#( but hi everyone I love you all so so so much )

[stzrgirl4norris]

This One's For Your Girlfriend - MV01

Max Verstappen x Reader

summary: what is the best way to get revenge out of your cheating boyfriend? simple answer. date his favorite driver.

word count: 7k

(this is a smau and story at the same time)

thank you to everyone who motivated me to write this!! i hope you like it!!

tagged: @star73807-blog, @lillacisbored, @fastlikeferrari, @clearlandchild, @canyon-nina, @folkloresreputation, @kasiewrites, @camilahpg03, @luvsforme, @tsnelf7, @littlegrapejuice, @athanasia-day, @themultifanshipper, @ecleticcreatorweaselsalad, @lilasthoughtss

The bitter taste of Vodka burning on your throat couldn’t mask the erratic rhythm of the drums pounding in your ears. On a good note, the song was so loud it was impossible for you to focus on anything - you can also blame that for the alcohol running in your bloodstream. 

It was Monaco. Glorious, glamorous, the country of clubs and billionaires, where, even if you were poor, you were still filthy rich. 

You were sure you would be enjoying yourself, had it not been the unfortunate circumstances on your pathetic private life. It was supposed to be a couple’s trip, fancy, much like a honeymoon. You wanted to surprise your boyfriend - well, ex-boyfriend - with tickets to the Monaco race for his birthday, but before you could even wrap a cute baby blue ribbon around the Paddock Passes, you received a text - or rather a picture - from a random girl on your instagram DM’s. The image was clear, your boyfriend was locking lips with some blonde on a random Thursday night. You didn’t know the girl who sent it, maybe she was your guardian angel, maybe someone who knew you from college. It didn’t matter. What truly mattered was the pain breaking your bones, followed by the anger twisting your upper stomach.

He tried to reach out and explain himself, but there was nothing that could free him from the charges once the proof was so unquestionable. 

After that, every time you looked at those stupid Paddock Passes you thought about burning them, alongside a few of his t-shirts. But your rational brain was always something you were proud of. Why burn them if you can just enjoy the perks? 

Were you a big Formula 1 fan? No shot. It all started off as a way of  pleasing your ex on Sundays, and then it quite became an unspoken tradition. You didn’t know all the drivers names, only the ones that won most of the time, and you still couldn’t figure out if Lewis Hamilton was a Mercedes or a Ferrari driver. And, wait, where was Daniel Ricciardo? The thing is, it was never about the sport, to you, it was only about the quality-time in the relationship.

However, with all your apathetic knowledge of races and Grand Prixs, you knew one important thing, Max Verstappen. Your ex’s favorite driver. God, you even had t-shirts with his number on it. You rooted for him, because your boyfriend did. So, now that there was no boyfriend, you wanted Max Verstappen to actually crash his car on Turn 1. Sure, maybe it was a little bit mean to project your anger on a guy who is just doing his job, but the rage inside of you was so sharp that everything your boyfriend once loved, became what you now hate. So what if Max Verstappen is one of those things? He doesn’t know you.

The arrival to Monaco was chaotic. There was no way of getting to it by plane, so you had to spent an unholy amount of euros on an Uber ride. At least you got a chance to ride on a fancy white Jaguar that only existed on a parallel reality to yours.

You packed your best clothes, fancy satin dresses, short flowy skirts, the ones you’ve been saving most of your life for that special occasion that never really arrived. Now it was the time. Young, single, enjoying the salty air of Monte Carlo. You wanted to make sure no one knew you’ve been through a break up and you thought you were doing a good job, but, God, every corner of that country screamed your ex’s name.

Maybe a night out in a club before Qualifying would do you good. From the outside perspective, you looked stunning. Goddess-like. Everyone could tell you were not from Monaco, because there was something about you that stood out from that dystopian place, something which some might like to call a personality. No designer brands sticking out, no fake anything, no trying too hard, just a simple but effective beauty.

“Would you like another shot?”

The bartender’s loud voice overlapped the electronic beat. You looked down at the empty glass shot between your fingers. The image brought back the unbearable taste of Vodka, which made you involuntarily twist your lips.

“Uh… Sure.”

You nodded, but the hesitation was dripping from your lips.

“Maybe you should make her something she actually enjoys drinking.”

You heard the masculine voice coming from your right side. The sentence was filled with confidence, mixed with a sense of humor that was dry. You didn’t dare to look at the man, you were not looking for one, in fact, you much preferred if they were far away from you.

“And how do you know what I like to drink?”

Your answer just slipped your tongue, it was supposed to stay in your thoughts. But that was the Vodka effect. Maybe the stranger was right, you should stop.

“Feisty.” You rolled your eyes. “But no one actually likes the taste of that shit.”

“Well, I’m not drinking for the taste of anything.”

You looked to your right, over your shoulder, with annoyance tattooed on your face. And then you saw him. Black t-shirt, fitted jeans, black cap backwards. Piercing blue eyes. Looking like a frat boy from a sorority or someone from high school you’d have a crush on from afar. 

“You could still get drunk on Gin and Tonics and they taste pretty nice. Trust me.” He gave you a polite smile, lips closed. “I’m Max.”

You had to use your sober side to control any facial expression in that moment. Must the universe play such twisted games with you? Does God actually believe you’re one of his strongest soldiers?

It was unwitting the way you relaxed your posture once you managed to understand what was going on. Blame it on the celebrity halo effect. It was like he pushed all your negativity out of the club, even the songs sounded decent now. 

He did not look this hot on tv.

“I’m YN.”

He nodded and you noticed his grin. Wild. Trouble.

“So… Gin and Tonics?” He shook the glass cup on his right hand, the ice cubes making a light sound.

“I think I will actually just stop with the drinking.”

Because you wanted to remember every single aspect of that interaction so you could journal it and send it on a letter to your ex-boyfriend. See? I’m talking with Max Verstappen and you’re just dreaming about getting a glimpse of him.

“You are not from around here.”

He wasn’t asking, it was a statement. You didn’t know if you should take it the wrong way, if you looked so pathetically poor or outcasted, but his tone didn’t seem to imply this. Max was curious. He didn’t ask to offend, he asked with admiration.

“Damn, do I look that poor?”

You joked, getting a silent laugh from him.

“No, not at all! I meant it in the best way.” Max looked at the crowd of people dancing around, instantly making you pay attention to it too. The girls were well dressed, out of this world, like the Met Gala happened everyday here. You noticed, but never really paid that much attention. But, honestly, it’s not like you were self-conscious about it. Who care? In a few days you would leave and they would never see you again. “Everyone here is wearing some designer of some sorts, or glitter, or insanely high heels and expensive watches. You’re wearing flat sandals and you hair is beach wavy.”

You blushed, feeling suddenly overwhelmed with the fact that he analyzed you with caution.

“Don’t get me wrong, I would wear Louboutin’s if I had them.” Truth is, there was a part of you that think you would have fun in this lifestyle. There’s nothing wrong with dressing fancy and wearing designer, as long as you’re doing it for the fun and not to show off. “But, following your logic, you’re wearing a plain black tee and backwards cap.”

He raised his now empty glass. Max was never one to flaunt wealth in his fashion. He wasn’t, actually, a fashion guy. He was the type of guy who enjoyed spending his money on other people, or at least on things to do, things to get him out of boredom.

“Am I supposed to be wearing something else?”

“Maybe some RedBull merch?”

That got a loud laugh out of him. That was it for Max. He was officially invested in this. You knew who he was, yet you were still treating him like he was just some random guy flirting with you in a club. Of course, a guy you were minimally interested in. There was no starry admiration in your eyes, just plain acknowledge of his presence. 

“A-ha. So you do know who I am.”

“I think everyone in Monaco this weekend knows who you are.”

You didn’t know your words caused his chest to tighten a bit. But, of course, it wasn’t your fault. You weren’t aware of his issues with his public presence and persona. No one was, actually. Max never really said out loud how he hated being famous, although he thought his private manners spoke it loudly for him.

You noticed, however, his shoulders tensed up a bit and the air between you was slightly heavier. 

“Are you here for the race, then?”

“It’s a funny, long, too much information type of story…”

You opened the breach. Were you planning on telling about your disaster of a dating life to Max Verstappen? Never in a million years, but he looked like the guy who needed to hear some common human issues. Max craved normality, you could read that. So you were going to give it to him.

“Hm, now you will have to tell me.” Max looked around, aware of the discomfort coming from the loud, stupid electronic track that he actually would like if the sound of your voice wasn’t ten times more interesting. “Follow me.”

Max had no problem walking through the crowd, people would just simply open the space he needed to pass, like he was the prince of Monaco himself, some authority figure that could go anywhere and get anything. That part of his fame he liked it, there was no denying.

You held his hand firmly, like you’d be dropped at the ocean if you let go. His skin was rough and firm, with a few calluses. Hands that could break you if you allowed. The pressure he was applying on your palm was like a reassurance.

You followed Max to what looked like a private room, with a few booths, away from all the noise. The light was dim and yellow, moody, a typical place for flirting. Not necessarily romantic, though. The energy emanating was too sensual to allow space for any fairytale date.

Around you, you could see a few recognizable faces. Celebrities, models with old men, drivers. Lewis Hamilton particularly caught your eye, sitting in a booth, listening to a blonde girl talking. Unlike everybody else who seemed mesmerized by Max’s presence, Lewis didn’t care, in fact, he didn’t even acknowledged your existence, like he was above you, or Max. Truth is, he probably was.

Max guided you to a place in the corner, far away from the others, isolated. It felt like a calculated move. The dutch waited like a gentleman for you to sit down first, taking his seat right in front of you. The black table separating you with a single candle lit by a lonely flame wasn’t enough distance, it felt unduly intimate.

“So… What is the too much information, funny, story?”

He took a sip of his drink, that by now consisted in mere melted ice cubes with whatever was left of a lemon.

“I bought the tickets a few months ago, as a gift, for my boyfriend.” You saw Max’s lips curling in a smirk once you said the infamous word. “Now ex-boyfriend.” The emphasis on the first half of the word was deliberate.

“Tough breakup?”

“I found out he cheated on me through pictures that were sent on my Instagram Directs.”

Max tilted his head, he was convinced that something similar probably happened to him once.

“Well, first of all, I’m sorry, he’s a douche.” You brushed it off, a shoulder movement that made explicit that you were, somehow, almost over it. “Second, you said it was funny.”

“Well, here’s the funny part. I never liked Formula 1. No offense.”

“Non taken.”

“But Peter was, like, obsessed with it. He knew everything, about everything. He had merch, lego cars, watched countless races in person, and the ones he couldn’t attend, he watched on Tv. Never missed a single one.”

Max laughed. Your description of his behavior wasn’t news to him, it sounded like just the average Formula 1 fan, but maybe that was the view from the public who had no idea how much passionate sports fan can be.

“So you bought him Monaco tickets. That’s sweet.”

“When we broke up I contemplated selling the tickets and getting my money back. But why would I do that when I could live the experience he always dreamt of?”

