile curling on the corner of his lip. You direct him like a manager on a shoot, “Now angle the spoon. Chin up. Softer jaw. There. Perfect. Vogue-worthy.”

The last picture is captured on a timer, the phone leaned against a mug on the counter. You’re beside him, half-tucked under his arm as he stirs the pot. His free hand instinctively shifts, curling gently around your waist. You nudge your cheek into his hoodie, whisper, “Smile with your heart, chef-nim.”

“Heart’s smiling,” he murmurs, barely glancing at the camera, “but my pot’s about to boil over.”

You laugh, try to sneak the spatula from under his arm. “Can I help now?”

He’s quicker, pulling it out of reach like a practiced move. “Can’t have you burning the house down for the third time.”

“Ugh,” you groan, stepping back to your spot on the stool, defeated but smiling. “Fine. I’ll just sit here and look like I want to help.”

“You’re doing amazing,” he teases, stirring with practiced grace. The stove ticks softly in the background, a quiet rhythm anchoring the moment.

You fold your arms across the counter, hands tucked beneath your cheek, watching him like this—focused, present, still somehow the boy you married. He moves like someone who knows what he’s making matters—not just the food, but the memory it’ll become.

You don’t remember falling into conversation, but it happens anyway—quiet voices mingling with the hum of the night.

The dishes are done, the air still warm from dinner, the scent of sesame and beef lingering faintly in the background. You’re both freshly showered, skin cool from the breeze slipping through the windows. The bedroom feels softer tonight—soft in a way that lives in the spaces between laughter and silence.

“Was the shark tunnel always that short?” you murmur, smoothing lotion over your arms. “Felt like we blinked and it was over.”

Jeongguk chuckles from the other side of the bed, towel-drying his hair. “You were the one doing slow-mo runway walks in there. Pretty sure we got lapped by a toddler.”

You grin, flopping onto the mattress as he crosses the room. “Still the best aisle I’ve ever walked down.”

His steps falter slightly, eyes softening as he sits beside you. “Can I disagree on that?”

“Huh?” you blink, caught off guard.

“I think the best aisle you ever walked down was on June 13th, 2016.”

The date brings your hands to a pause over the blanket. How could it not?

The day you walked barefoot down the aisle at Gwangalli, salt wind in your veil and Jeongguk waiting in linen and light. The day two twenty-four-year-olds made vows with teary laughter and shaky rings. The day you were born and weaved into this shared life with him.

A quiet smile pulls at your lips. You shake your head, pick up a pillow, and toss it at him—the soft thud of cotton landing harmlessly against his chest. He catches it before it hits his face, laughing.

“Cheesy little shit.”

“Just honest,” he shrugs, arranging the pillows neatly like it’s instinct. Like the words he dropped didn’t just undo your whole chest.

Jeongguk stacks the last pillow in the middle—same as the night before.

You pluck each one away, one by one, dropping them on the couch nearby. Only one left.

“Oh? A promotion?” His voice lifts with mock surprise, eyes glinting when he sees the lone pillow still on the bed.

You don’t answer. Just reach for the last one, lift it slowly, and toss it aside like it never stood a chance.

There’s a second of stunned silence—

Then he pumps his fist into the air behind your back l like a child winning a gold medal, mouthing a triumphant yes! before quickly recomposing when you glance back. You pretend not to see the grin he tries to hide, even as it lights up the entire room.

Eventually, you both settle under the covers. The lights are dimmed to a golden hush. Jeongguk turns toward you, body angled close.

“Thank you for today,” you whisper.

He reaches across the sheet, fingers brushing yours. “Thank you. For letting me be part of your memories. Even the old ones.”

You press your cheek into the pillow, his hand still near—warm, steady. “It didn’t feel old today.”

He hums in agreement, eyelids fluttering once, then again. His breathing slows, the weight of the day finally pulling him under.

You wait. Watch.

Then shift toward him.

Close the small space he left open. Let your hand drift into his hair, brushing it back with a tenderness that doesn’t ask for permission.

He murmurs something unintelligible, and without thinking, shifts closer—nuzzling into your chest like gravity, arms curling around your waist like it’s a memory etched into his muscle.

And maybe it is.

Maybe it always has been.

Maybe you both have lived this moment a hundred different ways across these seventeen years.

Jeongguk sleeps soundly beside you now, his breathing steady and low—one that comes after full days and full hearts. His hand is still curled loosely around your wrist, like even in sleep, he’s afraid to let go.

You shift slowly, gently easing out of his hold. Careful not to stir him, you reach for the hoodie draped over the foot of the bed—his, soft and oversized, still faintly scented with laundry soap and him—and slip it on like armor.

The veranda door clicks open with the smallest sound. You step outside into the stillness, closing the door just enough behind you to hush the warmth of the room. The night greets you with a breeze off the sea, cooler than expected. You pull the hoodie tighter around you.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

Jin.

You sit quietly on the wicker chair facing the ocean, the horizon a soft stretch of black and silver. The stars are out tonight. You take a breath, then answer.

“Hey,” you say first, voice low.

“Hey,” Jin replies, already gentler than usual. “Did I wake you?”

You shake your head. “No. I couldn’t sleep.”

A pause.

“How’s Busan so far?”

You glance toward the slightly open door—toward the lamp still glowing in the bedroom behind it.

“It’s been… kind,” you say eventually. “We went to the aquarium today. The one by the coast.”

“The one you used to sneak off to on rainy weekends? When you both needed to escape the city?”

A small smile tugs at your lips. “Yeah. He remembered all the exhibits. We got matching shark hats from the gift shop.”

Jin hums. “Sounds like you both.”

Silence stretches, peaceful but not empty. Then, gently:

“I just wanted to let you know the arrangements are settled. Final signatures went through earlier this morning.”

You look down, your thumb brushing over the edge of your wedding ring. “That soon?”

“There’s no rush,” he says carefully. “It’ll be ready whenever you are.”

You blink, eyes stinging in the corners. “She’ll come home soon.”

And just like that—your heart flutters. Not out of nerves. But from something else entirely.

A quiet sort of joy. A stillness blooming in your chest. Like—for once—everything might actually be falling into place.

Jin’s voice is softer now. “She deserves to be home. You both do.”

The line falls quiet. But you don’t hang up just yet.

You let the silence sit between you, calm and full. The waves roll in softly beyond the veranda, like they’re whispering secrets only the night understands.

Head tilted back, you trace the stars overhead, eyes finding the constellation patterns you used to name on nights like this. They’re brighter tonight—maybe because you’re finally looking.

Maybe because someone else is, too.

Your fingers brush the curve of your ring.

And for a moment, you just sit there, holding on.

#jungkook fanfiction #jungkook ff #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook x yn #bts fanfiction #fanfic #bts jeon jungkook #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok #park jimin #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook

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natalianovnas · 2 days ago

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Hi hi!!! Was thinking about the ceo!wanda from the business fic and how she would be while they’re both traveling. I feel like reader would be responsible but in a normal way. Wanda would be like a control freak.

. . . 𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙱𝚄𝙻𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴 — w.maximoff

author's note ; YESSS that dynamic fits them perfectly. it's a drabble though.

The Airport Meltdown

You should’ve known it would start the moment she lost control of the boarding group.

“They said Group 1, didn’t they? Didn’t they?” Wanda hissed, clutching her leather carry-on like a weapon. “That woman in the green sweater is Group 4. I saw her boarding pass. This is anarchy.”

You were chewing gum. Calm. Casual. Already scanning the gate area for a place to sit once you boarded.

“Wanda,” you said gently, touching her elbow. “We have assigned seats.”

“But etiquette matters,” she gritted.

You kissed her temple. “And so does breathing.”

The Itinerary Incident

You found her in the hotel room cross-legged on the bed, her laptop open, two phones buzzing with calendar alerts, and a stack of color-coded folders that definitely didn’t fit in either of your suitcases.

“You brought binders?”

“I shipped them. Overnight,”

You flopped beside her, stealing one and flipping it open.

“Do you ever let yourself exist, or do you only schedule the illusion of existing?”

Wanda didn’t even look up. “We have a hard stop at 3:30 to get ready for the gala. You can question my existential framework after lunch.”

You grinned. “Love you.”

“I know.”

The Rain Delay

When your return flight got cancelled due to a storm, Wanda had a silent breakdown.

Not loud. Not dramatic. But the kind where her face blanked, her posture locked, and her fingers clutched her phone so tightly you thought it might snap in half.

You pulled her down into a loving, grounding hug.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

“I had a plan.”

“I know. And it was a great plan. But now we get to practice being flexible.”

She mumbled into your neck, “I don’t like being flexible.”

You kissed her forehead. “That’s okay. I’ll be flexible enough for both of us.”

The Soft Shift

By the last day, something in her had changed.

She still checked her email like her blood pressure depended on it. Still packed by color scheme. Still gave you a precise time window for breakfast.

But she held your hand longer, let you sleep an extra hour without stress.

She even stopped herself—mid-sentence—when she realized she was about to spiral over an airport transfer.

You raised a brow. “Did you just… self-regulate?”

Wanda blinked. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m proud of you.”

She rolled her eyes. But she was smiling.

And that night, curled up beside you on a too-firm hotel mattress, she whispered:

“You make chaos feel safe.”

You kissed her. “You make structure feel like home.”

Pommy Update (yes, thats the dog's name.)

Every night, she video-called you just to check on him when she was overseas on her own. It's unbelievable how found of him she had grown but it was even more adorable how much she worried.

“Is he okay? Did he eat? He prefers filtered water. He didn’t look like he napped enough earlier.”

“He’s a dog, babe.”

“He’s our dog. Our baby.”

You chuckled, playfully tolling your eyes. “He’s sleeping on a silk throw pillow. He’s fine.”

“Tell him I love him.”

You held the phone down to said fur baby, who yawned and ignored her completely.

“He says ‘same’ i believe.” you giggled.

Real love doesn’t mean losing who you are—it means finding the person who helps you be softer, even when the plane’s late and the schedule falls apart.

#🗞️— ᝰ*. natalianovas writes⭑.ᐟ #୨ৎ . . noelle's work #𓂃 ๋ ࣭ 𔘓 natalianovnas #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x reader #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #scarlet witch #lizzie olsen

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carmenlikeme · 2 days ago

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[jack abbot, michael 'robby' robinavitch] afab!reader, pet names, somno ( if you squint), praise and degradation kink, threesome, p in v, unprotected sex, some manhandling, choking(?), 600 words, I gave up midway, not proofread. divider by @/strangergraphics

Jack Abbot and his beautiful wife who gets the sexiest pajamas and sleeping clothes just for him.

You have a little bit of everything, from silky nightgowns that rise up your skin to those cute little sets that fit your skin so perfectly it makes his head dizzy.

It's always a nice treat coming home and finding out what you're wearing for him that night.

But this time, he isn't alone.

You wake up to the feeling of his hands under your clothes. He's admiring you right now. His hands are cold and feel slightly damp to the touch. He just showered. Was it that late already?