Your comment sparked something in Max’s chest. You were feisty, he could see you had a fire in you. He recognized, somewhere in your eyes and demeanor, that you had the rage and determination he only truly saw in himself. 

“So you flew out here?”

“Hoping I could see his favorite driver crash and send a video to him.”

“And who’s that?”

“You.”

Max tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. The fact that you just admitted you were hoping he would crash didn’t even bother him, because the confidence and malice in how you said it, turned him on. It’s like you were a challenge, unlike any other person he ever met. He wasn’t offended by anything you said, he was, on the other hand, completely captivated.

“I’m sorry to break it to you, sweets, I’m not going to crash just so you could get revenge on your pathetic ex-boyfriend.”

You giggled, feeling a rush of goosebumps with the nickname that escaped his lips so naturally, like it was something easy for him to say.

“No, I know. I guess talking to you is enough revenge already.”

You said the word talking, but both of you knew that wasn’t simply it. The air was denser and filled with dirty thoughts both of you had crossing your mind.

“Yeah, except he’ll never know you are here talking to me.”

You shrugged.

“It’s okay. Sometimes revenge is not about a public act, but an act of self gratification.”

Maybe it was the Vodka hitting, maybe it was how beautiful Max’s eyes looked when they were reflecting eroticism, or maybe it was just the confidence that you packed and brought it out like a hidden gun, but your words were explicit enough for him to understand the double meaning.

“So, since plan A is not going to work, your plan B is fucking your boyfriend’s favorite driver and what? Send him a sextape?”

Max was joking, clearly, but every time he thought back about it, he realized he wasn’t opposed to the idea at all.

You raised an eyebrow, as if daring him to agree to a plan HE was the one who created. You never said anything about a sex tape, or sex, at all. Turns out Max Verstappen had the devil in his mind, especially when confronted with a beautiful girl.

“Look, I can’t give you a crash, or a sextape…” He let the phrase prolong, like he had something to add. “But I can give you something else.”

You narrowed your eyes, tempted.

“And what is that?”

“Come to the RedBull garage this weekend, with me. I’ll make sure he sees you.”

You were out of breath for a moment, nearly choking on air. Your mind racing with ideas and ‘what-ifs’. Being on the spotlight was never your thing. Normal job, normal clothes, normal apartment, you would even call yourself basic. Simple. And there was nothing wrong with that. You liked the shadows, you liked doing your own thing without strangers lurking and noticing. It gave you a sense of freedom. If you were not in the spotlight, no one could judge and you could do what your heart truly desired.

Being in the RedBull garage with Max would change everything, your whole way of living. Because once you are seen in public with a guy like him, people never forget. It would give you a new identity, people would gossip, comment on your appearance, on your manners. It was too much.

Max could see the hesitation emanating from you, which sort of made him like you even more. Any girl would jump onto that opportunity, but you seemed actually worried about the consequences.

“I don’t know, Max. He’s not the only one who’s going to see me. People will talk.”

“So?”

“People will gossip. About me.”

“Who cares about what other people think?” You didn’t answer. Of course Max Verstappen didn’t care about other people, he didn’t have to, he would still be successful and talented regardless of what people would say, and he would still be adored. Because unlike you, he had an army of a fanbase to support him. “Look, YN, you’re not going to show up as my girlfriend or anything, people bring guests to the Paddock all the time. It’s really nothing if you think about it, and it will give you exactly what you need.”

Max promised to himself he wasn’t going to push if you said no. But he legitimately wanted you there, not only for the revenge or the ploy around your love life, but so that he could spend a little bit more time with you.

“I suppose we can try tomorrow and if it goes well, I’ll be there on Sunday too.”

Max smiled, ear to ear, a rare Max Verstappen smile journalist would be fighting over a picture. But it was natural and real, like the ones he had when he held his trophies.

“I have a condition though.”

“Oh, a second ago you were begging for me to agree to this, and now you have conditions?”

“I was not begging.” He kinda was though. “And I am the one doing you a favor, so, yes, I have a condition.”

You smirked.

“Ok, let’s hear it.”

“A date on Sunday night, after the race.”

Max had a dirty smirk hidden on the corner of his lips, which made your stomach twist with a familiar sensation you couldn’t quite name it.

“To celebrate your win?” You teased.

“To celebrate both our wins.”

Licking your lips, you couldn’t help but look at him like you were no better than any man. A date with a cute guy who was actually interesting and had a spark of evilness that matched you? Yeah, no one could refuse that.

“You better not crash then.”

Max laughed, relaxing his posture.

“I’m too good for crashing.”

You gave him your left hand, waiting for a shake, like sealing a deal between two powerful businesses.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

yourusername added to their story

"won't you guess where i am?"

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Saturday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

As soon as qualifying was done, you heard the whispers, from celebrities on the Paddock, from members of the RedBull team, even drivers and their girlfriends. Everyone was polite, cordially polite, but no one dared to ask your name, that day you were simply “the girl that came with Max.” Little did you know people were dying to unravel the mystery surrounding your persona. Who are you? How do you know Max? Are you and Max dating? It made you nervous.

You felt isolated. It was another reality, the people were so rich you were certain they didn’t know what working 9 to 5 felt like, or how it feels to get recognized for your ideas. At least, you had to admit that watching the whole thing in person was way more fun than on TV. Something, perhaps, you could start enjoying.

You were standing alone next to a window in RedBull’s hospitality, holding a glass of champagne that felt rude to decline. The room suddenly lit up, you heard loud claps all around, whistles buzzing. Between the fancy dresses and expensive t-shirts, you saw Max, walking with confidence, like he was royalty. 

Max politely smiled and shook hands with everybody congratulating him. Pole sitter. In Monaco. A big thing, from what you learned. However, the excited strangers and members of the team were not able to stop Max from walking straight to you, like he had a duty, like getting pole position was a purpose.

“Hello there, pretty.”

He smiled and you noticed how his features softened. Max was sweaty, hair messy, racing suit falling over his hips. You cursed. God damn it that man was breathtaking. Everything got even worse when he hugged your shoulders, placing a gentle, shy kiss on your cheeks. The room fell silent as everyone paid close attention to Max Verstappen being tender.

“Congratulations!”

“Did you enjoy it?”

You smiled, big, setting off an involuntary reaction on Max, that mimicked your smile as well.

“Way better than from home.”

“Any news?”

Max asked shamelessly, excited for the answer, excited to know if your boyfriend was cursing his own life for letting you go.

“Not yet. Maybe he didn’t see it.”

“Or maybe he is at the hospital, dead by a heart attack.”

You both laughed. Who knew Max Verstappen had a sense of humor? Even better, he had a dark sense of humor. One that sounded like the things you think, but keep it in your mind, afraid others will judge. Not Max. He will never refrain from speaking his truth, maybe that’s how he got to the top, the best of the best.

Before you could say anything, Max got surrounded by people of his team. He gave you a look, a sorry one. 

“It’s fine, I’ll go to the hotel, need some rest.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir.”

Another kiss on your cheek and he was gone. This time, when he walked out of the door, you felt overwhelmed by the looks fallen on you. They weren’t judging, just dying with curiosity. Nobody knew what the two of you had, but it was damn clear that the energy of attraction was so powerful it filled the space and left no place for anything else.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Sunday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

Race day was chaotic, that was note number one. Note number two was, you were sure there was no way that many boats fit on Monte Carlos’ coast.

Unlike yesterday, you saw Max before he got into his car. You texted him when you arrived and he made his way to you, introducing you to a few people, so you wouldn’t feel isolated. It was uncomfortable having to explain that you weren’t dating, just getting to know each other. What you learned was that Max never really brought any girl over ever since his breakup with his long time ex, or even before her. He was a guy that kept his personal life so private even his family members had no clue if he was still single or not. Which is why people were so curious about you, because Max was treating you like, at the very least, a long time friend.

Your presence during Qualifying alarmed the media. The cameras weren’t shying away from filming you during certain parts of the race, especially when Max won after dominating 78 laps. But nothing prepared the journalists and the fans to when he said it out loud on the radio, proudly, letting everyone know.

If Dylan was already freaking out by one TV appearance, by this time he was for sure throwing a tantrum like a toddler who refused to eat vegetables. He wasn’t the only one. You wanted to crawl into a dark hole and hide from humanity. Or maybe scream and punch Max on his god crafted face. Everyone was speechless from that moment and Max kept going with his duties like he didn’t just create chaos amongst the Formula 1 community.

Thankfully, an angelic, miraculous girl that worked for RedBull managed to take you to Max’s driver’s room, where you could be alone. God, in that moment, if you could kiss her, you would.

You threw your phone in the depths of your purse, where you couldn’t reach to see any messages or take any calls, and especially not open Instagram. Your legs were shaking, like anxiety creeping through every pore on your skin. There was nothing you could do now, the damage was done.

Max opened the door in a brutal movement, like he was rescuing you from a dungeon. The mix of feelings when you saw him was too complicated to point. You were angry, nervous, grateful, amused, all of the above, plus a few more. Max, on the other hand, seemed like he just had another day at the office.

“Hey, told you I’d win, no crashes.”

“Are you fucking insane?”

Max was taken back by the tone of your voice and he replayed in his memories every single second of the day, trying to figure out what he did to get you so worked up.

“What?”

“That fucking radio message!”

And then he laughed. He laughed like he was brushing it off. Like it was nothing, an incident. 

“Not a sextape, but it’s the best I could do.” His smile quickly vanished once he saw the seriousness in your semblant. “Are you mad? I thought this is what you wanted.”

You were out of breaths to take. Sure, this was what you wanted, in a way, but maybe it went too far, too public. It was too much. And in that moment you were overwhelmed.

“I… It’s-” You shook your head, sitting back down on the small white couch behind you. Max stood still, watching, studying your movements. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

That was part of it. You weren’t expecting any of this. It took you by surprise and reminded you that you had no control over anything. But to make matters worse, this happened in a situation where you particularly needed to control.

“Would you have preferred if I asked you before?”

“Yes, I very much would, Max.”

He kneeled before you, reaching your height.

“I’m sorry, liefje. You are right, I should’ve asked.”

You softened, not only because he seemed genuine apologetic, but the pet name and sweetness in his voice melted every bad feeling you had, just like magic, he erased every reason you had to be angry in the first place.

Max Verstappen just had that it factor that no matter what he said, people would simply surrender to his ways.

You stood up from the couch, making him turn to you, waiting anxiously for your reaction. The minimal possibility that you would just say no to the date or never see him again was driving him insane.

“So, what time are you picking me up?”

The shape of his lips curved into the most beautiful smile you have ever seen.

“At eight. No need to wear a fancy dress, anything is fine.”

“Thank God I packed my finest sweatpants then.”

Max giggled, playfully.

“Well, actually, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

Of course he wouldn’t mind. You could go to the date dressed in pajamas and he would still think you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.

“See you later, champ.”

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

Later seemed to never come. Your hotel room was a mess when Max texted that he was waiting for you downstairs, much like a reflection from your insides. You were going out, on an official date, with Max Verstappen. How would you simply return to your job on Tuesday and tell your co-workers what happened? 