You shiver as his hand immediately finds your breasts, the other comes to find the ribbon in the front and pulls. Of course, you're not wearing anything underneath.

Melting under his touch, you seek for his mouth. It's messy, you're barely awake enough to even move. Then, something pokes at your shoulder.

Actually, someone.

Robby's beard scratches your shoulder in a way so delicious you don't know where to turn. There's a trace of water in it, which immediately makes you whine. So noisy, he whispers as his digits press on your hips.

"You had fun without me," you babble. "'s not fair."

"Oww, baby feels left out?" There's some sourness to the question, but the way both men are treating your body at the moment makes you ignore it. "So greedy."

Jack's voice isn't the only one with an edge; his fingers pinch at your nipples, cold hands making it even more arousing.

"I bet you missed him, don't you?" he pinches harder. "Tell him."

You want to pull away from him, the sensation is so painfully intoxicating, but when you try, you crash into Robby's chest. He takes advantage of it, pressing you harder against him as his hands come to plush at your thighs.

"Did you?" his hot breath is on your neck, and now, you don't have anywhere else to run. "Miss me?"

Jack pulls down your shorts effortlessly and doesn't waste time. He lifts one of your legs, and Robby holds it in place. Finally, you start to open your eyes when your husband's hand finds your clit.

"Don't be rude, that's not kind," your husband says, moving faster. "Tell him how you begged for him last night while I fucked you."

"You're being mean," you say. Still, you nod. "I missed you, Michael."

"Now it's Michael?" he asks dryly. "Must've really missed me, sweetie."

You nod eagerly, so lost in pleasure. You don't realize how long you've been like this, but the next thing you hear is a loud pop. Robby grunts behind you, the hand pleasuring you is now busy with him. You try to look down, but Jack holds you in your place with a firm hand on your throat.

"Wanna be good for Michael?" There it is again, that faux kindness in Jack's voice as his hand squeezes your throat. "Show him how much of a slut you are for him?"

"Yes, yes, yes," you beg, seeking any type of friction. "Please, please, Mikey, fuck me."

"Well, shit, if you ask so nicely."

You feel Robby's hand lifting your leg higher, adding more pressure to his grip. You're sure you won't be able to wear short skirts for a while at that rate. When you open your eyes, you see the back of Jack's head. He turns around to look at you, his intense gaze not leaving yours as he shoves his fingers in your throat.

He tastes like precum and that chocolate chip cookie you bought as a joke a while ago. He can't stop looking at you as you swirl your tongue around his fingers. Jack smiles as Robby slides into you, slowly, wanting to feel everything.

You don't remember when this little arrangement of yours started, or how, but in that moment, as your hands find Jack's length, you don't think it matters.

#carmenlikeme #michael robby robinavitch x you #michael robby robinavitch x reader #dr jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot x you #dr abbot x reader #michael robinavich x reader #michael robinavich x you #michael robinavitch x jack abbot x you #michael robinavitch x jack abbot x reader #once again a 2 paragraph idea turns into whatever this is #and once again i wrote this on my tumblr drafts #havent written smut in like 3 years btw

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cremeful · 2 days ago

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okai as promised pt2 to this ! pls enjoy !! also i was listening to break up with your girlfriend by ms ariana grande !! ilyy im finally out of writers block yeppie :D ~ this is a bit long so ... be prepared

disclaimer there is implied stalking so if u dnt like that pls keep scrolling.

smoke didn't say anything back which pissed you off more than you would like to admit so you decided to turn your attention to her, sierra. "hi, i'm ♡! nice to meet you!" you reached your arm out to offer her a handshake but she just stared at you like you were the evil to all evil; you are especially when it comes to smoke.

smokes eyes are still heavy on you, you put your arm down before muttering "tough crowd, i see." before turning around making your way to the other couch opposite from the two and sitting down. you knew smoke wasn't pleased on you going on contact but he had no right to be mad, he did it to himself.

"so ♡, what have you been up too? i heard you were seeing someone !" marys voice breaks the tension, you look over at her before letting out a little a laugh and responding. "I've been good, just been busy with college and yea i guess you can say that, just trying to be with boys my age, you know?" you said the last line a little louder than needed to make sure smoke knew what you were trying to do and he did, he caught it the moment you said it.

you turned to smoke, you finally got a good look at him. He was wearing a black fitted tee with dark wash jeans and white air forces, you cant lie he looks really good. "so elijah, your not gonna introduce me to your little girlfriend?" you said it sweetly with annoyance hidden behind your voice. He knew what you were trying to do and it was working because serria spoke up, "excuse me? one, im a grown ass woman so u will address me as such"

you knew the girl wasn't used to how you played your little games and every little thing you did was getting under her skin and you're enjoying it. you laughed at her outburst, mary said your name to get you to stop messing with the pair but she knew how you were. "i'm sorry, i just thought it was rude that he didn't properly introduce you to me since i am family," your voice is now on edge, "isn't that right, elijah?" this time your eyes soften looking at him, he can tell your hurt.

smoke finally speaks, "no doubt about it. you always have a place here." its the first in a month since you heard his voice, it was still rough as ever but this time it was more silent than usual; gentle. you decided that sitting in this room with them was painful enough so you got up off the couch and announced your going outside.

once you get up, mary says she will join you and you both walk to the backdoor and what you failed to notice is how smokes eyes follow you and how his girlfriend felt her place in his life falter.

once people started showing up and the gathering became more lively, you started drinking heavier, trying to get your mind off of smoke and his girlfriend. every once in a while you would glance over at them. They sat at one of the tables, smoke in the chair, her in his lap, it made you feel an emotion that you don't wish for anyone to have.

"you need to slow down girl!" the very annoying voice called from behind you. you knew exactly who it was and you closed your eyes and prayed to god to give you the strength before turning around. it was jarome, the boy whom you called yourself moving on from smoke with, biggest mistake of your life. He was nothing but a whiny insufferable boy that had serious issues.

"why are you here? and how are you here?" you said visibly annoyed. He had a track record of popping up at various places that you were at, which started to freak you out. You knew jarome didn't know anyone here, so what was his excuse now?

"come on don't be like that" he says it like your the one in the wrong, like you are being disobedient. after you two parted ways, you started to realize that his good "boyfriend" act started slipping and he was far from it. He was the reason why you stopped coming around, you knew if you told your friend group that it would end bad.

"you need to leave." you said it firmly but he could tell you were scared, you started to walk inside but he followed you, you went to go into the bathroom and shut the door but he tried to push his way inside until you heard sammies voice, "yo! the fuck you doin?" his voice is loud, jarome stops trying to push the door and makes up an excuse "oh my girl just drunk, she just playing around" he laughs it out but sammie wasn't buying it. He walks toward the bathroom and sees through the crack of the door, it's you and your crying.

that was enough for him to go back outside and grab both smoke and stack. "yo, can yall come inside real quick?" the twins exchange looks before smoke asks why and sammie doesn't want everyone at the table to know whats going on, "it's just something that needs to be handled." he says more urgently. this time stack speaks, "boy, just spit it out! why you being cryptic and shit" he laughs, sammie grows irritated "its, ♡. she needs both of you."

this time smokes face is serious, voice hard "what happened?", sammie just says "i dont fucking know man, i went in to get more liquor and i seen this boy trying to get in the bathroom with her, he claims she's his girlfriend but she was crying and looked terrified, so can we please" he gestures to the house. Smoke taps serria's hips for her to get up, she does with a scoff "you not her man, why can't stack go handle it? he probably fuckin her anyways" before stack can say anything smoke speaks. "get the fuck out. dont come back either." and with that he went into the house.

he makes his way to the bathroom and sees the unknown boy to him trying to make his way into the bathroom. he doesn't say anything, he walks up to the boy and yanks him back, his grip is so tight that the boy cries out in pain. "what the fuck you thinkin you doin?" smokes voice grits out, the boy is on the floor looking up at smoke towering over him. "nothin! shes my girlfriend! chill out"

smoke thinks back to earlier when mary said something about you dating someone, but what you failed to tell them is that you two broke up because of his dangerous actions. "dont fuckin lie to me boy. that girl in there isn't your girlfriend. i will break your fucking jaw if i ever see you near her or here again, do i make myself clear?" the boy beneath smoke just franticly nodded his head before smoke pulled him up and tossing him to stack. after dealing with him, smoke gently knocks on the door "honey, can you open the door?" he hears you sniffle before weakly calling out "is he gone? did you make him leave?" it broke his heart knowing that this boy has terrorized you like this. He clears his throat, "yea baby, hes gone. he wont ever come near you again, i promise"

smoke hears you shuffle around before the lock clicks, he turns the knob and steps inside. He sees you, your makeup is ruined and your hands are shaking, he takes them into his hands and pulls you into his chest, his hand comes to the back of your head stroking it in gently.

your between your broken sobs you muffled out "i was so scared, i didn't know what to do" he shushes you, telling you to not worry about him anymore. you pull away looking up at smoke, "i'm sorry for ruining your night" you say it apologetic because you are sorry. smoke looks at you, your eyes are glossy and big, almost deer like. "the night was ruined when i brought her here." when he mentions her, your nose turns up. he just laughs before saying "i'm sorry for what i did to you. you didnt deserve that, you never did. you were up front with me from the beginning and i kept chasing something that i thought i wanted when it was really you that grounded me." your eyes soften at his words, you stand on your tippy toes and offer him a sweet and slow kiss before pulling away

"its okay, you have plenty of time to make it up to me."

#cremeful / / 18 + 𓂃 no minors ! !#sinners #sinners 2025 #sinners fics #micheal b jordan x reader #smoke sinners #smoke x reader #dadbf!smoke x fem!black!reader #smoke x fem!black!reader #sinners stack #smoke and stack #stack x fem!blackreader

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billysgirllol · 3 days ago

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“well, it wouldn’t be a bad thing darlin’.” if he was to blush all night long, it’s all charming and at least he’d be in the same boat as her. “we could, if worst comes to worst.” it’s still an option if it gets that bad, “i hope it’s cool in there… does the ac even work?” and how is her and billy supposed to fit in that bunk, seems more awkward than sharing a lake with him. at least they can keep distance here and it’s dark clearly… in the bed? how is she supposed to do that? guesses she’ll have to pretend it’s old times when they had to share a bed together as kids and put their backs to each other if that’s even possible. “poison ivy ain’t too bad of an idea.” with her secret snake idea. the fact he’s helping her plot on pat’s revenge makes her smirk to herself. “and right, who does that… men are that piggish they lose all sensibility to even realize a girl won’t go for them if they’re sneaking at tryin’ to touch her all over.” his hand prints on her legs, she can imagine where they were and feel like they were burning which just fuels her anger and revenge and she knows exactly where to put that poison ivy. “you’re so wise, billy.” glowing because he’s her partner in crime now. “i ain’t JEALOUS, i just claimed this role long long time ago. who says i couldn’t land it too? up where they walk, up where they run, up where they stay all day in the sun,” bursting into song just like the theater kid she’s always been— just as if she was auditioning for it again, even talented at erasing every bit of the twang in her accent when she wills herself to sing in the tone of a disney princess, “wandering free, wishing i could be— part of that world!” she sings, smiling cutely once she closes. “well because i’m—” mentally his girlfriend, always mentally been his girlfriend since they were tiny, amusingly. “cause i’ve known you longest, than anyone has. and i said you were a prince first, so ha.” her confidence cut short when his hands touch her bare hips, that officially does it, that electric that springs through her. and then the question that comes along with it, causing her to really grow bashful especially the way he gets around to asking her what all the mixed signals are about. “because of fear.” she simply puts. “but see, i didn’t do it this time, i didn’t kiss you— so i didn’t give any mixed signals,” as he put it earlier. “this time. now, dunk under.” covering her chest with one arm, using her other arm to push down on his head.

“mhm, sure will. i think a late night talk show would be fun.” lucy gray responds, feeling like a hairstylist having chitchat with her client. “they are, they definitely are, i agree. a group of girls is vastly different than a group of guys. which is funny, how that all came to be.” she muses, laughing that billy notices it too. girls feel safer and more peaceful and better smelling to be around and then guys are less inviting feeling, smell bad and can’t really have an overall pleasant time because there’s too much testosterone and always someone is either flirting or being a dog in some other kind of way. “course i like them a lot, i love them. and remember? little ole me always said you were a prince, because of your curls. first thing i noticed about you.” she reminisces, retelling her favorite story for the hundredth time to him. but she doesn’t mind, she loves any chance getting to tell it over again. “why? you havin’ fun?” playing innocent, shyly dipping down some more when he turns around. her heart exploding like fireworks when his affectionate hand reaches up to stroke her cheek, it’s so darling and so sweet. nothin’ is more swoon inducing than that. it’s like he’s trying to make her fall into his arms and start attacking him in kisses… well, he’s certainly not makin’ it easy for her. a laugh sounds from her at him saying he’s getting BAPTIZED, lucy gray plugging his ears for him when he goes under before letting go once he comes back up. “alright, great job.” she grabs her shampoo next, loading her palm with some blend of coconut and vanilla organic curly hair oriented shampoo then taking both palms and spreading it over his locks. fingers scrubbing deep into his roots, moving from the top of his head to the sides.

#‘theres rly not much else to it’ ndksjdjsj #verse: modern.

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whodoesntlovealliteration · 3 days ago

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Chapter 119 SxF

Spoilers under

I'm a little shocked that people didn't expect Twilight's reaction to Yor reaching out to him. I am as much of a TwiYor fan as most people are, but honestly, it's a stretch to say they're anywhere near ready to try to 'make this real'.

One of the draws to me for this series was the tension between them being drawn out. I knew upon coming into this series that their relationship would be frustrating and agonizingly slow. It is and it will continue to be, by the design of the characters and narrative.

I came into the story not only anticipating that dynamic for them, but exceptionally pleased with how Endo has been portraying their inabilities to either connect with others or themselves due to their conditioning. I don't fault anyone for not giving with the pacing but in my opinion there is no other way for this to go.

Twilight has dedicated his entire being to having no desires, interests, dreams. His sense of self was burned right along with all his worldly belongings and his name. As far as he's concerned, he is a machine for The Machine.

It's been made quite clear that he is struggling with cognitive dissonance worming it's way into his mind. His body reacts to Yor without his expectation or understanding(infamous collapse to the floor), when he thinks he often has Freudian Slips around his verbiage(*I will protect Yor* instead of *We will need to be careful, to not compromise the mission*), and he outright goes against all training he has ever received regarding active combat(*kill all SSS in hot pursuit* yet he leaves Yuri alive so Yor doesn't grieve).

I don't think he's unaware of these things. He's *painfully* aware that he's already getting too close, too emotionally dependent on Yor, even if it's truly just crumbs of support. He notices it happening when it happens, and his only choice he's ever had is to bury it and move along.

*The man trusts no one by the nature of his very survival.*

He doesn't seem to understand that Yor is truly romantically interested in him, but why would he care to? It's completely irrelevant to his goals and purpose. Plenty of people have already said that he likely doesn't even entertain any thoughts of her desiring him because the last time he tried to push her boundaries, she *rocked his shit*. I have a feeling that he could tell Yor wanted to have a heartfelt conversation, but, that's simply not a risk he can take after realizing how dangerous his current attachment to her is.

His misunderstanding in their conversation was repetitive and looping. He's beyond skilled at maneuvering discussions how he sees fit, that's his whole career. I doubt he missed every signal that she cares about their arrangement and family, I think he chose to double down and ignore them.

The man isn't stupid, he's likely quite uncomfortable, even fearful of the effects her companionship has already had on him. She had asked what the plan after Anya's graduation would be and instead of asking what she meant, he avoided the question almost entirely. He can't bring himself to think that far ahead since he's certain that 'Loid Forger' would be long dead before that question required an actual answer.

Progress is not linear. People do not develop cleanly. We've watched him accidentally let his girls under his skin for the last 6 months and it's gotten bad enough that he's receding back into his shell now that he knows how dangerously close he is to *getting himself killed*. Before he can have any kind of epiphany of his feelings or interests for the future, his entire coping strategy of depersonalization has to be challenged so heavily that he has no choice but to admit he's compromised.

As people heal, they tend to swing on a pendulum of improvement and regression. He's going to desperately cling to what has kept him safe for his entire life until this point until it doesn't work anymore.

And a further point, we have no clue what was the longest time he's been in a honey trap relationship before the canon begins but it's at least well implied that he was with Karen for enough time for her to be asking about marriage and commitment. I'd go as far to say even someone as vapid as Karen(given what little thoughts Twilight seemed to have of her) wouldn't be thinking seriously about rings before 3-4 months. So let's say they were together for 6 months.

Twilight can and has kept full detachment from his Honey Marks many, many, many times before. Let's say 6 months was the longest. If Twilight left now, I'm certain it would sting him and he would use it to continue his long pattern of self-hatred, but he'd likely be able to compartmentalize it by this point.

It's only now that he's starting to slip in too deep to waters he's never tread before.

Personally? I'm excited to see him suffer inside as warmth and love burrow their unwelcome tendrils into the cold black thing he has that was once considered a heart. The only way we get a version of this man willing to share his soul with anyone else, is for him to literally have no other choice than to accept it.

#agent twilight #spy x family #yor forger #sxf spoilers #sxf manga #hes a curmudgeonly man #yall #loid forger #twiyor #twilight #new chapter #honestly think a lot of the misdirecting was intentional #chapter 119 #spy x family manga #sxf 119 #sxf manga spoilers

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ceyanabbiolo · 1 day ago

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𝑷𝑯𝑶𝑻𝑶𝑮𝑹𝑨𝑷𝑯 // 𝑴.𝑺 | 𝑬𝑷𝑰𝑳𝑶𝑮𝑼𝑬

warnings: slightly suggestive

𝑊𝑒𝑙��𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑒𝑑𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑀𝑎𝑡𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑤 𝑆𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑜𝑙𝑜 & 𝐷𝑎𝑝ℎ𝑛𝑒 𝐷𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑜𝑟𝑒

London, England - Three Years Later

The day had finally arrived. However, calm was the last word anyone would use to describe it—it was nothing short of chaotic.

Still, despite the whirlwind of activity, it was everything Daphne had ever dreamed of. The wedding was set in her dream destination, at a venue that looked like it had been plucked straight out of a fairytale—a majestic, castle-like estate surrounded by sprawling green gardens. It was enchanting, almost unreal, the kind of place she’d envisioned since she was a little girl.

Florals lined every walkway, delicate and fragrant, while white silk ribbons fluttered in the gentle breeze. Inside, the bridal suite buzzed with curling irons, last-minute stitching, and someone frantically searching for a missing shoe. Daphne’s bridesmaids floated around her in soft baby pink dresses, laughter and nerves mingling in the air.

Daphne stood in her dream dress—every stitch of embroidery custom-made by hand, from her best friend’s boutique, Aurora the Label.

“Gosh, Daph,” Aurora breathed, her eyes shimmering as she took in the sight of her best friend. “We had so many fittings, but seeing you wear it… the dress has never looked more perfect. You look stunning.”

Daphne met her gaze in the mirror, her voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you. For everything. The dress, the fittings… all of it. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

By the tall window, she paused, the gown cascading around her like liquid light. Her fingers trembled slightly as she adjusted the lace at her wrist, her heart pounding—part nerves, part disbelief.

They were getting married. Today.

Somewhere nearby, her soon-to-be husband was likely just as anxious, though doing his best to act like he wasn’t.

Matt stood in front of a mirror, adjusting his cufflinks for the third time. His jaw was tight, his fingers slightly unsteady, despite his efforts to appear calm.

“You good?” Nick asked, lounging on the edge of the couch, one leg bouncing restlessly.

Matt didn’t answer right away. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaled, then glanced at his reflection again. “Yeah. Just…it feels crazy.”

Chris let out a low laugh from where he leaned against the wall. “You look like you’re going to throw up, not walk down the aisle.”

“I’m fine,” Matt muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.

Truth was he was lacking conviction. He had no idea how he had got here. No idea, how he had gotten so luck with Daphne.

His brothers were all dressed in sharp black suits, matching ties, and that same mix of pride and mischief in their eyes. They’d spent all morning teasing him, but they’d toned it down in the last few minutes, probably realizing just how real everything was starting to feel.

Nick stood up and fixed Matt’s boutonnière. “She’s probably freaking out just as much as you are,” he said gently.

That thought alone made Matt’s chest tighten. Not with fear, but with something heavier—something more. Love, maybe. Awe. The weight of realizing he was about to marry the only girl who ever really saw him.

The soft hum of music began to drift in from outside. The kind that made your breath hitch without knowing why.

Someone opened the door. “It’s time.”

Matt’s heart jumped. Nick straightened his jacket. Chris gave him a steady nod. And together, the three of them walked down the hall and out into the late afternoon sun.

The ceremony space was nothing short of magical—white blooms arched above the altar, sunlight streaming through the trees in golden streaks, and rows of guests standing in hushed awe.

Matt stood at the front, hands clasped tightly behind his back, trying to still the slight tremble in his fingers. His eyes drifted toward the aisle, even though he knew she wasn’t there yet.

Then, soft music played and the little garden gate creaked open, and all heads turned.

Out stepped a tiny red-haired girl. Little four year old Claira Sturniolo was a perfect mix of her parents–Chris and Aurora. She wore a delicate pink dress that fluttered as she moved, a small basket of petals swinging from her arm. She giggled as she tossed handfuls of blossoms, a trail of pink and white falling behind her.

The crowd let out soft chuckles and fond smiles as Claira suddenly picked up speed and ran the rest of the way down the aisle. Reaching Matt, she wrapped her arms around his leg in a tight hug, her cheek pressed against his pants.

Matt looked down, visibly softening. “Hey, hunny,” he whispered with a smile, gently patting her head. “You did amazing.”

Claira beamed up at him, then hurried off to her spot with the help of a bridesmaid who was trying not to tear up from the moment.

The soft swell of the music shifted—gentle strings and piano echoing through the trees, delicate and full of promise.