Max was waiting outside his car, dressed casually, not like he was going on a first date, but as in you were in a established relationship and he could dress comfortably, like he always did. Somehow, that made him even more attractive. There were people around, watching, filming. You were worried, Max was annoyed, he wanted to punch anyone who dared to disturb that moment.

Once you were in the car, it was a relief, all the noise was shut, remaining only the sound of your shaky breathing.

“I promise you I will take you far away from this shit.”

He drove no longer than 10 minutes until he reached the coast. You followed him, like a lost child, watching him in his element, talking to the coast guards and some people that were there to help. And, then, it hit you, the big, white yacht, bigger than your childhood house. The type of thing you could work your entire life and still couldn’t afford.

Max got in first, extending his hand, like a gentleman, helping you. You looked around, mesmerized, like you’ve entered heaven. That place was beautiful, unlike anything you’ve seen before. The look on your face was probably pathetic, but Max found it adorable.

“Is this yours?”

You wanted to curse yourself, what a stupid question, of course it was.

“Yes, welcome.”

Max gave you a quick tour around, showing the place with the lack of interest that only a person who’s been there a thousand times could have. Like it was getting old. The Yatch was so peaceful you didn’t even notice it started to move and you were now somewhere in the ocean.

The tour ended with a table set out in the open, under the dark starry sky. White cloth, a burning candle, in the company of a lonely red rose. Max pulled your chair, sitting in front of you. You noticed he was nervous and you noticed he tried hard. Little did he know you didn’t need an expensive yacht to be impressed, he could do it only by being himself.

“This is really nice, Max.”

Your compliment eased his nerves.

“I hope this isn’t too much.”

“Well, it certainly isn’t too little.” You joked, but he seemed still a little tense. “But I think it’s romantic.”

And it was, indeed. Text book romantic. Straight out of a romcom.

“Are you hungry?”

You weren’t. The nerves were eating you alive, you couldn’t think about food, your body showed no signs of hunger at all.

“Starving.”

He grined, ear to ear. “Awesome.” And got up from the table, walking towards the inside.

You took the moment without his presence to breathe, get yourself together, recompose. You would leave tomorrow and never see him again, which was a shame, but at the same time helped you to get comfortable. 

Max was back barely a minute later, holding two white plates. You were expecting some fancy seafood dish, maybe a lobster or shrimp, but instead, he held in his hands the delicacy of a homemade burger, garnished with french fries. You smiled. Maybe you were hungry after all.

Max placed the plates on the table, looking proud.

“I made them.”

“Woah! I’m impressed.” You giggled, quickly taking one of the fries, from his plate. “He can drive and cook? What can’t you do?”

“Anyone can cook a burger, it’s not that hard.”

“Don’t put yourself down. You’d be surprised to see how people’s culinary skills are precarious.”

You took a big bite of the burger. Sure, it wasn’t anything elaborated, just a patty with a slice of cheddar cheese and tomatoes, but the simplicity turned it into something special. Plus, the fact that Max took his limited time to make them himself.

He watched you carefully, aching for your opinion, like you tasting his food was somehow validating him as a person, as a man, as a lover.

“So… How is it?”

“Perfect.”

You weren’t talking about the burger at all. You were talking about him, about the weekend, about everything he did for you. It was perfect. Just what you needed. Like God saved Max Verstappen just for you, like all of this was just for you. Suddenly, you felt seen, important, cared about.

The rest of the night flowed like silk. The conversation was stimulating, electrifying. Max learned about your life, your family, your job and you learned about everything that did not involve his career or driving. That night, Max was just a regular guy, with a normal girl, having homemade burgers on a 33 million dollars Yatch. 

As the night extended, you both realized how you didn’t want it to end, how you wanted to be there forever. You were laying down on a towel, the chill breeze flowing, standing side by side, stargazing, telling each other childhood stories.

“I really want to keep seeing you.”

Max’s words came out as a fragile whisper, like he was telling a secret, like he never experienced being vulnerable before.

You turned your face, staring right into his blue eyes, that were a little bit darker with the lack of sunlight.

“How are we going to do that?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it work.”

And he kissed you. You felt his hand first, barely touching you, almost like he was insecure - as if Max was afraid that instant could break. 

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It came with the calmness of someone who knows that time, sometimes, bends before what is real. You sighed slightly, between the kiss, letting the air escape your longs amongst your partial open lips.

The sky fell a bit closer, like all the stars were watching, silently, bearing witnesses to that moment. He moved slowly, shy, like discovering his own name, until he wasn’t. Max leaned in even more, you felt the deepness, not in an urgent kind of way, but in a way in which you were dancing the same song.

And over there, underneath the starry Monaco sky, with his taste invading you, everything stopped moving. Nothing before, nothing after. Just this. The whole world fitted in that kiss, as a promise that would perpetuate for a long time.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

What followed the weekend was not what you expected. You thought that once you boarded that plane back to your hometown, Max Verstappen would fade into a distant memory, a fairytale, something to tell your kids in the future and make them doubt reality. But that wasn't what happened.

When Max wasn’t flying you to nearby races, he was visiting you in his free time. Showing up at your job, unannounced, holding some white lilies or some plush toy that he bought. You visited his home, got introduced to his family, had dinner with his dad. The infamous Jos Verstappen people talked about, like he was an urban legend. Turns out, he wasn’t as scary as people made it sound, or maybe you were just too good at dealing with that kind of man. At the same spectrum, Max also met your family, your dad nearly crashing out once he saw the Max Verstappen sitting on the dining table, like a normal guy.

Turns out that, even with the constant traveling, media, fans following you down the streets, loving Max was so easy. Much easier than you thought. You even told that to him once. Max didn’t believe you, because he has been told the contrary many times before. In fact, he quite believed that he was an unloving person, although he would never admit that to anyone. However, he felt you were genuine in your acts of tenderness. Every time you brushed his hair or kissed his temples, something in him lit up with warmness, like he was experiencing a real life miracle.

Max never officially asked you to be his girlfriend, he didn’t need to, it just happened. When he wasn’t racing or you weren’t working, you were together, glued like birds of a feather.  You were familiar with the drivers now, and their girlfriends. Unlike Monaco, every race you attended now you had someone to talk to, you would even dare to call some of the girls your friends. Everyone seemed to enjoy your company, the team, the drivers, Max’s friends. It’s like you were a breathe of fresh air amongst the chaos of the racing world.

Horner wouldn’t lie, he was a bit worried seeing his driver fall in love with someone, because he had never seen Max race while being distracted, while having another priority. However, Christian quickly noticed there was nothing for him to stress about. Quite the opposite, actually. Max - if it was even possible - improved, ruining McLaren’s dominance. He couldn’t quite explain what the chemicals of love were doing to his Dutch Lion, but he prayed you never left.

On Max’s perspective, yes, he wanted to put on a show, to be his best, to impress you. Not in a pressured way, but in a “I want to make you proud” way. And you were proud regardless of his position. You celebrated Max the same exact way, it didn’t matter if he was P1 or P11. In fact, during Singapore, after a disappointing race, finishing at P8, you waited for Max at the hotel room with champagne and balloons. At first he was frustrated, angry, disappointed at himself and definitely confused at your reaction, but that was mainly because he never had someone who supported him so much, to the point which anything was enough. You taught him that he was enough, and you were proud of him as a person, as a driver, he didn’t need to be the best of the best all the time.

That sort of mentality you brought worked like reverse psychology. It took the weight out of his shoulders. And racing without any worries, made him better.

Needless to say your ex, Dylan, was losing his mind with that whole situation. Which, to Max, was only an incentive. He took the cheating personally, like it happened to him. And even though you never talked to that guy again, he wanted to make sure Dylan regretted what he did to the rest of his life. You told him to forget it, reassured that you were over it, that after Monaco Dylan was dead to you, like a nightmare that you forgot the second you woke up. But Max wasn’t the type to let it go.

So, Abu Dhabi 2025, last race on the calendar, he would give his all. The championship was tied between him and Lando. For the entire season, he raced to win, but that exact race he had entirely different motives.

You weren’t nervous unlike the other girlfriends, you put blind faith in Max. That’s why when the race started, you watched with a steady heartbeat. And Max? Reminded everyone why he was the best of the sport.

When he stepped out of the car, the whole team made a priority that you would be the first to see him, per his request. Helmet on, he rushed to you, like you were the trophy, like you were the championship prize. You kissed the helmet, feeling the coldness hitting your lips. His breath fogged the visor for a second as he leaned closer, hands still trembling with the leftover adrenaline of the race. The roar of celebration around you faded into a muffled hum — the crowd, the champagne, the cameras — all of it dimmed behind the shield of this moment.

Max lifted the visor slowly, revealing eyes that had searched for you since the checkered flag. Eyes that only softened when they found yours.

“Fuck, liefje,” he said, voice rough, edged with emotion. “I can’t believe we did it.”

You smiled, blinking against the tears threatening to fall. “You did it, Max,” you whispered, your fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, “you’re the best.”

He laughed — a breathy, shaking laugh — and pulled you into him, the hard shell of his suit pressing against your body like armor. “Thank you so much for being here,” he murmured into your hair. “For always being here. Love you.”

You closed your eyes, letting the truth of his words wrap around you like warmth. But then he leaned back just enough to meet your gaze again — this time with that glint in his eyes. The one you’d seen when he was most dangerous. Most determined.

“And maybe,” he added, with the ghost of a smirk, “just maybe... I wanted him to see this too.”

Your breath caught.

“I wanted him to watch,” he continued, quieter now. “To watch me win everything he lost the moment he let you go.”

The crowd started chanting Max’s name, and behind you, the team called for photos, for celebrations, but neither of you moved. You stayed there in the quiet bubble of his embrace, the world spinning a little slower just for the two of you.

Finally, Max pulled back, cradling your face in his gloved hands. “It’s you and I, now,” he said, not as a question, but as a promise. “Wherever I go next, we go together.”

And you nodded, heart thudding like an engine ready to race. Because this wasn’t just the end of a season. It was the beginning of forever.

The cheers swelled again as Max took your hand, raising it high like another victory. And when he looked back at you one last time before stepping onto the podium, he didn’t see the crowd, the cameras, or the flashing lights.

He saw you. Always you. His greatest win.

liked by redbullracing, f1, yourbff and 6,288,494 others

vogue Evertyhing we know about the romance between Yn Yln and Max Verstappen. From how they met to how she became RedBull's princess and fan's favorite WAG. Link in bio.

view all comments

user imagine being such an iconic couple vogue wrote a fucking article about you

user they won best paddock couple 😍😍

user she is so pretty!! 😩😩😩

user can yn teach me her tricks? 🙏

yourbff my baby is a star 🤩

danielricciardo finally some real journalism!

> user you're in a max/yn biggest fan competition but your oponent is daniel ricciardo > danielricciardo you're immediately losing

yourusername what is my life??

> user girl if you don't want it, can i have it??

user how's dylan??