The guests rose to their feet once more, heads turning in perfect unison.

The gate opened again.

And there she was.

Daphne.

She stepped forward slowly, her arm looped through her brother Noah’s, her veil cascading like mist around her. The sunlight caught the delicate beading of her gown, making her look almost ethereal—like something out of a dream. Beneath the veil, the faint outline of her smile could be seen, soft and trembling with emotion.

Noah gave her hand a reassuring squeeze as they began their walk down the aisle. Daphne's eyes stayed locked on Matt.

He was already crying.

Just slightly—his jaw tense, his eyes shining. One hand came up to brush at his cheek, almost like he couldn’t believe she was real. That she was really walking toward him.

Matt had always claimed he wasn’t the type for big weddings, never imagined himself getting emotional watching his bride walk down the aisle. Yet here he was—completely undone, barely holding himself together, seconds away from falling apart in the best way.

Each step she took was filled with quiet grace, her dress gliding over the petals Claira had scattered moments ago. The veil swayed gently with the breeze, catching in the sun just enough to give her the softest glow.

Matt’s heart pounded in his chest as she got closer. It was like time had slowed—no one else mattered. Just her.

And when Noah placed her hand in his, Matt looked at her like he was seeing everything he had ever hoped for. He lifted the veil with slightly shaking hands, revealing her face fully—and time stopped.

There were no words. Just a look with shy smiles.

Her eyes shimmered as she looked up at him, a soft smile playing on her lips—the kind that was just for him. The kind he had seen in quiet moments, in morning light, and now, here, in front of everyone who mattered.

“You’re stunning,” he whispered, just barely audible.

Daphne let out a breath that sounded like a laugh, her voice just as soft. “Took you long enough to say it.”

A low ripple of laughter came from the front rows. The officiant gave them a warm smile. “Shall we begin?”

They nodded, still locked in each other’s gaze as the ceremony began. The words spoken faded into the background for a moment—just rhythm and breath and the sound of leaves rustling above. Matt held her hands gently, like they were made of glass, but looked at her like she was unbreakable.

As the vows began, Daphne’s voice was soft but steady, even when emotion caught in her throat.

Daphne spoke first, her voice steady with emotion as she shared how Matt had become her best friend before she even realized she needed one. She spoke of how he had accepted every part of her—her flaws, her strength, her silence, and her storms—and how, despite the uncertainty of the future, she knew without a doubt that she wanted to face it with him.

Matt blinked hard, nodding slightly as she spoke, his jaw clenched like he was trying to keep it together. When it was his turn, he exhaled slowly.

He spoke of loving her in ways he never knew he was capable of, how she had been his peace in the chaos, the one constant when everything else felt uncertain. He didn’t need perfection—he just needed something true. And to him, she was the most important thing in his life.

Daphne’s eyes welled with tears, and Matt didn’t hesitate—he lifted her hands and kissed her knuckles gently.

As the officiant declared them husband and wife, Matt didn’t wait. He pulled her in, kissed her like he’d waited lifetimes to do it, and maybe he had.

The crowd broke into joyful applause, but for Matt and Daphne, the world had gone quiet—just the rhythm of their hearts, the warmth of their kiss, and the soft, innocent voice of little Claira breaking through: “Mommy! They’re kissing!”

Aurora chuckled softly, brushing a hand through her daughter’s hair. “Of course, darling. Your aunty and uncle love each other very much.”

Chris smiled as he watched his girls, then turned his gaze to Matt. Beside him, Nick wore the same stunned expression—neither brother could quite believe how happy Matt looked.

MaryLou watched from her seat, her eyes misty as she observed her son. Every time Daphne spoke or moved, Matt lit up. The way he looked at her—it told her everything. MaryLou had always hoped her son would find someone who truly brought him joy. And now, watching him with Daphne, she knew—he had.

When Matt finally pulled away from his new wife, he pressed gentle kisses along her knuckles, lingering on each one as if sealing a silent promise.

Daphne smiled, her eyes sparkling with tears of happiness, feeling the depth of his love in every soft touch. Around them, the applause continued to swell, but they remained wrapped in their own world—a moment suspended in time.

Matt took a deep breath and looked down at Daphne, his smile steady and full of awe. “I’m yours,” he whispered, “now and always.” She squeezed his hand in return, the unspoken vows between them stronger than any words could ever be.

The celebration moved on with laughter, music, and the soft clinking of glasses as friends and family gathered to congratulate the newlyweds. The golden light of the late afternoon cast a warm glow over the garden, painting everything with a serene beauty.

But amidst the joy, a quiet shadow crossed Daphne’s face. She stepped slightly away from the crowd, her smile faltering as she glanced toward the edge of the garden where the sunlight met the shade of the trees.

Matt noticed immediately and followed her gaze. “What’s on your mind?” he asked gently, reaching for her hand.

Daphne took a shaky breath, her voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I wish my parents could be here to see this. To be a part of this day.”

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, and Matt’s expression softened instantly. He pulled her into a comforting embrace, holding her close.

“I know,” he said softly. “They’d be so proud to see your daughter right now.”

Daphne leaned into him, letting herself be held, feeling the weight of loss soften just a little in the warmth of his arms.

“We’ll make them proud,” Matt whispered against her hair. “Together.”

He held her tighter, his voice soft and steady. “You have me now. We’ll build our own family, our own life—one filled with love and memories just for us.”

Daphne met his gaze, her eyes shimmering with tears. “My mom… she always liked you,” she said quietly. “She never got to see that I ended up marrying you.”

Matt smiled gently. “Do you think she’d be happy?”

A small, warm smile curved Daphne’s lips. “More than anything. She always said you were a good boy. Even my dad.”

Matt chuckled softly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I hope they know their beautiful daughter is in good hands.” He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

Just then, Noah approached, a warm, emotional smile spreading across his face. Without a word, he pulled Matt into a firm, brotherly hug.

“My brother,” Noah said quietly. Matt laughed, returning the embrace. “Well, we’re actually brothers now.” They both smiled, the bond between them unmistakable.

Noah then turned his gaze toward his sister, his expression softening with pride and warmth. Releasing Matt, he pulled Daphne into a gentle embrace.

“Congratulations, Daph,” he said quietly. Daphne held him a moment longer than necessary, her voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”

But her gratitude ran deeper than the simple congratulations—it was for everything Noah had done for her over the years. Despite the mistakes he’d made along the way, she knew she wouldn’t be standing here today without him.

As the evening wore on, the garden began to quiet. Guests exchanged warm goodbyes and heartfelt congratulations, the soft glow of lanterns casting a gentle light over the now-emptying space. Laughter and chatter faded into the peaceful hum of night.

They had rented a place in London for all the guests traveling from Boston and LA to stay during their visit. They were also throwing a more afterparty event tomorrow.

Matt and Daphne lingered near the edge of the gathering, savoring the last moments of their perfect day. Hand in hand, they moved slowly through the fading crowd, their smiles tired but radiant.

“I can’t believe this is really happening,” Daphne murmured, resting her head lightly against Matt’s shoulder.

He squeezed her hand gently. “Neither can I.”

Together, they made their way to the waiting car, the world around them slipping quietly away. As the car pulled away, the garden lights twinkled like stars, a final blessing on the night.

Arriving at the honeymoon suite, the door opened to soft candlelight and the subtle scent of fresh flowers. Matt helped Daphne inside, closing the door behind them with a quiet click.

Daphne let out a soft sigh of relief as she slipped off her heels, setting them carefully beside the dresser. Matt kicked off his shoes with less care, his eyes already on her.

“I need to get out of this dress,” Daphne laughed breathlessly, brushing a few loose strands of hair from her face.

Matt stepped toward her, his movements slow and deliberate. They both turned slightly, catching their reflections in the mirror—him still in his shirt and slacks, her in the intricate layers of lace and satin that had wowed the entire crowd hours earlier.

Their eyes met in the glass.

Matt reached for the delicate ties at the back of her gown, his fingers steady as he began to undo the lacing. His gaze never left hers as he worked through each loop, the room quiet aside from the faint rustle of fabric.

Once the last ribbon loosened, he leaned in and pressed a light, teasing kiss to her bare shoulder, his lips lingering just long enough to make her smile. Daphne turned to face him fully, her expression soft and open. Without a word, she let the weight of the gown fall from her shoulders, the fabric pooling silently at her feet.

Matt’s eyes never drifted lower. Instead, he smiled at her—gentle and full of admiration. The kind of smile that said you’re mine and I adore you all at once.

“Hi, Mrs. Sturniolo,” he murmured, voice low. Daphne shyly smiled, liking the way that sounded. "Hi, Mr. Sturniolo."

Daphne reached for Matt, her fingers making quick work of the buttons on his shirt, her touch familiar and steady. Slowly, she helped him out of the rest of his clothes, each layer falling away with ease until there was nothing left between them but warmth and anticipation.

They met in a rush of need and tenderness, their bodies pressing close, mouths finding each other with hungry familiarity. The rhythm between them was natural, practiced, but tonight, it felt different. Deeper. More meaningful.

The room filled with the soft thrum of movement—the creak of the bed, the quiet moans, the whispered names. They moved in sync, wrapped in each other completely, like they had countless times before—but this time, it felt like it meant forever.

It wasn’t just passion. It was years of trust, love, mistakes, healing—all culminating in this one night. This one moment.

It felt different—like they weren’t just touching each other, but holding something sacred. As if, for the first time, they were truly making love.

Afterward, Matt gently brushed Daphne’s hair away from her face, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. He pulled the covers over her, making sure she was warm, then slipped out of bed just long enough to grab her a glass of water and one of the fluffy robes hanging by the door.

“You good?” he asked softly, handing her the robe.

Daphne smiled, tired and glowing. “More than good.”

They curled back into bed, her head resting on his shoulder, legs tangled beneath the blankets. A few minutes later, Matt picked up the room service menu from the nightstand.

“I don’t know about you,” he said, glancing down at her with a playful grin, “but I worked up an appetite.”

Daphne laughed, swatting his chest gently. “You’re the worst. But also… same.”

They ended up ordering way too much food and ate in bed, half-dressed and completely at ease.

“Can you imagine if you’d never given me that job?” Daphne mused, lounging against the pillows as she plucked a grape from the fruit tray and gently popped it into Matt’s mouth.

Matt chewed with a grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Please. I was plotting from the start.”

Daphne burst into laughter, nudging his shoulder. “Plotting? So what, you still hire people without resumes when you’re scheming?”

Matt raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. “Absolutely not. I found my wife on the first try—I’ve peaked. No need to risk it again.”

Daphne shook her head, laughing as she playfully swatted his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he teased, gripping her wrist and tugging her gently onto his lap. “You’ve officially signed up for a lifetime of my nonsense.”

Daphne let out a dramatic sigh, draping her arms around his shoulders. “That’s fine,” she said with a smile. “I’ve always had a thing for the slightly weird ones anyway.”

Matt chuckled, leaning in like he was about to kiss her again—but before he could, Daphne suddenly jumped up, leaving him momentarily stunned.

“What—did I say something?” he asked, brows raised.

“Wait!” she called over her shoulder, already rummaging through one of her bags across the room. A few seconds later, she turned around triumphantly, holding up a small vintage film camera. “We need to take a picture.”

Matt blinked, still half-lounging in bed. “Right now?”

“Yes!” she grinned, flipping open the camera’s lens. “This is our first night as husband and wife. We have to remember it.”

He shook his head with a smile. “Of course, the photographer brought a camera to her own wedding night.”

Daphne shrugged, already adjusting the light. “Memories don’t wait, Matthew.”

Daphne climbed back onto the bed, settling beside Matt with the camera poised in her hands. She adjusted the frame, leaning into him as he draped an arm around her shoulders.

“Okay,” she said softly, her finger hovering over the shutter. “Smile like you just married the love of your life.”

Matt turned his head, kissed her cheek just as she clicked the shutter.

The soft click echoed through the room, small, almost insignificant. But it sealed the moment, captured the joy, the softness, the intimacy of a beginning. In that photo, there would be laughter caught in the crinkle of their eyes, love in between the curve of a smile and the closeness of a touch.

Proof that on this night, they weren’t just newlyweds. They were a memory in the making. A photograph of a love that had found its focus.

Frozen in time, forever in frame, captured in a photograph.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇

#ceyanabbiolo #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo #fanfic #chris sturniolo #nick sturniolo

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ambiguous-avery · 3 days ago

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Quiet Hours

Dean Winchester x fem!Reader/You | WC: 1525

Summary: You knew Dean loved you. It was in all the big, grandiose moments. The times he would throw himself between you and danger. It was in all the stolen moments between motel sheets, in all the whispered promises. But most of all, it was in the quiet moments. When it was just you and Dean existing in each other's orbits.

Tags/Warnings: Pure tooth-rotting fluff, established relationship, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men

A/N: Finally, some Dean content for you lovelies!! I have been on such a Sam kick with my series, but now that that has ended, I have a backlog of Dean stuff to give you all! This is my submission for @zepskies’ 5k follower event! Again, congrats to you, Alex! I requested a gif, and she gave me this lovely one. Title is from the song “Quiet Hours” by Letdown.

Dean Winchester never half-assed anything.

He didn’t just walk through a bar. He prowled. Chin held high, boots heavy, confidence radiating off of him like heat off a blacktop in the middle of a Colorado desert. When he ordered a drink, it was with intent. When he drove, it was with purpose. When he hunted, he did it like there was no tomorrow. And sometimes – no, most times – you were afraid that was exactly how he lived too.

Like tomorrow was never guaranteed, so what was the point in saving anything for later?

But if you had learned anything about Dean, he wasn’t reckless. Not really. He just burned so brightly that it felt like recklessness. He committed to things and people full throttle. If there was a monster, he killed it. If there was a mission, he finished it. If there was a threat to someone he loved? God help whatever was in his path.

All that to say that Dean didn’t do things halfway. Not ever.

You noticed it the first time he kissed you. You’d expected it to be rough. Heated. Fast. Maybe even a little desperate. Something that matched the intensity of the way he lived his life. But it hadn’t been like that. It hadn’t even been close.

He kissed you like he had all the time in the world. One hand cupped your jaw like you were something precious that he couldn’t afford losing. The other curled around your waist like he already knew how well you’d fit against him. His lips moved slowly. Reverently. Like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth just in case the world ended the next day.

It was the first time you suspected that there might have been more to Dean Winchester than just bravado and bad habits.

And the moment you realized that he loved you happened about two months after you had first hooked up with him. A vampire hunt in Arizona gone sideways. You had been careless, and he found you bleeding, pissed off, and too damn proud to have asked for backup. You were already down on one knee, dizzy from the blood loss. You hadn’t even heard him coming. There was just a blur of plaid and rage, a flash of his machete, and the sound of bodies falling around you.

He didn’t yell at you. Not at first. Not until after he had dragged you back to the Impala and deposited you in the front bench. You remembered the tension in his jaw. You remembered the way the steering wheel creaked under his grip. He didn’t look at you once the entire drive back to the motel. And then, the second the door closed behind the both of you, he snapped.

“You don’t get to be reckless with your life,” he had said, voice shaking. And you had blinked at him, confused and bleeding.

“What?”

“You think this is just a fling? You think I’m here for fun? I’m in this. With you. All in. You get that?” And you were pretty sure that that was the first time you had ever seen Dean afraid.

Not of monsters. Not of dying. But of losing you.

Now, months later, you were curled up in bed beside him, caught somewhere between half-asleep and half-listening to the low hum of the tv that neither of you were actually watching. The motel room was quiet otherwise, and you briefly wondered if Dean was still awake.

He was.

You could tell without looking. You could feel it in the way he was still. Too still. When Dean slept, he sprawled out. Arms loose, legs tangled with yours, the weight of him heavy and warm like a personal heater. But currently? He was tense. Coiled. Like he was waiting for something to strike. Or like he was holding something in. So you opened your eyes to find him already watching you.

The hard lines of his face were softened by the bedside lamp that was still on, and his expression was unreadable, wavering between distant and vulnerable. You recognized the look. You had seen it before. This was the kind of look he had right before he told you something important. Right before he let you in, one guarded inch at a time. You had learned to treasure these moments.

“Dean?” you whispered, fingers brushing his arm. He swallowed. His eyes flicked down to your hand then back up. Then, in a voice so quiet and soft that you almost missed it,

“Marry me.”

The words landed with all the subtlety of a bullet to the chest. Your jaw went slack. Your heart stopped. Then it started again, hard and fast like a kick drum against your ribs.

“What?” The word came out strangled. Dean looked away. His jaw tightened like he was bracing himself for rejection.

“I said… marry me.” You propped yourself up on one elbow. He met your gaze, and you could see every thought in his head going to war with whatever he was feeling. The two of you shared a charged look before he blinked and turned away, eyes turning up towards the ceiling. And then it hit you.

Dean was terrified.

Not of the idea of being tied down. Not of committing to someone in a way that people would consider permanent. Not of the ring or the ceremony or the promises.

He was terrified of your answer. Because this was something that he wanted. Something that he didn’t think he deserved.

“Dean,” you breathed, reaching out for him. Your fingertips grazed his stubbled jaw, gently coaxing his face to turn to you again. His eyes – those impossibly green ones that had seen too much loss in the world – were wide with vulnerability that you were sure you had only seen a handful of other times. He flinched. Not from your touch, but like the effort of holding everything he was feeling back was physically paining him.

“I know I can’t give you the life you deserve,” he said. “I can’t promise safety. Or stability. Or a house with a stupid white picket fence. I don’t even know where we’ll be next week, let alone ten years from now.” His voice trembled as he spoke. You were quiet. Of all the things you had learned about Dean, these moments where he was willing to give a voice to the things he was feeling were far and few between.

“I don’t have money. I don’t have a plan. I don’t know if I’ll even live long enough to grow old with you. But I love you. And I wanna try. I wanna give you everything that I possibly can. Even if it isn’t much.”

There was nothing cocky in his expression. No bravado. No unwavering confidence. Just fear. Just hope. Just love. You sat up fully and cupped his face in both of your hands. He leaned into your touch like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment.

“I never wanted the picket fence,” you whispered. “I’ve only ever wanted you.” He let out a shaky breath.

“You sure?” he asked quietly. “You sure that this– that I’m enough?”

You kissed him. Not to shut him up. Not to distract him. But because there were no words you could string together that could say ‘yes’ the way that your kiss could. He kissed you back with the same reverence as the very first kiss you shared, but there was something new beneath it. Relief. Gratitude. A quiet joy that threatened to overflow. When you pulled away, he pressed his forehead against yours, eyes still closed for a moment more, like he was afraid that he was going to wake up from a dream if he opened them too soon.

“Is that a yes?” he murmured against your lips, and you could feel a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was small. Shy almost. Disbelieving.

“That’s a hell yes,” you replied. The smile that broke across his face made his eyes crinkle at the corners, and you could visibly see the tension fall away from his shoulders.

His hands found your waist, pulling you closer until you were practically laying on top of him, your foreheads touching as your breaths mingled in the space between you. This close, you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. The tiny scar above his eyebrow. The freckles that scattered across his nose like constellations.

He pulled you down to him, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, your jaw. Any part that he could reach. You could tell in the way his hands trembled that there was a part of him that couldn’t believe it. But he still held you like you were a promise he intended to keep.

And in the circle of his arms, you knew without a doubt that you didn’t need the picket fence. You didn’t need the two-point-five kids. You didn’t need the whole apple pie life. Not if you had him.

Dean Winchester never half-assed anything.

And he sure as hell wasn’t going to start with love.

---

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zepskies · 3 days ago

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Haha yeah I realized belatedly that Blake is actually the perfect "Ken" to go with that lyric!! 😂

I'm sure they think they are trying to help by setting up dates, but they really should respect the fact that it isn't what she wants. And if you are going to try and set someone up be upfront about it, don't be sneaky with it.

BIG YEP. They're trying to "help" her move on (and not be the sad friend), but they're not actually supporting her here 💔

Really?!! After what Rachel did they are still talking to her!! She needs better friends.

Right? I might explore it in future one-shots, but in my head Rachel has been able to manipulate and lie her way back into the group, like claiming to have been drunk as well when it "happened with Mark," etc.

Beautiful heartbreaking imagery 💔

Aww thank you! 🥹 Poor girl went through it fr!

Oh no. That is definitely not the way you want to run into your ex for the first time after the breakup.

Right? Poor girl feeling like a gremlin while Mark's all handsome and cheerful. 😭 She just doesn't realize that it's a coping mechanism for everything he's hiding inside.

Poor girl. As if it's not bad enough running into Mark like that, she sees him with Oliveras and assumes something is going on there (with someone else she knows). No wonder she needed to get out of there quickly. Uh-oh

Ughh I know, it was hard to write that scene from the reader's POV since I ship Mark x Amber in canon loll 🥲

Seriously what is wrong with some guys?! Take the hint!!

Oof, unfortunately this guy had taking advantage of her on his mind. 😓 But luckily Mark stepped in!

I hadn't heard this song before, but I love how this bit fits, linking that line from the song with the story.

Oh yeah that part of the song is so gutting, I had to try and have that represented here 💙

Ok, love this. I read it hearing him say it in my head.

ahaha I'm so glad to hear that because I did too when I was writing it! Love getting that confirmation 🤣

Oh, I'm guessing this has the potential to cause some issues/ conflict between her and Meachum with his work on the task force.

This was 100% my thought when we found out about Meachum and his fiancée in the show. My first thought was that he did that to end it so she wasn't 'stuck' with a dying man.

BIG YEP. That was my thought too! I still hope he didn't actually sleep with Rachel in canon either. 😭

OMG, she has no shame!!! Why does she think this is ok? Imagine if the roles had been reversed and Mark had done what she has, he would find himself in serious trouble.