❤️ liked by maxverstappen1

user bro saw his girl got cheated on and made it everyone's problem

user if they don't get married istg

yourmom my loves 😍

zendaya petition for this to be a movie immediately.

user if petty was high fashion, this man just walked Paris.

florencepugh I need her skincare routine and his PR team.

gigihadid love that for her. love that less for her ex 💅

user he said drive to survive and thrive to flex, and I support it fully.

user this is the energy you have when your love life AND tire strategy are in sync.

user it’s giving “revenge dress” but in the form of an entire Grand Prix.

f1gossip she got cheated on and responded with a WDC boyfriend. this is not a win, this is a legacy.

user he’s not just her man — he’s the man your ex warned you about.

user if Romeo drove a car and Juliet wore a paddock pass.

liked by yourusername, RedBullRacing and 9,293,555 others

maxverstappen1 This one's for your girlfriends.

view all comments

user this is actually insane

user mad!max is back 🥵🥵

user may this love find me! 🙏🙏🙏

redbullracing the dutch lion is still here! 💪🦁

user 5 times world champion, hot girlfriend, rich, talented. will he ever lose?

user i'm so invested in whatever this drama with this dylan guy is

> user i hope he is suffering wherever he is > user starting a fuck you dylan campaign

user max is in his protective!boyfriend skin

yourusername the best of the best! 💗

> user she is such a queen 😍

lando congratulations mate!! 🍾

charles_leclerc chat we tried, we can't stop him

> maxverstappen1 maybe when I retire 😎

lando blocked by at least 6 exes after this post probably

user championship + main character energy = unstoppable. respect 🫡

georgerussell63 ok but do you offer classes in pettiness? asking for a friend user imagine being the ex watching this with dry cereal and regret 😭🥄 user no because he didn’t win a championship he won her and THAT’S revenge 🔥

user idc what anyone says, this is peak motorsport content and I love it

[reignpage]

He Gave Me The (Eww)

Content: things the jjk men do that give you the ick, hard read fr, brutally honest, second hand embarrassment, don't tell me they wouldn't...you know they would...they're just men after all

Featuring: Gojo, Geto, Choso, Toji, Nanami, Sukuna

Satoru

Tells jokes he thinks are hilarious and repeats them when no one laughs. Even explains them. Looks to you to laugh too with manic eyes, begging, pleading. Might even throw in a, ‘Tough crowd, amirite?’

Gets ignored in the group chat and will keep spamming until he gets the attention he wants.

Tries to get discounts at any and every store by flashing a grin and using those baby blues to charm the sales assistant. Shoots his shot with men too. It rarely works and when he gives them his black AMEX card, the sales assistants always get a look in their eyes like, ‘Seriously?’

Sings the chorus too early and plays it off by trailing and then coming in at the right part. Goes, ‘Ay…ay….ay, YEA– oh… ahahah…ay…ayy… yeahhhh…’

Suguru

Spits when he talks. He gets into these long rants about monkeys and whatever so he doesn’t even notice when the person he’s talking to discreetly wipes off the fat droplet. 

You’ve seen him going on spiels to random people, gets so into it that he also doesn’t realise they’ve walked away. Would play it off by taking his phone out and going, ‘Alright, talk to you later.’

Or, he'll say a snarky comment to someone out of nowhere and they didn't even hear him, caught by surprise, so they just awkwardly laugh and hope he doesn't follow up.

Super rude to servers at restaurants you take him to. Clicks his fingers. Confronts those moody teenagers working part time and says, ‘Why don’t you smile? You’ll look so much more friendly if you do.’

Wears open toed sandals everywhere. Dawgs out for free, toenails unclipped and ever so slightly yellow. Could probably cut a bitch.

Choso

At a group setting, a picture might be getting shown around and he isn't being shown the picture. He will say, ‘Can I see? Hey, you missed me. I wanna see. What’s so funny? Guys, come on, I didn’t see. Hey!’

When everyone else is in pairs or groups talking, he’ll go on his phone and open the Weather or Calculator app to pretend he’s doing something important. His phone is on full brightness so everyone can see he’s not actually texting anyone.

Gets left on read quite often. Will double text anyone and everyone. Triple texts even. Asks, ‘You aren’t ignoring me, are you?’ 

Invites himself to functions. If someone mentions a party or a visit to a museum, for example, with their friends, he’ll say, ‘That sounds fun. That’s at 3pm? I’m free. See you there!’

Toji

Boy oh boy where to begin…

Does the broke boyfriend hug. Swings you side to side too and gives you a kiss on the head, talking bout, ‘I’ll get the next one on payday, ma.’

Flashes his ass crack when he climbs out of the car. 

Might even have skid marks.

Asks to remove the service charge off the bill, doesn’t tip no matter how great the server is, and probably puts his own hair in the food to comp the meal. Will even flash you a wink like he’s finessed the system.

Will fart and burp in front of you unashamedly. Doesn’t care how stinky it is. Laughs when you cover your nose. Won’t lie, he probably loves pulling a Dutch Oven on you. Peak comedy for him. 

Shows up to his kid’s school events in his bum ass outfit and goes straight to the food table. It could be his university graduation and everyone’s in their pretty dresses and sharp suits, he will be in a Uniqlo heattech and grey joggers with a stain on it. 

Finds a crumb on his shirt, doesn’t know what it is or how long it’s been there. Will eat it anyway.. 

You point to a bouquet of flowers or a cake you want, excited and wanting to buy it. He'll look at the price and very loudly complain, 'That's how much? The hell? Nah, we're not getting that. If you want flowers, I can pick some up from a park for free.'

Kento

Still gets embarrassed about farting or taking a shit around you. Will make a lame excuse to exit the room like, ‘Oh, sweetheart, I think I left a light on in the next room.’ Doesn’t realise that the walls aren’t that thick and you can hear his adorable toot. If you ask him if he’s okay because he’s taking a while in the bathroom, he’ll lie and say, ‘No, dear, I’m alright. Just fixing a light bulb in here. I’ll be out in a minute.’ The type to not realise you can quite literally smell the evidence after. 

Will throw random slang and use it wrong. ‘You already ate? That’s slaying me.’ Or, ‘She cheated on her boyfriend? That’s so cunt of her. Please don’t entertain her anymore.’

Has built up a reputation to you as being all-knowing. Likes that you ask him first before Google. But when you ask him a question he doesn't know the answer to, he make some sort of distraction so he can go on his phone, find out the answer and give it to you like he knew all along.

Reads so much but often comes across words he knows the meaning of but has never heard anyone actually say. Mispronounces them. Says 'studious' as 'study-yus.' Or 'albeit' as 'al-bayt.'

Sukuna

Crashes out so often that he sometimes mistakenly gets upset for no reason. A servant will ask if you want a drink, assumes they’re talking to him and gets grumpy. ‘I already said no. Can you hear?’ When informed, he’ll tsk to cover up he’s ever so slightly embarrassed but everyone can see his ears going red. If he hears a single snicker though, he’s airing out the room.

Even when you tell him it’s okay and he doesn’t have to, he’ll join in on group dates just because he gets FOMO lowkey. Will stand there menacingly and so super out of place he actually looks like he’s stalking the group. Makes everyone feel awkward and tense. 

Children get so scared of him that he’s been escorted out of premises before. You have to join him, apologising to everyone, otherwise he’ll kill all of your friends. Like children will full on start sobbing and hyperventilating and you’re ashamed to tell your friends he’s actually not allowed within a certain radius of a school. Their mind goes to the worst places.

[cameronsbabydoll]

simon “ghost” riley x girly!reader — love island reality show headcanons (early episodes)

☆ when he first arrives on the show:

comes in quiet. big. black t-shirt. combat boots. everyone else is glammed up and he looks like he just finished a hit job in manchester.

producers try to play it up like he's the "mysterious bad boy" type, but he’s not even trying. he just doesn’t speak unless he has to. sits in the shade. watches.

first confessional he says:

“don’t really care to be here. cameras are fuckin’ annoying. someone already touched my toothpaste.”

the internet is immediately obsessed.

��� the other girls try to flirt and he’s just?? not into it??

one girl bites her lip and says “you look like trouble” and he goes:

“i’m not. i’m worse.”

walks off.

one of the gym girls sits next to him and touches his thigh and he just stares at her hand. no words. just… disappointed dad energy.

in his confessional later:

“they’re all loud. they want attention. not my thing. don’t like the fake lashes.”

☆ then you walk in. soft voice. pink sundress. hair all pretty. a little nervous.

he notices you immediately. not in a wow she’s hot way. in a why do i wanna fold her up and put her in my pocket way.

watches you talk to the other girls. listens to you say “i made everyone iced tea!” and for the first time since arriving, smiles a little. just a twitch of the mouth. blink and you miss it.

someone calls you “bambi” and he thinks it fits. soft eyes. gentle steps. heart too easy to bruise.

☆ and now he’s just… following you with his eyes constantly.

doesn’t say much. just appears near you. always.

you go to water the plants? he’s suddenly outside too.

“was hot in there,” he mutters, lighting a cig.

he’s lying.

you sit at the pool? he moves his chair.

“sun’s better over here.”

it’s not. he just wants to see your legs.

☆ in the confession booth he’s so blunt and lowkey perverse without realizing

producers ask “so what do you think of y/n?”

“pretty little thing. voice like honey. tits look good in that top. makes me wanna do things.”

sips water. completely deadpan.

“don’t want her around the other lads. they’re all smilin’ at her. makes me want to bury ‘em.”

☆ the girls talk about him and you’re just like 😳

“he’s scary. doesn’t even blink. i swear he was staring at the kettle for twenty minutes.”

“i saw him sniff your shampoo bottle when you left it by the sink.”

you’re like… he’s just misunderstood (no babe he’s pervy and weird but it’s hot.)

☆ when you’re paired for a game, he goes dead serious.

“don’t drop her,” he mutters to the other guy.

“she’s too easy to break. be gentle or i’ll fuckin’ break your hands.”

it’s supposed to be a fun, flirty competition. he’s ready to throw hands. for you. a girl he’s said 4 words to.

☆ when you finally talk to him, he’s awkward but kind of charming?? in a dark war criminal way??

you: “do i make you nervous?”

him: “not nervous. distracted.”

you: “by what?”

him: “mouth. skirt. thighs. that little laugh you do. i could go on.”

☆ and suddenly twitter’s in shambles like

"ghost is so hot he’s like if PTSD wore cologne”

"he hasn’t smiled once and i want him to spit in my mouth"

"the way he looks at her like he’s gonna ruin her life and then build her a bookshelf"

[art-crumbs-main]

There's something I need this fandom to understand about Martin Kartin Blackwood.

IS he an expert manipulator? Yes. Does he have some serious skills in using people pleasing and framing and psychology to his advantage? ABSOLUTELY. He is gaslight, gatekeep, girlbossing his way through the first 3 seasons and we LOVE him for it.

On the other hand, though, I feel like we don't acknowledge enough as a fandom how isolating people pleasing can be in itself. I ranted about this in the tags of another Martin post, but basically, the person you create to be palatable to as many people as possible becomes a wall. A barrier between you and the outside world. Yes, everyone likes you, but that comes at the cost of no one knowing you in your entirety because you don't let them see the parts of you that are harder to swallow.