Rachel is the absolute wooooorst! 100% if the roles had been reversed, a man could be arrested in this situation. But bc she's a woman, it's just seen as "asshole behavior." Sometimes the double-standard is really rough

OMG... she needs help. That is not normal behaviour Rachel!! I hope she gets a few home truths told to her.

Oooh don't worry, she will in the next story to follow this 😏

Love the shift here fits perfectly with the fact they still clearly love each other.

Aww thank you, as gutting as it is, this really is the moment where you see both of them never stopped loving each other.

Her being his 'peaceful spot' is beautiful. That man definitely needs it after what has happened so far on that task force.

From what I've seen so far, Mark seems to be really alone and having to cope with all this stress at work, which would be enough to deal with on its own, let alone everything else he's going to. 😭

Thanks so much for reading, friend! So glad you enjoyed it 🥰💕

CATASTROPHIC BLUES

Pairing: Mark Meachum x F. Reader

Summary: Nine months isn’t as long as it sounds. When you run into your ex-fiancé at a bar, he finds out what you've become. You find out the truth.

AN: Okay, so this was only supposed to be a 1K drabble sequel to DOWNGRADE for my lovely friend, @waynes-multiverse, but of course it snowballed on me lol. (And there’s a little more to come!) This is set during early season 1, let’s say between 1x02 and 1x03.

Song Inspo: “Hits Different” by Taylor Swift (YT)

Word Count: 6.3K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Angst, drunkenness, skeevy men, Mark doing his best with an angry, hungover reader (bit of grumpy x sunshine), talk of cheating, what really happened, and other truths revealed…

Nine months. It should’ve meant something.

You should be able to go out with your friends to the club. You should be able to feel confident in one of your favorite dresses and the tallest pair of heels you could almost walk in.

You should be able to let loose on the dance floor, letting the closest attractive guy grind on your ass.

He later offered to get you a drink, his hot breath in your ear. An uncomfortable chill ran down your spine. But you know what? Fuck it.

You went back with him to the bar, taking the chance to rest your achy feet. He tried to make small talk with you, despite you being stiff and awkward now that you couldn’t distract yourself with the vibes of the music running through your body. Now the thump thump thump of the bass was too much, too distracting for a normal conversation.

Blake was an oxymoron—he dressed like a wealthy hipster and talked like a frat bro. He had the skinny jeans and a silky patterned shirt, a thin gold chain around his neck, an obnoxious gold pinky ring, and a trendy cropped haircut. You regretted letting him buy you a drink, but then again, you never wasted good vodka.

You also started to get suspicious when one of your friends “casually” came up on his other side.

“Ask her about her job,” Sarah whispered. You just barely caught it.

“Oh, yeah. So, uh, what do you do?” Blake asked you. You were pretty sure he was more interested in your cleavage than your job.

“I’m an assistant to the Head District Attorney of California,” you said blandly.

The guy blinked. “…Oh. Cool.”

“And what do you do, Blake?”

“Well, my dad owns an advertisement company, so I do some stuff for him every now and then. But mostly I’m a competitive gamer. Like, uh, League of Legends, Counter Strike, Mortal Kombat. What about you? You a gamer?”

Blinking slow, then sighing, you leaned over and locked eyes with Sarah, one of your best friends and a well-known esthetician in L.A.

“Where’d you find the trust fund baby?” you asked. “He one of your clients? Let me guess. He likes his asshole bleached the same shade as his hair.”

Sarah bit her lip in embarrassment. Blake coughed and spluttered into his scotch. You didn’t stick around for the predictable denial and slid off the bar stool. You gave him $15 for your drink, downed the rest of it in one long gulp, and savored the rush of it tingling through your head on your way out of the club.

“Wait!” Sarah called after you. Your other two friends just rolled their eyes and stayed behind to keep drinking and dancing. They were used to your antics by now, just like you were used to theirs. They'd been trying to set you up on dates for a couple of months now. This one was the sneakiest by far.

Sarah, for her part, never let you walk out alone.

“Next time you try to set me up with someone, can you please just tell me,” you said tiredly, “instead of pretending you want to hang out with me?”

Sarah deflated. “Look, we’re just trying to help.”

“I know,” you said, holding yourself against the chill in the air. “I know, okay? I know you guys want me to move on, because I’m a fucking bummer. I know I’m…I’m not handling all this as well as I should be. And I know they still talk to Rachel.”

Tears stung in your eyes, but you sucked in a subtle breath. Sarah’s blue eyes were sad and glassy with guilt, even if it was just by association.

“Go back inside,” you said eventually. “I’ll just take an Uber home.”

But you didn’t.

Instead, you ended up at a bar down the street. You barely ever went clubbing anymore, but you hadn’t stepped foot into a real bar in nine months.

“Come on, sweetheart. You really want to do this here?”

“You’re one to fucking talk! But you know what? Far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing left to say. I just…I don’t know how you could do this to me.”

“Please,” he said. The green of his eyes were desperate. It was the first time you ever heard him beg. “Just let me explain.”

You wouldn’t let him touch you, let alone try to hold you. The thought alone made you sick.

“I saw you, Mark. I saw the goddamn pictures. And my sister told me all about how your last night of ‘freedom’ went. But you know what? You’re fucking free.”

You put the ring in the palm of his hand. He stared down at it, jaw clenched. Meanwhile, hot tears streamed down your face.

You walked away first—out of the seaside bar in beautiful Venice, California, with every piece of your heart bleeding out into the street.

Another vodka cranberry at the end of the bar turned into shots you couldn’t name or count. You rebuffed men who tried to talk to you. You ignored the voice in your head that sounded a lot like your dad.

Sweet girl, what the hell’re you doin’?

You stopped trying to answer that question a long time ago. Just like your friends had stopped trying to get you out of the house after work. No more wine tastings or Sunday brunches. No more weekends at the beach. The coarse grains of sun-bleached sand would only remind you of Santa Cruz—a sweltering summer, a perfect day, now fractured and wrong in your mind’s eye.

A fucking lie.

Another empty glass hitting the bar counter drowned out the salty crash of ocean waves, but you finally had to stop when your stomach churned with alcoholic slosh. Your brain reeled when you tried to blink. Your eyes felt dry, irritated, and glassy at the same time.

You got up from your seat and used the wall like an anchor on your way to the bathroom. You checked yourself in the mirror there. Your black dress, your hair, and your makeup were still intact, so you supposed you still looked good, if absent in the eyes. Again, you blinked too hard. Fuck.

On your way back out, new noise was filling the bar. A whole group of four or five people came in and grabbed seats at the bar, laughing, ordering drinks, giving each other shit. They sounded like cops. You knew, because you’d grown up around them your entire life.

“All right, Oliveras. What’re you drinking?”

You stopped short at the voice, deep and rich like aged whiskey. In fact, you needed the back of an empty chair to hold you steady.

“What, you're buying?” she shot back.

Amber. You recognized her profile and the litheness of her frame. You two were old friends, since you roomed together back in college. You hadn’t heard from her in months though. She had called to give her condolences when your almost-marriage fell apart.

And now, your ex-fiancé had an arm draped casually behind her chair. His smile was effortless, charming, the crows’ feet around his eyes crinkled with amusement.

“Well, within reason,” he replied, inclining his head. “I think I’m in the mood for some good fuckin’ whiskey—”

You stumbled in your stupid heels. You nearly took a whole table with you, but two chairs broke your fall. Almost all the cops in the group looked your way, their heads swiveling with a trained response to sudden sounds. Your name fell from Amber’s lips, a small, shocked breath.

Mark’s mouth fell open, his eyes widening when you looked up at him on reflex. You were forced to take him in, his green eyes, the new haircut, the well-trimmed beard, the jeans and dark blue jacket. He had no fucking business looking that good.

But you were like two shocked deers not expecting to meet in a forest—neither one willing to move or speak, or even blink…

Until you stumbled again. Your weight on the unstable chair began to give way.

“Shit.”

He and Amber both jolted to help you. Mark’s hand reached for you first, but you firmly ignored it and somehow straightened onto your shaky feet. You smoothed down the dress and fixed the little straps the best you could, even though one was hanging down your shoulder.

Your arm got tangled in the thin chain of your purse, but you slung that over your other shoulder with all the grace of a toddler. Then you affected a “polite” smile that just came off looking like a grimace.

“Uh, hey. Of all the gin joints in the world and stuff, right?” You made sure to enunciate, hoping your hand wave was casual and not insane. “I’ve gotta go.”

You pointed toward the door before you made it your mission to actually get there. Your heart pounded loud in your ears. The rush of cool and quieter air was a balm to your frayed mind, but it wasn’t enough.

The way he looked at her…

The turning of your stomach became a violent roil. You closed your eyes against the movie reel torturing you in your mind. You imagined how their night would go, drinking, laughing, touching, stumbling back into his house at 2:00 a.m. Maybe he’d end up actually loving her, someone more like him. More than he claimed to have loved you.

The liquid contents of your stomach rebelled, and you threw up right on the edge of the street. You clung to a utility pole as you coughed and cried involuntary tears. You heaved and gasped for breath when you couldn’t stop.

“Hey, you okay, sweetheart?”

Alarm trilled in the back of your mind. You had enough awareness to look behind you. Finally, you noticed the guy. He’d approached you in the bar earlier, but you’d turned down his advances. You couldn’t remember what you said to him. He clearly remembered you, though.

You waved him off, not even able to speak as you tried to stay upright against the utility pole.

He didn’t take the hint. He drew closer, wrapping the pretense of a helping hand around your arm. He fingered the edge of your leather jacket.

“You need a ride? I’ll get you an Uber or something,” he said, with the facsimile of concern. “Where do you live?”

“Hey,” a voice cut in, deep and with authority.

You tilted your head, and Mark’s stern face came into view along with the rest of him. Him and those damn bowed legs.

“Take a walk, pal. I’ve got her,” Mark said. He flashed his LAPD badge for good measure.

That made it even easier to knock away the foreign hands off your body and angle himself in between. His arm came around your shoulders, supportive and safe.

Half of you was grateful, the other half resentful, but all you could do was glare at him. He shot you a quirking smile.

The other man backed off, trying to hide his annoyance. He continued down the street with his hands in his pockets. Mark itched to do more than just scare him off. A familiar protective anger had burned in his blood, raising his hackles, but he had to focus on you.

He led you back to the front of the bar. He went slow enough for you in those red stilettos (ridiculous, he thought, no matter how sexy they were).

“Late night, huh?” he said.

“What d'you think you’re doing?” you said. Your tone would be more snippy, if you had any energy left. Your inner world was reeling, unfocused and barely conscious. You had no choice but to lean on him as you gripped his jacket, the dark blue denim rough between your fingers.

“Well, I’m thinking I could call one of your friends, have ‘em take you home. You came out alone?” he asked. He was trying to be civil, retaining his sense of humor, but there was no masking the concern in his eyes. Not completely.

“No,” you admitted, “but ‘m alone now. Obviously.” You snorted.

Mark’s lips twitched upward. He heaved a small sigh. “All right. Well, who do you want me to call? Sarah? Yesenia? Lauren?”

After a moment, you shook your head, even though that just made it swim. Fuck.