Martin effectively trapped himself in his own web of lies, suspended 30 feet away from his own life. He's dissociated from it all from the beginning, which is what made him the candidate Peter chose in the first place. He was always slated for The Lonely as much as he was The Web.

That leads me into my next point, which is that MARTIN PRE-LONELY WAS NOT ENTIRELY DISINGENUOUS. I see so many people implying that Martin straight-up wasn't anything like he said he was in the beginning. Common fandom reading comprehension L. He really does like people, and he really does want to be nice. It just also happens that you don't end up people pleasing to those lengths without it having developed as a defense mechanism!

Take the wall I introduced earlier. You surround yourself in this persona and swallow your teeth to protect yourself from other people. Realistically, it probably started with his mother, who is implied in Canon to not have been kind to him. There's a 3rd partner to Fight or Flight that doesn't get discussed very often, and it is "Fawn." This is the people-pleasing response that we see him exhibit. Ultimately, what he fears is rejection, and therefore, he fears being alone. He's nice and kind and polite and swallows his teeth in order to keep people around.

Post-Lonely Martin is the other extreme. He has no energy to please anyone anymore, and it doesn't serve him. He is tired and angry and constantly stressed. He doesn't bother hiding his teeth anymore, and he's prone to lashing out. Post-Lonely Martin is when he's surpassed his limit. Post-Lonely Martin is burnout.

As someone who relates to Martin Blackwood very much, I can tell you that the quiet moments where he's not deeply distressed either way is where we see the real Martin. He still loves and cares in private, and we see that over and over. The love is real. He just doesn't believe he deserves it in return, so he tries very hard to be someone who does. To "make up" for it.

Thank you and goodnight.

[yuramour]

ADORE YOU — F1 GRID

synopsis. the grid as dads pairing. f1 grid x reader (ft. mv1, yt22, ln4, op81, gr63, cl16, lh44, dr3, aa23, cs55, ih6, jd7) genre. fluff warnings. idk?? established relationships, mentions of like, having kids?? duh?? wc. 1.8k (150-ish each)

a/n. im ovulating. that's all. also, i wrote max's before he had his baby, so like, absolutely called it. (yes, this has been in my drafts for over a month now.)

MAX VERSTAPPEN

♥︎ girl dad

feels so incredibly obvious, but that's because it's so incredibly true. this man would treat his daughter like an absolute PRINCESS. putting aside the fact that max is an amazing bonus dad for his girl, he just like, exudes girl dad energy. i honestly have a hard time explaining it, but like, trust. omfg he would buy his baby girl literally anything she wants- just one look and he's MELTING and doing whatever she wants. overall, he'd actually be a pretty level-headed dad, especially as his daughter gets older. like, he has good clear boundaries and rules, but still respects her as an individual. would he threaten any future potential boyfriends? no. he doesn't need to. he's literally max verstappen. that's intimidating enough. so yeah, overall, he'd just be a fantastic dad, and he'd have such a great relationship with his little girl. and that's the tea. i love him.

YUKI TSUNODA

♥︎ both

yuki strikes me as the type to not really want kids until he's older. like, he's dedicated to his career until the day he decides he wants kids, and then he's all in on the dad thing. this man does NOT play about family vacations- like, he's got the full itinerary, waking the kids up at 5am to go to the airport for the flight that doesn't even board until 10am, fanny pack, yelling at everyone to put on sunscreen every five minutes. like, he's got that shit on lock. i don't think he cares much about how many kids he ends up having- he just loves being a dad. and trust, he does not play about his babies, he will throw DOWN for them. even as his kids grow up and move out, he is available to them 24/7. he is dropping everything to be there when they need him.

LANDO NORRIS

♥︎ girl dad

someone hold me back. this man is SO girl dad istg. now don't get me wrong, lando would be happy just to have kids- i'm sure we've all seen the numerous videos of him with babies and little kids and he's just absolutely cheesing in all of them. like, this man just loves kids. but he would absolutely LOVE to have a baby girl. i am so so convinced. he is does NOT play about his baby girl. tea parties, playing dress-up, watching every single barbie movie back to back- he's just happy to be there. he absolutely eats up a princess tiara. lets his baby girl do his makeup and all- tells her that she made him look beautiful every time (even if he looks like a literal clown, his girl can do no wrong in his mind). is he a bit of a pushover? yeahhhhh. is it a bit of a problem when he physically cannot say no to his baby girl? yeahhh sometimes. but at the end of the day, lando is just so full of love, he would do literally anything and everything for his kid.

OSCAR PIASTRI

♥︎ boy dad

GODDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD dont get me started on this one. i'm literally in shambles right now. oscar's nonchalant personality is GONE. vanished the second he holds his baby for the first time. he is just so proud to be a father, and his baby boy is the absolute light of his life. he starts every single post-race interview saying "hi" to his baby at home because he knows he's always watching. UGHHGHGHDGHFGDHDGHDGDHG im dead. he likes to keep his private life private of course, so he doesn't typically talk about his kids in interviews, but whenever anyone asks, he can't help but gush about them a little bit</3 dont get me wrong- oscar would be a great girl dad, but he just like, exudes boy dad energy. TRUST he would raise the sweetest, kindest, most generous little boy ever. im gonna STOP right now bc my brain cant handle this. but you get the vibes.

CHARLES LECLERC

♥︎ girl dad

we all saw this coming COME ON NOW. GIRL DAD TO THE EXTREME. that baby girl will never have to want for everything in her entire life. charles already has it all covered. he plans the most elaborate nursery for that baby and has it all set up months before she's even born- he's just so excited. teaches her how to play piano as soon as she's old enough oml. and when she's old enough to go to school and go out with friends, he doesn't hesitate to put his card in her mobile wallet- she could literally buy a whole car with his card and he'd be like "yes, what a sensible purchase. you definitely needed that 🥰" TOTAL pushover and he doesn't even realize it. if you insinuate that he might need to put his foot down a little bit, he is absolutely AGHAST. whatever his baby wants, his baby gets. of course, he's such a sweet man, he raises a sweet, sensible, kind girl. just a liiiiiittle bit spoiled.

LEWIS HAMILTON

♥︎ both

he would just be so happy to be a dad in the first place, he would not gaf if it was a girl or a boy. genuinely, he's the most balanced out of all of the drivers. he brings up his baby anytime he gets the opportunity. even if the conversation is not at all related to kids- if he gets the chance to relate the topic to his kids or being a dad, he will. like, he brings up his babies in EVERY interview. he definitely tones it down after a while, but he's just so elated to be a dad, it still slips out sometimes. again, he doesn't care about whether his baby is a boy or a girl- he just wants to raise a responsible, kind, empathetic person. and even though he talks about his kids basically nonstop, that doesn't mean he'll really want them in the private eye. i think having kids would give lewis more incentive to keep his private life PRIVATE. like, people probably wouldnt even know what his kids look like until theyre a couple years old at least.

DANIEL RICCIARDO

♥︎ TWINS

daniel can't live without chaos in his life. twins are just inevitable. we've seen how chaotic daniel is as an uncle, and being a dad is pretty much the same. he's just a little more careful. having boy/girl twins, daniel treats them the exact same. takes them dirt biking, hiking, sand duning, lake swimming- everything. his twins become his little travel buddies. he's usually the silly goofy fun dad, but TRUST he can be serious and scary when he wants to. like, he will throw DOWNNNN for his kids if he needs to. no other thoughts. just dadiel.

GEORGE RUSSELL

♥︎ girl dad

its that one picture of george in an eras tour shirt with his hands on his hips like an absolute diva that just SCREAMS girl dad. like, he will do ALL the "girly" things with his daughter. he lets her paint his nails, plays barbies with her, watches her shows with her, etc. every day is a constant diva-off between him and his daughter, bc TRUST he's raising her like a literal princess. like, that child is never going to have to work for anything ever. like, lando is nothing but a butler to his baby, but george and his kid are in a constant battle for princess status. two icons, truly.

ALEX ALBON

♥︎ boy dad

pure chaos in that home. never a moment of silence. play fighting, playing baseball in the living room, 1v1's on Halo on the tv, fridge full of bug juice and costco pallets of stain remover in the laundry room. alex fully embraces being a boy dad the second his kid is born. that house is going to be LOUD and ROWDY. but don't get me wrong, that boy is going to be KIND and RESPECTFUL. alex may be the fun goofy dad, but he is going to instill good values into that boy. breakfast in bed for mom every sunday, learning how to cook, learning how to clean- that is going to be a well-rounded, emotionally intelligent kid. bless up.

CARLOS SAINZ

♥︎ girl dad

literally the most perfect dad in the world do not play w me right now. does he treat his daughter like a literal princess? yes ofc. but he is going to make sure that she is respectful, patient, and kind. if she's gonna be anything, she will not be spoiled. i see carlos after becoming a dad keeping his life as private as he physically can. like, he'd want his kid to live as normal a life as possible. but oml going back to the like, girl dad thing, carlos is the most gentle patient dad in the entire world. like, every disagreement/argument is handled in the most mature gentle way possible. every mistake is turned into a lesson instead of a punishment. like, literally the ideal dad. istg im gonna melt right here right now. love that guy. he's the type of dad where his kids are never uncomfortable coming to him about any problem they're having. im gonna stop right here before this gets too long oml

ISACK HADJAR

♥︎ girl dad

(i have a drabble about young dad!isack cooking in my drafts, i just need to get this out before my brain explodes) when his baby is first born, (and well before), he is NERVOUS and SCARED. like, tf does he know about being a dad??? poor guy is hesitant to even hold his daughter for the first time bc he's scared his arms are gonna give out for some reason and he'll drop her. though he gets into the groove of being a dad pretty quick. like, the way he goes from scared boy to peak DAD™ so quick needs to be studied. the type of dad to offer to carpool for his daughters soccer games, bringing all the best snacks and drinks for practice. takes pride in the fact that his home becomes The Hangout House™ for his daughter and her friends. he's just the type of dad to practically adopt his kids friends and treat them like his own.

JACK DOOHAN

♥︎ boy dad

the type of dad who basically just becomes best friends with his kid. like, they just hang out with each other. he takes his kid to hang out with his hangouts (i can just imagine young dad!jack taking his son surfing with his friends and being the only dad but all his friends treat his son like a little member of the friend group im crying). anyways, sometimes he may be a little bit too chill and fun. like, he may have a hard time setting boundaries with his kid bc they're just so chill w each other💔 like, he may struggle a bit for a while especially as his kid gets older, but i think the older he gets, the more dad-ly he becomes.

taglist: @revelauver @bear-yawns

[pharawee]

It's finally June (happy rainbow month everyone! 🌈) so it's time for my annual "spot the QL actor at Bangkok Pride Parade" post in which I lurk around the socials to spot familiar faces and share some happiness (here's last year's post for even more happy memories).

As usual, please keep in mind that this is a month-long event for Bangkok Pride that already started yesterday. Many actors might not be able to attend for work-related reasons, they might attend other events or show their support in other ways. This post is for the Bangkok Pride Parade only because this is the part I enjoy most (but please feel free to add to it because the more 🌈✨ the merrier).