“I can’t…don’t want them to see me like this,” you said. The confession provoked a sniffle, a tremble of your lips. This time, you couldn’t stop the sting of tears from flooding over. You covered your face, as if that could stop your embarrassment, your overwhelming emotions from clogging in your throat in a painful lump.

“Okay, it’s okay,” Mark said. His tone pitched deep and gentle. It was an easy reflex for him to give into as he soothed a hand over your hair to try and calm you down.

You didn’t know it, but there was a gaping ache in his chest that had never really faded away. Seeing you again, let alone like this, made it sharp and splintering.

He led you to his car, and he took you home.

For a moment, you saw it so clearly.

Tracing his brows, the line of his nose, and the cut of his chin while he slept. What his hair felt like between your fingers, loose and soft, or gripped tight with need.

The sound of his voice reaching deep into your bones. The way his arms allowed you to reclaim safety whenever he came back to you…

Worrying for your dad on his twenty-five-year beat in Homicide had transitioned into worrying for Mark. He was always quick to reassure you though, to downplay with his ridiculous sense of humor and good sex. The best, actually.

But it was the in between moments you missed the most.

The distant sound of a lock turning in the door had you waking, slowly, a silent struggle in your bed. Your eyes cracked open.

Were you okay now? Was that him? Was he home? Had the past year just been a cruel invention of your mind to torture you?

…No. Your throat momentarily closed up as you realized. This really was just your shitty reality.

You groaned as you picked your head off the pillow, pushing your body up until you were sitting on the edge of your bed. Your bare legs hung off the side. You still wore your wrinkled black dress from last night, but your heels were strewn forgotten on the floor. You didn’t remember taking them off. You didn’t remember getting back to your apartment, let alone to your bed.

However, it all started coming back to you when the door shut again. Fresh coffee wafted in from the living room, along with something sweeter.

Your bedroom door creaked open, and there he was. Mark fucking Meachum.

He held a tray with two hot coffees and a greasy brown bag from your favorite bakery. Your gaze crept up to meet his, though yours was decidedly grumpy.

“Well, good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he said with a smile. “It’s already almost noon, but I figured we can’t start the day without coffee.”

“Did you stay here all night?” you croaked in disbelief.

“Yeah, just, uh, took the couch out there,” he said, pointing in the direction of the living room. “Could use a couple of extra throw pillows though. Think I got another notch in my spine…”

At your persisting glare, his expression sobered.

“Just wanted to make sure you were okay, that’s all,” he said.

“Well, mission accomplished,” you snarked. “You can go now.”

Mark watched you try and fail to stand. You sunk back down to a seat on the edge of the bed, closing your eyes for a second while you attempted to stop your head from swimming.

He sighed and set down the coffee and pastries on your desk nearby.

“Have you been making this a habit?” he asked.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but last night was the first bar I’ve been to in exactly nine months and...fifteen days,” you replied. You swept your fingers over your cheeks, grimacing when you found remains of your mascara. You probably looked like a gremlin. This wasn’t exactly the way you wanted to look when you next saw your ex.

Except you’d never planned to see this man again.

“All right,” Mark said. He grabbed your purse off your desk, where he’d set it last night. He popped it open, your private goddamn property.

“Excuse me,” you protested angrily.

He retrieved a whole pack of cigarettes. “How about these?”

He tossed you the pack, and you barely caught it. Your irritation grew and grew, along with the sting of shame. The worst part was, he knew he didn’t have to say anything.

The unfiltered nicotine in your hand was the reason your father died. He’d been the Captain of Mark’s precinct for ten years—the exact number of years since your dad had quit smoking. It hadn’t mattered much in the end.

Still, you resented that raised brow of judgment on Mark’s face.

You leaned over and grabbed a lighter from your nightstand. You fished out a cigarette from the pack, and you took your time lighting it up. You were being an asshole, you realized, but you couldn’t stop yourself.

You made a show of holding the cancer stick between two fingers. You looked up at Mark, right in his eyes, and tried to channel Audrey Hepburn when you brought it to your lips for a long drag.

And you immediately coughed it up. Fuck.

Smoke polluted the air above your head while Mark nodded in vindication.

“Yeah. How’d that feel, Smokey?” he asked (all too high-and-mighty, in your opinion). He crossed the distance and took the cigarette from your hand while you kept coughing. He went into the bathroom to get rid of it.

Meanwhile, you held a hand to your chest and groaned. Damn him, he was right. Your stomach roiled at just the taste of that shit in your mouth, let alone first thing in the morning.

“Why don’t you get cleaned up?” he suggested, sweeping a hand toward your adjoining bathroom when he came back out. “A little coffee and sustenance will be waiting when you’re done.”

“Seriously, you can go. You don’t need to wait up for me,” you rasped, but the man still helped you to your feet with a supportive hand on your arm and your lower back.

“Yeah, and what if you lose your balance and crack your head on the bathroom tile? Nope, not on my watch.”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered.

“He ain’t gonna help if you take his name in vain like that,” Mark couldn’t help but tease, fully expecting your glare. That was something your mom used to say.

You groaned, annoyed and still nauseous.

“Would you just shut up?”

“Nope, pretty sure I’m physically incapable.”

You snorted. “Clearly.”

He made sure you were steady on your feet before he left you in the bathroom. You avoided his gaze when he closed the door. His heart gave a painful pulse.

What the fuck am I doing? he thought.

Brushing your teeth and taking a hot shower had its innumerable benefits—making you feel alive and close to normal again, for example. But the one thing it didn’t do was get Mark out of your apartment.

You sat together on your couch while the TV played at a low volume. You saw the remnants of Mark’s night in your favorite throw blanket tossed over one of the armrests. The pillow he'd used for his head was caved in and smelling like his cologne, a rich, woody scent of sandalwood, spice, and musk.

You tried to ignore it while you finished eating a blueberry muffin. He polished off his third donut and washed it down with some more coffee.

“So,” you said. “Amber Oliveras.”

Mark blinked in confusion. “What?”

“Last night. You two were out together, seemed to be having a good time. Sorry I crashed your date,” you said, trying not to seem as bitter you sounded in your head.

Mark’s brows furrowed. “We’re, uh, not together. Not like that. We’re just working a case.”

“A case?” you said dubiously. “She’s DEA. You’re Homicide. What kind of case would you be working on together?”

He hesitated, brushing some pastry crumbs from his mouth. “Sorry, I can’t get into the specifics. You know the drill.”

Yes, you knew his cases were supposed to be confidential, but that hadn’t stopped him from telling you details before, especially because you were D.A. Valwell’s Executive Assistant. You had a higher clearance than the average civilian anyway.

But you let it go. It truly wasn’t your business, after all.

It was Mark’s turn to look your way. Morbid curiosity was eating him alive. Or maybe that was just the pull of being with you again, seeing your face, hearing your voice…even if you hated him.

He did think you were torturing him a bit too. You smelled nice, like floral soap and minty freshness. You were wearing an oversized shirt from your college days that was already threadbare from how many times you ran it through the wash. It slipped off one shoulder and barely went halfway down your thighs, brushing the edge of some little shorts. He had to stop his eyes from following the path of your bare legs.

“So, uh, how’ve you been?” he asked.

You paused. You even set down your muffin and chuckled, giving him a long look.

“How does it look like I’ve been?”

A grim silence fell between you two, thick and tense.

“All right," he said. "How long’ve you been smoking?”

You shook your head, lips pursing at his audacity. “You really don’t have any right to judge me. You know that, right?”

Mark rubbed a hand over his mouth and chin, an anxious, frustrated tick you knew well. “Look, what happened back then—”

You rose a hand to stop him. “Please, for the love of God. We don’t have to go through this shit again.”

You got up from the couch, intending to throw away the coffee cups and garbage if it meant gaining some space from this man.

But he followed you, stopped you with an imploring grip on your arm.

“It wasn’t what it looked like,” he said. He met your gaze, firm, earnest. “It didn’t go down the way she said.”

Your instinct was to jerk your arm out of his grasp, but he just held you in place, gently, but insistent.

“Are you gonna let me explain this time? If you do, then just let me get it out. And afterward I’ll screw. I’ll walk the fuck outta here, and I promise you, you’ll never have to see me again.”

You stared up at him, close to seething, but there was something in his eyes that stilled you, gripped you more than his hands. A sliver of doubt began to creep in.

Your sister apparently hated you enough to fuck your fiancé. Had she been vindictive enough to lie about it?

You had realized, all too late, that you couldn’t put anything past her. Mark could be stubborn, but he wouldn’t dig his heels in on this without a reason.

So you relented, with a small nod.

Breathing a subtle exhale of relief, Mark guided you back down to the couch. You turned off the TV and sat facing him with your arms crossed. You gave him an expectant look.

Mark steeled himself. Where to fucking start?

A beat to think, and then he knew.

He had to give you everything.

Nine Months Ago...

One late night. One fifth of whiskey at the hotel bar turned into numbers Mark stopped counting—until the Captain reminded him. Your father reminded him beyond the grave, with words Mark never forgot.

You’ve got someone waiting for you. Don’t take that for granted.

He needed to find you.

Somehow, he made it to the elevator by himself. Third floor. Room 304, 305, 306. Fuck. Was it 309?

The door opened, and his addled fucking brain thought it was you at first. She almost had your eyes, if just half the sincerity of your smile.

Rachel welcomed him in and shut the door. He stumbled at the threshold, and she stopped him from falling completely onto the floral-patterned carpet.

“Oh my God, Mark. You okay?”

No. And he knew he wasn’t ever gonna be okay.

But her hands were warm, carving sensuous paths under his leather jacket without him realizing.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you,” she said, guiding him further into her hotel room. With slurring words, Mark asked her to go find you. He needed to talk to you.

“Shit, think I left my phone downstairs too. Needa get it,” he muttered.

“You’re a mess. I think you need to lay down first,” she said, huffing as she supported his weight over to her bed. She helped him lay down. A subtle smile tugged at her lips as she began to open up his jacket. He resisted at first, giving her a look of confusion.

“You should get comfortable. I doubt we’re gonna be able to move you from here.” She giggled.

He guessed he could see the sense in that. He let her help him shrug the black leather jacket off. You helped him pick it out a couple of weeks ago while you were planning for this trip.

Rachel tossed his jacket to the foot of the bed, and she sat close to him on the edge of it. Her bare thigh brushed against his arm as the skirt of her dress rode up. It looked like she’d been about to take a shower after a night out with you and your friends. He instinctively moved his arm, crossing it with the other over his chest.

“You know, I never got a chance to thank you,” she said.

Mark’s brows furrowed. It was taking all of his concentration just to keep her face in focus.

“For what?”

“You were really there for me when Dad passed. You were like our rock, coming by with food, checking in on me when you visited. It really meant a lot to me,” she said. Her words said one thing, but her eyes were beginning to lead him somewhere.

“Your dad was a good man,” he said tiredly. “You guys went through a lot. You, your mom, your sister. It uh, hit her pretty hard.”

Rachel’s lips pressed together. “Yeah… She was his favorite, you know.”