(I've credited all images via image description because I don't want to link directly to the hellsite that is x. If that's not working for you, please let me know and I'll add a direct link.)

And who better to start with than Earth Katsamonnat aka Cooheart. I wish tumblr would let me post more than one video because he. is. breathtaking (but what else is new).

Earth is there with his fellow WabiSabi actors Oat Tharathon, Tonliew Methaphat and Golf Pasatorn.

Next up we have none other than Gun Atthaphan, and it makes me so so happy to see him there.

And of course it wouldn't be a Pride event without Bank Mondop and Mos Panuwat.

They joined along with fellow Star Hunter actors JJ Rathasat, Fong Bovorn and several members of Star Hunter's girl group Cosmos.

Here we have Nut Supanut and Ping Orbnithi in traditional attire from their upcoming BL I'm the Most Beautiful Count. It's really difficult to find good pictures this year since it's mostly videos so I can't even show them in their whole glory. Nut especially deserves an award for walking Pride in these heels (then again, by now he's probably a pro):

Here they are alongside fellow actors Belle Jiratchaya and Aton Thanakorn.

Finally a good pic of Kongthup's artists walking the parade (it took me hours to find anything that wasn't a video): Mon Taechin, Pak Varayu, Lee Long Shi, Krismon Thanawat, Top Sumethee and Arm Chaiyapat.

Park Anantadej and Big Thanakorn are attending again this year as well but this is the only halfway recognisable pic of them both I could find (pls up your video limit tumblr I can't do this anymore).

Yoshi Rinrada is there as well (she's walking with Gun Atthaphan but I couldn't find any stills/pictures of that either 😭) and she is stunning.

I had to resort to taking blurry screencaps to give you Nice Boripat and Gunner Natsakan. They look much better on video so if you hop on over to the hellsite that is x you can see them in motion.

I finally found pics of our newlyweds Porsch Apiwat and Arm Sappanyoo.

Next up we have some of the cast of the upcoming muay thai BL Swing Kick: Beboy Nanthakorn, Team Tatchanon and David Matthew Roberts (I think... only Team was credited 😭)

Tiger Tanawat (the one Change2561 actor who's curiously always outsourced to other BL productions) was there by himself and walking alongside the group from Kongthup.

I will update this post as I find more pics of actors but for now this is it. Again, if you spotted more actors that attended (especially GL actresses because this is definitely my blind spot here) please feel free to add to this post or let me know.

But anyway, happy Pride my lovelies and ILU all 💛🧡❤️💜💙💚

[eelliotss]

— Borrowed time, part 5

‼️Caleb x reader x Sylus. Reader not MC. University AU. Modern AU. Angst angst angst!

Everyone knows Caleb is in love with MC. Everyone. Including you. But that does not stop him from flirting with you, teasing you, keeping you close. And it definitely does not stop you from falling for him—even when you know you’re just a stand-in, a place holder.

“I bet you still thought of me.”

song: party 4 u by charlie xcx [this song has been the main inspiration for this series, so whatever you feel listening go this song, i hope you’ll feel that while reading this series as well]

word count = 9.6k

i appreciate all likes, comments, reblogs, and asks. i may not reply to all of them, but i want you to know that i reread them over and over <3

i cant say im proud of this chapter, and tbh theres so much i hate about this part, but if i dont post this right now, i dont think i ever will, so please be kind, but i appreciate constructive criticisms! if this part felt unsatisfactory, just pretend this update didnt happen lol

ps. thank you so much for over 1k followers??? heres a thousand roses for all of you 😭🌹

part 1 | masterlist

The door creaks open.

The closet’s darkness slips away, replaced by blinding light and loud cheers.

But everything feels distant.

Your breaths are shallow. The warmth of his breath still clings to your skin, the ghost of his lips a lingering echo. His touch—still branded into your waist, your jaw, the hollow between your ribs. Your pulse hasn’t settled.

The air outside is cool, but your skin burns.

You stumble slightly as you step out, Sylus behind you—his shirt rumpled, one button undone. His silver hair is tousled, a little too messy. Your lips sting. You know you look wrecked.

And the crowd eats it up. Whoops and whistles explode around you.

You try to smile. You try to breathe.

But then your eyes land on him.

Caleb.

He’s across the room, half-lit by the cheap string lights, drink forgotten in his hand. His jaw is tight, his expression unreadable—except for his eyes.

They are cold.

Piercing.

It’s not anger. It’s like he’s looking right through you—like you’ve somehow ruined something sacred. Like you’re the disappointment.

Your chest tightens.

And then, just behind him, you catch a flash of movement.

MC.

Her head is down, hair shielding her face, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she brushes past him, shouldering her way through the crowd.

Caleb snaps out of his trance in a heartbeat. His face shifts—concern overtaking scorn—as he calls after her and follows without hesitation.

And just like every time before, he doesn’t even spare you a second glance.

The cheers fade into static. Laughter turns tinny and distant, swallowed by the ringing in your ears.

It hits you all at once.

The heat. The mess. The press of Sylus’s body against yours. The way you leaned into it. The way you wanted to. The way you let yourself.

And then—MC’s face. Her voice. Her smile when she told you he’s kinda cute, isn’t he?

Guilt slams into you like a car.

It punches the breath from your lungs.

You feel it in your throat, acidic and raw, threatening to spill. A sickening twist coils in your stomach, bile licking at the edges of your tongue.

What have you done?

What did you just let happen?

Your skin crawls. The warmth you felt seconds ago now feels wrong—disgusting. It clings to you like smoke. Like shame.

You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to hold in the nausea curling up your chest.

Sylus says something beside you, low and teasing, but you don’t catch the words.

All you can hear is your own blood rushing in your ears.

And all you can feel is the weight of what you’ve just done. The taste of it. Bitter. Burning.

And the worst part?

You don’t even know who you’re more disgusted with—Caleb…

Or yourself.

You don’t wait for the whispers.

You don’t wait to see if MC turns back or if Caleb says anything at all.

You push through the crowd, pulse hammering in your throat, lungs clawing for air like there’s not enough oxygen in the room, not enough space in your ribs for this many feelings, this much shame.

The door slams shut behind you but it’s not enough.

Not enough to drown out the ghost of Sylus’s hands still on your waist. Not enough to erase the memory of his mouth against yours, hot and unbothered and too real.

Not enough to wipe away the scowl in Caleb’s eyes or the way MC couldn’t even look at you.

The night is too loud. The world is too close. Everything—everything—is pressing in on you.

So you push everything out of your way, scouring to find air.

You don’t think, don’t breathe, just bolt down the steps of the villa, sandals slapping against stone, the wind catching in your hair, stinging your eyes, stealing your balance. You don’t care.

The beach calls to you like a goddamn siren.

You trip onto the sand, knees buckling, breath shaking, heart feral in your chest like it’s trying to break out and leave you behind. You tear your heels off, toss them somewhere you’ll never find again, and march straight toward the water like it might wash you clean.

The ocean crashes louder than your thoughts.

Salt fills your nose. Wind tangles in your hair. The stars above are too bright, mocking. Too calm for the storm splitting your insides apart.

You drop to your knees at the shoreline, water licking at your calves, seeping into your clothes, and you let it. You need it. You need the cold. You need the sting. You need to feel something real.

Because everything in your chest is twisted. Twisted and wrong and out of place.

You lean forward, pressing your forehead against your knees, breathing like each inhale might keep you from unraveling completely. You wish it were just the alcohol. Just a mistake. Just a hazy memory you could laugh off tomorrow.

But you remember it too clearly.

His mouth. The weight of his gaze in the dark. The way his hand didn’t hesitate when it slid against your jaw, when he leaned in like he’d been waiting to taste you all night.

And you let him.

Worse—you wanted it.

The thought turns your stomach. You dig your fingers deeper into the wet sand, nails scraping at the earth, like maybe you can bury the part of you that’s smiling.

Because she’s there.

Somewhere inside you—beneath the nausea, beneath the shame—there’s a version of you curled up, smug and satisfied. A version who watched MC’s face twist, who watched Caleb’s scowl turn cold, and felt nothing but satisfaction.

That part of you is smiling.

You hate her.

Because that part of you—the one that enjoyed it—she’s been quiet for a long time. Always biting her tongue, always watching from the corners while MC took the spotlight, while Caleb gave his warmth to someone else. You taught her to wait. To be kind. To be better.

But god, you’re tired.

Tired of twinkling for people who never look up long enough to see you. Tired of being loved only in parts—when you’re easy, when you’re quiet, when you’re beautiful and harmless.

You’ve always been the supporting character in everyone else’s story. The best friend. The comic relief. The tragic footnote.

So tonight, you wanted to be the villain.

So tonight, she let herself out.

You let her kiss him.

You let her drag Sylus into that closet and tilt your chin up with a smile that begged “ruin me if you want to.”

And she did.

Now here you are, buried in the sand and sea, trying to figure out if the guilt eating at you is heavier than the satisfaction still curling at the edge of your lips.

You’re not supposed to feel this way.

You’re not supposed to want to be seen like that. Wanted like that.

Not at the cost of MC. Not at the cost of Caleb’s crumbling expression.

But you do.

You wanted them to see. You wanted to be wanted. And for a second—you finally were.

And for that, you are repenting your sins, kneeling by the shore and letting the cold eat you whole.

The tide rushes in again, crashing against your skin.

You raise your head, throat raw, eyes burning.

You sit there, watching the waves hit and retreat, over and over, counting the sparkling stars reflected on the ocean surface, until you could not feel your feet.

This is your way of atoning—because you fear the girl curled up inside you, biting on her nails every time a tear threatens to fall. Because the damage she has done once you let her out for a fraction of a moment is irreversible. Collateral.

And because you can’t promise this will be the last time you let her out.

You finally return to your room, dread curling tight in your chest like a vice. Each step down the hallway feels heavier than the last, your body moving on autopilot, mind spiraling with possibilities.

You hesitate at the door. Fingers resting on the knob. You aren’t sure what you’re bracing for.

An angry Michaela?

A tear-streaked Michaela?

A cold, distant Michaela who won’t even look you in the eye?

You don’t know which would be worse.

The knob turns with a quiet click, the door creaking open. You take a breath—slow, bracing—and step inside.

Empty.

The room is quiet. Still.

Her suitcase remains tucked in the corner. A half-drunk bottle of water sits on the bedside table. The lights are off, the curtains drawn. Not a trace of her. Not even the ghost of footsteps.

Somehow, it’s worse than yelling.

You stand there for a moment, motionless, caught in the heavy weight of nothingness.

Then your phone buzzes.

MC [02:46 AM]: Had to clear my head. Be back later.

Short. Punctuated. Not cold, but definitely not warm either.

And with that, you’re left alone.

Surrounded by silence.

Sinking into it.

You sit on the edge of the bed, heart thrumming against your ribs.

You should feel relieved.

You grip the edge of the mattress tighter.

You should be thankful the confrontation didn’t happen yet.