Mark blinked. “What, he said that?”

“He didn’t have to,” she said, glancing away. She began to drum her fingers against his arm. He noticed it, but he was also trying to concentrate on what she was saying. “He always talked to her more, trusted her more, even when he was harping on her. She got that government job, probably thanks to him. But he was proud of her.”

“’M sure he was proud of you too,” Mark said.

“No, I don’t think so. I just don’t know why,” she said, sniffling as tears welled up in her eyes.

Mark frowned in sympathy. “Aw, hey.”

He didn’t know how to make her feel better, but he didn’t like to see her cry either. He sat up the best he could in the bed. She met him halfway, burying her face in his chest and sliding her arms around his middle for a hug. He gave her that comfort, patting her on the back.

Only, she didn’t stop there. She shimmied a bit higher and buried her face in his neck, where she pressed a little kiss. An alarm bell rang in Mark’s mind, but his body was too slow to respond. She turned her head and laid another kiss on his cheek, and then his lips.

He finally jerked back, holding her at arm’s length.

“Hey. What the hell’re you doing?” he demanded. His tone was sharp without a filter.

Rachel’s tearful eyes met his as she bit her lip. Her hand tentatively drew down his chest, warm over his shirt.

“I just…I finally had to tell you how much you mean to me,” she said. “And I think she takes you for granted.”

His brows furrowing, Mark grabbed her wrist.

“Rach, I love you. I really do, but you’re like a lil' sister to me. I love your sister. I wanna marry her.”

The thought alone struck a sharp jolt of pain through his skull, and through his chest. He did want a life with you. But is that fucking fair?

Could he really shackle you to a dying man?

Sure, he didn’t know how long he had, but that could be a cruel waiting game, one you'd just gone through with your father for three months. Mark didn’t want to put you through that all over again.

“Look, just...go tell her 'm here. Please,” he said. The fight was draining out of him. His energy was waning, his eyes blinking slow.

Rachel nodded, wiping at her tears. She left him in a huff, but she went to lock herself up in the bathroom first. The sink faucet turned on.

Mark sighed. Fine, let her clean up and pull herself together, but she’d better go get you. He doubted he could make it, even if he crawled. But if he had to, he would…

Slowly, the ticking seconds turned longer. His eyes grew heavier, until he was unable to pry them open again. He fell asleep.

He woke to a streaming sun in his eyes, and a pounding ache between them.

Shit. He groaned, covering his eyes. Maybe getting drunk wasn’t good for an already fucked head after all.

“Hmm, good morning, sleepyhead.”

Mark frowned. He looked over and found Rachel leaning on his arm. She was lying naked under the thinnest sheet. He knew, not only because of her bare shoulders, but her nipples poking through the fabric.

“Jesus Christ,” he grunted, immediately turning over to climb out of the bed. He was very fucking relieved to see he still had his jeans and underwear on, but his shirt was missing. He found it strewn on the floor.

“You actually did that yourself,” Rachel remarked. “Think you got a bit hot last night.”

There was a playful note in her voice. Mark grit his teeth. He was fucking pissed.

“You’re over the fucking line, you hear me?” he snapped.

“What, are you really gonna tell her?” she taunted. “It’s not like we did anything. I just prefer to sleep naked.”

He snorted. Sure. And what happened to the part where she was supposed to go find you and tell you where he was? No, the girl saw an opportunity, and she took it.

Mark hesitated though, because she raised a good point. Goddamn it, what was he going to tell you?

His jaw clenched, and he angrily finished getting dressed. He got up and stormed out of the hotel room, but not before Rachel got of out bed and let the sheet fall away from her slender form. She walked in confidence and feminine sway over to the bathroom, smiling in amusement when he quickly turned away before he saw anything.

The door slammed shut.

Her smile slowly fell. Tears of embarrassment stung in her eyes. Not really because he was mad at her, but because he’d rejected her too.

She knew it was wrong. Yeah, she was pretty sure it was the worst thing she’d ever done. Part of her even hated herself for it. You were her older sister, after all. You, who always looked out for her when you two were kids—better than Mom did. You, who got the most attention from Dad, and the quiet reliance of Mom.

Yeah, Rachel did love you...but she also kind of hated you too.

After she got dressed, she went back to find her phone. She cycled through the pictures she took, every angle that made it seem like your fiancé had spent the night in her arms after the hot and steamy bits.

It was a joke. A cruel prank. But maybe after this, you wouldn’t open your mouth to criticize her ever again. Maybe you’d think twice next time, because in the back of your mind, you’d remember that she could’ve had your man.

Now...

Mark finished telling you the story from his perspective. He gave you as many details as he could remember: what she said and did, and what he said and did.

Understandably, you were getting more upset by the moment. That pendulum swung between shock, and anger, and upset again. It all culminated in hot tears as you crossed your arms, holding a hand over your mouth.

“How do I know that’s true?” you asked, wiping vainly at your cheeks.

The problem was, you wanted to believe him. Of course, you also wanted to believe your sister wasn’t quite as screwed up and hateful as you thought she was, but even this was insane. You'd only ever tried to look out for her. Maybe along the way you had been a little critical, a little too judgmental. But had you really deserved this?

Could you even let yourself hope it was all a lie?

Mark met your gaze head on. “Look me in the eyes and tell me I’m lying.”

You sighed in frustration. “Mark, you’re a professional fucking liar. I’m not a human polygraph.”

“But you know me.”

“I thought I did,” you said, rubbing at your eyes with shaking hands. Eventually, you were able to look at him again. “If what you said is true, why the hell didn’t you just tell me that?”

“You wouldn’t let me! You made up your mind before I could get a word in edgewise.”

“I was angry!"

God, what an understatement. You'd been so furious and hurt, you'd seriously debated taking one of your dad's old golf clubs and knocking out every window, headlight, and tail light in Mark's precious car.

"So you're saying you didn’t even fight for me. You just let me think the worst of you all this time? For what?!” You sunk your hands into your hair and pulled hard on the strands. You shook your head. “And you know what, why did you get so drunk in the first place? Your friends told me you went back to the hotel early, by yourself. It had to be for a reason.”

Mark nodded slowly.

That was when he knew, he really did have to give you everything.

“You, uh…remember those headaches I’d been getting?” he said. “Started about a month after your dad passed.”

Your brows wrinkled with a hint of confusion, but you nodded as the memory resurfaced.

“Yeah, you were going through entire bottles of Advil. But what does that—”

“I went to the doctor.” Mark rubbed a clammy palm over his jeans. He could stare down murderers, drug lords, and terrorists with steel in his veins, but coming clean with you was going to be one of the hardest things he’d ever done. He knew it in his bones, just like he knew why he needed to do it.

“Turns out… I’m sick, baby.”

Your expression changed, almost instantly. Traces of anger and doubt fell away, but so did some of the color in your face.

Mark took the chance to get a little closer on the couch. He laid a hand over yours on your thigh, but your whole body was locked up, sitting very still.

“W-What do you mean?” you asked.

“I mean,” he sighed, “I’ve got a mass in my brain the size of Nevada. I don't know how much time I got exactly, but..."

Your eyes widened. Your hands clenched into the fabric of your shirt, until your nails bit into your palms. As you processed those words and began to understand the weight of them, it sunk inky claws into your mind, into every shady corner.

You shook your head in denial, lips trembling. Mark just held your gaze, a silent confirmation that he said nothing but the truth.

"I found out a few days before the trip to Venice. I was trying to figure out how to tell you, but obviously I didn’t handle that part very well," he said.

Anger, stubbornness, suspicion, pretending you didn't care what he had to say—all of that faded. It drained out of your muscles, out of your pores. You began to fall apart.

You turned your hand under his and squeezed, hard. It was a while before you could speak, but Mark was patient. He held your hand and stroked his thumb back and forth across your skin while you tried and failed to hold onto your tears. Then your soul-wracking sobs.

Finally, he couldn’t help himself. He brought you closer, soothing a hand over your hair and pressing a kiss to your temple. You rested your forehead against his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” you said, a coarse whisper. “God, Mark. Why the fuck would you let me think you cheated on me, with my sister?”

He gave a wry huff. “I guess I thought I was being noble. I thought I’d rather have you hate me, than try to stay with me. Watch me break down, bit by bit, for God knows how fucking long. Now I know I’m just selfish. I don’t want you to see me like that… Hell, I don’t wanna see me like that.”

You pulled back on him. Devastation filled your bleary eyes, but you caressed his cheek with a shaking hand.

“Have you gotten treatment?” you asked.

“Doc says it’s not worth it.”

The divot between your brows deepened. “What about a second opinion?”

He hesitated.

“Have you seen another oncologist?” you pressed.

“No. Guess I didn’t see the point. I saw the scans myself. I don’t know how you’d confuse a big fucking tumor for anything else.”

“Mark.” You shook your head and wordlessly guided him closer. You framed his face with both hands, while his own found purchase on the soft curve of your waist.

It was nice to feel your touch again…but at what cost? All that stubborn fire in your eyes, all that pain, it was everything he’d been trying to avoid.

Still, you were gentle, sliding your fingers up into his hair. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

After all this time, you were still his peaceful spot. If you only knew the amount of death he’d seen in just the past couple of weeks on Blythe’s taskforce, the chaos, the stress of near-misses, being on the sweet razor edge of getting killed, saving his own body the trouble. That thrill took its toll.

Before that, those nine months undercover had been a divorce from his reality, pretending that he hadn’t left you broken along with whatever heart there was left in him.

He never imagined that he’d be here with you again. He never thought you’d forgive him, let alone touch him like you still loved him.

When he opened his eyes, you were still there. Tears clung wet to your lashes. You led him closer, where you tenderly rested your forehead against his.

He let you do it too. You were the only one he’d soften up for like this.

He smiled. “Hmmm. What now, sweetheart?”

You bit your lip, but you slowly pulled back and opened your eyes. You didn’t go far though.

You guided him into an even more familiar path to your lips. It was more bittersweet than he remembered, but worth it all the same.

He was home.

AN: So, you guys forgive me? 😘💙 I know it's not the happiest ending ever, but it felt like a good place to pause for these two. Rachel was more complex than she seemed, and so was Mark's side of the story!

I have at least one more actual drabble in mind for these two, coming soon! 😂 Please let me know what you thought of this one 💜

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It seems like a lot of people on the Dean tag list like Mark! lol So if you prefer not to be on this list, just let me know. I'll take you off no problem (you won't hurt my feelings lol 💜).

@luci-in-trenchcoats @lamentationsofalonelypotato @winchestergirl2 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373

@chevroletdean @hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl

@midnightmadwoman @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @waywardxwords @twinkleinadiamondsky

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@stoneyggirl2 @cheynovak @jollyhunter @deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @kmc1989 @siampie @masked-lost-girl

@spnbabe67 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @supernotnatural2005 @globetrotter28

@cookiechipdough @winchesterwild78 @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @iprobablyshipit91 @bleuatlas

@mrsjenniferwinchester @fromcaintodean @kiddieclaws

#lovely review! 💖#reader appreciation #lovely mutuals #zep replies

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