But all you feel is this crawling unease.

Like the silence is just the eye of the storm.

And when she comes back—

You’re not sure which version of Michaela you’ll meet.

And worse—you’re not sure which version of you she’ll find.

You get changed and crawl under the covers, body heavy, soul heavier. The silence is your only companion—thick, choking, unforgiving. You bury yourself into the blankets like they could shield you from the weight of what you’ve done.

Eventually, exhaustion drags you under.

•

Rustling wakes you.

Sharp. Precise. Intentional.

You blink your eyes open, and there she is.

Michaela.

Her back turned to you.

Her suitcase is open on the floor, half-filled. Clothes folded with a neatness that feels hostile.

You sit up slowly, throat dry.

She doesn’t look at you, nor say a word.

You rise. Move toward your side of the room. Get ready in silence. The kind of silence that screams.

Every breath feels wrong. Every second, guilt crawls further up your throat, pressing, choking, aching.

You swallow hard, then try to break the weight as you part your mouth to speak.

Your voice is quiet. Fragile.

“Michaela… last night, I—”

Michaela freezes for only a second before she turns around, face already wearing a smile that feels too sharp, too bright.

“Was such a blast! You gotta tell me all about what happened in that closet!” She winks.

“No—I—”

“Don’t think too deeply into it!” She waves her hand casually, like you’d just brought up a funny memory from a party instead of the reason her bag is half-packed. She lets out a breathy laugh, brushing her hair behind her ear. “It’s college, Yn. People kiss like, all the time. It’s nothing.” Her face drops slightly, but returns back to its beaming state. She reaches for your hands, and her voice lowers down. “It’s just a kiss, isn't it?”

A pause.

“Y-yeah,” you utter.

Her face beams once more as she squeezes your hands. “Besides, he is a pretty good kisser, isn’t he?”

You stare at her. The smile she’s wearing is dazzling—carefully crafted, practiced.

But it doesn’t reach her eyes.

And that hurts more than if she’d screamed at you.

The silence that follows is unbearable.

Eventually, the two of you gather the last of your things and leave the room. You walk side by side, the air between you tight with everything unsaid.

Outside, everyone is saying their goodbyes. Laughter, hugs, last-minute selfies. But none of it touches you. Not really.

You spot Caleb near the car, arms crossed, jaw tight.

He shifts his weight, arms crossed, leaning against the car with that infuriatingly calm expression—like he’s been waiting to deliver a blow.

“Well, well,” he drawls, eyes dragging over your form. “Eventful night, huh?”

You freeze mid-step.

His tone is light, teasing, even laced with that familiar cocky lilt—but it cuts deeper than any insult. Because you know Caleb. You know exactly when he means it. When the smile on his face is just another weapon.

“Hope he was worth the show,” he adds with a smirk. You can’t quite get a read on his face, can’t really understand whether the smirk is teasing, jabbing, or insulting.

You don’t answer. You can’t. So you walk past him without a word.

But he’s not done.

He leans in just slightly, voice dropping low enough for only you to hear:

“I bet you still thought of me.”

It hits you like a slap. You don’t flinch. You don’t give him that satisfaction. But it scorches down your spine, curling into something heavy and sour in your stomach.

All words run dry in your throat.

Because you know you did, and he knows you did.

So, swallowing down the lump in your throat, you quietly climb into the car.

The ride back is a void—quiet and cold despite the sun that floods through the windows.

Michaela sits in the front, headphones in, eyes fixed outside. Her expression is unreadable, a delicate mask of serenity.

Caleb drives in silence, but the tension in his body betrays him.

His knuckles tighten around the steering wheel. The muscle in his jaw ticks every time the car slows.

And yet—despite everything—you still see the way his hand occasionally reaches over to Michaela’s thigh. Subtle. Familiar. He squeezes gently, reassuringly, every time the silence grows too loud.

You sit in the backseat, hands clenched in your lap, stomach churning, heart clawing at your ribcage.

Because somehow, in this cramped little car filled with silence and ghosts, you still feel like the one who doesn’t belong.

•

You finally find yourself back in your familiar space.

The door clicks shut behind you.

Shoes off. Bag down. Keys tossed on the counter.

The silence wraps around you, soft and undemanding.

For the first time in days, you breathe without pretending.

You shower, letting the water scald the memory of Michaela’s laugh off your skin.

You eat something. Actual food. Not alcohol. Not regret.

And for a brief, flickering moment, you start to feel okay again.

Until your phone pings.

A message.

Unknown [6:43 PM]: So?

You freeze.

Every part of you stills—except for your heart, which begins to pound like it remembers the thing you’ve tried so hard to forget since last night.

Something forbidden.

Something thrilling.

Something wrong.

The memory comes back in flashes as guilt claws its way up your throat, hot and unrelenting. It tastes like shame.

You stare at the screen until the words blur.

And then, with trembling hands, you type.

You [6:50 PM]: It was a mistake.

You [6:50 PM]: Don’t text me again.

You hit send before you can think twice.

Your phone slips from your grip, landing face-down on the bed as you bury your face in your hands.

“It was a mistake,” you mumbled.

•

The following days were the most peaceful ones you’ve had in what felt like forever—quiet, slow, and mercifully uneventful. No parties. No whispered gossip. No sharp glances from Caleb or strained smiles from Michaela. Just the soft hum of routine and the space to finally breathe.

You sleep more. Eat better. Enjoying the lasts of your break. You’re rebuilding yourself piece by piece—one uneventful morning at a time.

But the moment you start feeling a little more like yourself, Monday catches up.

The quiet comfort of the break ends the second your feet hit campus tiles. The world spins forward like nothing ever happened.

Michaela acts like nothing ever happened.

She greets you with the same bright smile, the same light giggle, the same affectionate bump of the shoulder. As if that night was just another one of many forgettable college party blurs. As if your lips had never touched Sylus’s. As if her eyes hadn’t dulled the second they landed on you.

And you pretend too.

Because it’s easier that way. Safer.

Later that day, she loops her arm through yours as you walk out of class, swinging your hands between you. “Let’s go shopping after lectures? I need a new outfit or something for the first viewing next week,” she beams.

You nod before you can think too hard about it.

“Oh—” she adds, with that little flicker in her voice that always precedes something calculated, “I invited Caleb too.”

Your smile doesn’t falter, but your stomach twists.

The shopping trip is tolerable at best. Michaela slips into her spotlight with ease—twirling in front of mirrors, holding up dresses with playful pouts, laughing just a bit too loud at jokes that don’t quite land. Caleb sticks close, fingers brushing her waist, whisper her ear when she grins too hard.

But his eyes wander.

You catch him sometimes, gaze flicking to you when Michaela isn’t looking. Just for a second. Just enough to leave that same sour taste in your throat.

You don’t acknowledge it.

You can’t.

Instead, you smile when Michaela pulls you into the dressing room with her. You nod when Caleb asks if you’re tired. You pretend not to notice how her laugh dims a little when he lingers by your side for too long. You go through the motions—lift the hangers, compliment the colors, offer the safe, neutral opinions you’ve mastered so well.

It’s like muscle memory now. Playing your role.

Because if you don’t look too hard, you can almost believe this is normal. That nothing’s changed. That your mouth hadn’t betrayed you. That your silence wasn’t stitched from guilt.

By the time the sun dips below the skyline and the three of you step out of the store, bags in hand and feigned joy in your lungs, you feel wrung out—drained from smiling too much and meaning none of it.

Caleb says something—something teasing, probably—and Michaela laughs like a girl in love.

You stay a step behind them, clutching your bag a little too tightly.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

You tell yourself you deserve this.

Because in this triangle of careful lies and quiet betrayals—

You’re the one who kissed the wrong boy.

And you were the one who almost said yes again.

“Oh! I almost forgot,” Michaela says, as if it just came to her. “You have to come to the premiere next month.”

You blink. “The… premiere?”

She grins. “The film. The one we shot over break? We’re doing a small screening—kind of like a soft launch—for friends and crew.” She swings her shopping bags absentmindedly. “It’s just this tiny old theatre on 12th. Indie vibes, red velvet seats, ancient projector that might burst into flames halfway through—super charming.”

You force a smile. “Sounds cute.”

“You’ll come, right?” she says, looking at you over the rim of her cup. “I already told them to save you a seat.”

You hesitate—but not long enough for her to notice. “Sure.”

She beams. “Perfect.” Then, casually: “Sylus will be there too. I made sure he’d come.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the straps of your bag.

“Made sure?” you echo, trying to keep your tone even.

Michaela shrugs, but there’s a sparkle in her eyes—the kind that always means she’s saying more than she lets on. “Yeah! I’ve been seeing him pretty frequently these days. Bumped into him a few times after the shoot… had coffee once or twice. He’s actually really funny when he’s not being all mysterious and broody.”

“Oh,” Caleb joins, light and amused. “Him. Great. Can’t wait to hear him brood about cinematography or whatever the hell it is he does.”

Michaela laughs, linking her arm with yours again. “Be nice. He’s actually been really helpful lately.”

“Helpful,” Caleb echoes, quirking a brow as he pops the lollipop from his mouth. “Didn’t realize mysterious bad boys were part of the crew now.”

“He’s not a ‘bad boy’,” she says, rolling her eyes.

She says it lightly, but there’s a deliberate lilt in her voice—a softness, almost flirtatious.

Your grip on your bag tightens, the fabric biting into your fingers.

You nod once, slow. “Didn’t know you two were close.”

She hums. “We’re getting there.”

Then, with a coy smile: “He asked a lot about you, though. Thought that was cute.”

Your chest constricts. The air feels thinner somehow.

“Anyway,” she says, skipping in front and spinning to fully face you, “it’s going to be such a fun night. You should wear that black slip dress—the one you wore to Jenna’s party? You looked so good in that.”

And all you could mutter in response was a short hum along with a smile.

•

The following days were as normal as they could’ve been. Well, aside from the fact that he has suddenly been everywhere.

At first, it was subtle.

A glimpse of him through the glass-paneled door of the editing lab, leaning over a student’s shoulder.

The sound of his voice drifting down the hallway—low, smooth, impossible to mistake.

Then you saw him again, this time in the courtyard. Talking to a group from the business department, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a coffee he barely drank from.

Word spread quickly.

“I thought he took most of his classes online?” someone whispered nearby.

“He does. No one ever sees him around.”

“Then why’s he here now?”

“Who knows? Maybe to complete his last courses before graduation?”

“He’s a business major, right?”

“Yeah, but like… old money business. Scary smart. The kind that makes you nervous to breathe too loud.”

You kept your head down, but your pulse never quite stayed still.

Because every time you caught sight of him, he never once looked your way—

And yet, you felt his presence like it was stitched into the fabric of your day.

He was too composed. Too polished. Too calculated.

And somehow, his silence was louder than if he’d cornered you outright.

“Just a mistake,” you mumble to yourself each time you see his figure waltz by.

But your quiet whispers to calm your nerves didn’t prove to be a very sustainable method.

Not when the universe seems hellbent on rubbing it in.

You see them together.

Once in the corridor outside the media building—her laugh echoing off the walls, his hand casually in his pocket, head tilted down to hear her better. They walk side by side, their pace easy, unhurried.

Michaela looks effortless next to him—bright-eyed, golden, her hand brushing his arm as she says something that makes him smile.

Not his usual smirk. Not the quiet, condescending curve of his mouth he wore like armor.

You stop in your tracks.

Just for a second.

Long enough for Michaela to spot you.

She waves. Cheerful. Unbothered. “Hey babe!”

He followed her gaze and landed on you. The smile on his lips curls up a little higher as you meet his eyes.

“Hello,” amusement coats his voice.

“Hi—”

“I’m probably not going to be free today for our usual hangouts,” Michaela cuts in, turning to you with an apologetic pout. “I asked Sylus to help with some of my work… You can hang out with Caleb by yourself, right?”

Before you can answer, she adds with a dramatic sigh, “Please tell him to chill and that I’m fine—just really busy. He’s been blowing up my phone non-stop these days.”

You force a smile, nodding once. “Yeah. Of course.”

She beams, already tugging Sylus further down the hall.

He casts one last glance your way.

A flicker of something in his eyes—teasing, sharp, unreadable.

As soon as you’re left standing there, caught in the space between their footsteps and your silence, your phone buzzes.

You glance down,

Caleb [4:28 PM]: where are you

Caleb [4:28 PM]: arent we having dinner today

Caleb [4:28 PM]: are you with her? she’s not answering my texts

Your stomach tightens.

You can still hear Michaela’s laughter fading around the corner, Sylus’s low voice murmuring something back.

Caleb [4:29 PM]: nvm

Caleb [4:29 PM]: i’ll find you myself

You don’t even remember agreeing to it.

One minute you’re reading Caleb’s texts with a pit in your stomach, the next he’s striding up to you outside the lecture hall—jaw tense, eyes scanning over your shoulder like he’s half-expecting Michaela to appear.

“She’s with him, isn’t she?” he asks, no greeting, voice clipped.

You blink. “Caleb—”

His expression shifts. He exhales, scrubs a hand through his hair, and forces a smile.

“Whatever,” he says, eyes softening as they settle on you. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here.”

And just like that, the edge in his voice fades.

“Come on,” he says, nudging your shoulder. “I’m starving. Let’s go grab something before I start chewing my own arm off.”

You hesitate for half a second, but he’s already walking ahead, glancing back to make sure you follow.

•

Dinner ends up being at this tiny place tucked behind the arts building—warm lighting, mismatched chairs, the kind of quiet hum that makes everything feel a little softer.

You sit across from him, arms tucked against your chest, still a little shell-shocked from everything.

He notices.

“You’ve been doing that thing again,” he says between bites. “Where your brain goes somewhere else and forgets to take your body with it.”

You snort. “And what thing are you doing right now?”

He leans back, exaggeratedly smug. “Being charming and irresistible, obviously.”

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth lifts. Just a little.

When your food arrives, he pushes his plate toward you with a quiet, “Try this. It’s better than yours.”

You glance at him, suspicious. “You haven’t even tasted mine.”

He grins. “Exactly. That’s how confident I am.”

It’s silly. Stupid, even. But it helps. The knot in your chest loosens just enough to let a small laugh slip out.

And then—just as you’re mid-bite—his voice softens.

“Hey.”

You look up.

His eyes are steady now. No teasing. No act.

“I never really got the chance to say it properly,” he murmurs. “About what happened at the filming set. That night. Everything.”

The clinking of cutlery fades around you.

“I was inconsiderate,” he says. “I thought too little. Acted too harsh. ”

He looks down at his hands for a moment. “I overlooked your feelings. And I hurt you more than I meant to.”

You don’t know what to say.

So you just watch him as he finally lifts his gaze again, softer now. Warmer.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is… I’m sorry.”

The air between you stills.

“Can’t say I really enjoyed the stunt you pulled though,” he jokes.

The dinner continues quietly—less heavy now, more like the old rhythm you used to share with him. Caleb cracks a few jokes, pokes fun at your serious face, and makes exaggerated guesses about the lives of people at nearby tables. You end up laughing more than you expected to.

Then, as you gather your things to leave, he tilts his head toward you with a mischievous glint.

“One drink?” he asks. “There’s this quiet place nearby. They make the worst cocktails I’ve ever had in my life. Thought you’d like it.”

You roll your eyes. “Sounds irresistible.”

He grins. “Exactly.”

The bar turns out to be this cozy hole-in-the-wall tucked behind a bookstore, dimly lit with string lights that look like they’ve been up since 2003. There’s an old piano in the corner no one plays, and the bartender greets Caleb like he’s a regular—which is both comforting and mildly concerning.

The music’s soft. The booths are deep and worn-in. And somehow, the world feels smaller here.

Caleb orders for both of you, raising a brow at you across the table. “Just trust me.”

You don’t. But you drink it anyway.

“You’re smiling,” he points out, pleased with himself.

You arch a brow. “Must be the worst cocktail I’ve ever had in my life.”

He lifts his glass. “To consistent branding.”

You clink glasses, laughter warm between you.

The kind of warmth that sneaks up on you—gentle, nostalgic, easy.

And then, somewhere between the second and third drink, he leans back, eyes softer now, his playful edge melting at the corners.

“You know,” he starts, swirling what’s left of his drink. “I don’t really remember what my parents look like anymore.”

You glance over at him.

“You don’t talk about your family much,” you say gently.

He lets out a breath. It could’ve been a laugh.

“Don’t really have one,” he says. “Not really.”

He lifts the glass to his lips, but doesn’t drink. Just rests it there, like he needs something to hold on to.

“Thankfully, Michaela’s took me in,” he continues. “Thankfully…” he repeats, quieter this time.

Your mood sours from the mention of her name. Of course she would be mentioned.

“She has always been sick since she was a kid. ‘Cause of her bad heart.”

You stay quiet. Let him keep going.

Something in his voice says he needs to.

“It’s always been my responsibility to keep her safe,” he says, almost like he’s reminding himself. “Since we were kids.”

His fingers drum against the glass, slow and steady, like a heartbeat.

“And whenever I failed to do so… well…” he trails off, then smiles, a crooked, breathy thing that doesn’t touch his eyes. “It never really ended very well.”

You feel the weight of those words, the way he tries to tuck pain into them like they’re just another part of the joke.

“He used to remind me constantly… of my purpose…” Caleb mumbles, his voice slowing, slurring slightly. His words are slipping like his grip on the glass—loose, tired, too worn down to hold on.

You watch his eyes begin to dim, heavy with drink and something much older.

“You’re too drunk, Caleb,” you say softly, reaching out to steady the glass before it tips.

He blinks at you. Slow. Dazed. And then his lips part, just barely.

“That I’m just a stray…” he whispers, almost to himself. “If no one needs me…”

His gaze unfocuses for a moment. You don’t think he even realizes he’s still speaking.

Your breath catches.

He’s still smiling, faintly, lazily. But it’s the kind of smile that scourches your chest.

You slide your hand across the table, fingers brushing his. He doesn’t move.

“You should go home,” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer. Just leans further into his folded arms, the tension in his shoulders finally giving out.

You sigh, quietly.

The bar is warm, the night colder. And somehow, without much thought, you find yourself wrapping his arm around your shoulder, whispering half-hearted complaints as you half-drag, half-guide him out the door.

•

The days fly by like leaves lifted off the branches.

Nothing of the past has ever been mentioned ever again—the few days at the film set, the tense atmosphere between you and Michaela, nor the night Caleb slumped into your shoulder, murmuring half-truths through the haze of cheap liquor and old pain.

Classes resume. Group chats return to life. The cafeteria starts serving that awful tomato soup again. You slip back into the rhythm like nothing happened.

But the cracks are still there—just beneath the surface, waiting.

You’re sitting under the shade of a banyan tree behind the humanities building. It’s quiet, peaceful, a little breezy. Your lunch is balanced on your lap, half-eaten. Michaela plops down beside you with a soft “ugh�� and a dramatic stretch.

“God,” Michaela says brightly, appearing at your side like she always does—seamlessly, like a breath of perfume. “He’s actually so funny once you get him to talk.”

You glance at her. “Who?”

She tilts her head, playful. “Sylus,” she says, drawing the name out. “He’s been helping me prep for the Q&A tomorrow. Said I needed to sound less ‘pageant’ and more ‘visionary.’ Whatever that means.”

Her laugh is breezy. Too light.

“Oh?” you respond, forcing a smile. “Sounds like you’re getting close.”

“Oh, it’s nothing serious,” she says quickly, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Coffee here, late-night notes there. He’s just so…” She trails off, eyes sparkling. “Interesting, don’t you think?”

You hum. Noncommital.

Michaela doesn’t seem to notice—or pretends not to.

She takes a sip of her drink, then suddenly perks up. “Oh! The premiere’s this Saturday. Are you ready?”

You blink. “Ready for…?”

“The spotlight, duh,” she grins, nudging your arm. “To see yourself on screen, see the scenes you played in come together with the background music. And to see your name in the closing credit!”

You roll your eyes, but it makes you smile. “It’s not that serious.”

“It is,” she insists. “You looked amazing, even in the trailer. You carried that café scene.”

You snort. “I said four words.”

“Yeah, but you felt those four words. I almost cried.”

You laugh together, and for a second—it feels real. Familiar. Like the last few weeks never happened.

“Have you picked an outfit yet?” she asks between bites of salad.

You shake your head. “Was just gonna wear something simple.”

Michaela gasps. “No. You’re not walking into an indie theater full of film nerds in ‘something simple.’ You have to look effortless. Like you’re not trying, but also like… if you were trying, you’d end worlds.”

You glance at her, raising a brow. “That specific, huh?”

“Always,” she says, eyes sparkling.

And for a moment, it’s just the two of you.

Two girls beneath a tree, laughing about dresses and dumb film boys and the weight of appearances.

It feels soft. Safe. Like how things used to be.

And it hits you with a quiet ache.

Because even now, part of you still wants to believe this friendship can survive what’s been done.

That maybe you haven’t already burned the bridge.

That maybe—just maybe—she hasn’t noticed the match in your hand.

The rest of the week passes in quiet, deliberate steps.

Classes blur. The campus grows louder, buzzing with exams and end-of-semester deadlines. Your name gets tagged once or twice in the group chat—reminders about call times, wardrobe, a blurry meme of someone joking about crying during the Q&A.

You try on outfits with Michaela after class, like you promised.

It’s surprisingly normal—her room filled with scattered hangers, half-empty iced coffees, the faint sound of a playlist humming from her speaker.

You laugh. You bicker. You twirl.

And then—Saturday arrives.

The day of the premiere.

It’s just past golden hour when you step out of your building, the sky painted in soft streaks of lavender and orange. The air is crisp. The kind that wakes you up and reminds you something’s about to happen.

The old theatre on 12th is just as Michaela described it—small, a little run-down, with velvet seats that creak and a marquee that flickers every other letter.

There’s already a crowd forming outside. Film kids in too-large blazers and thrifted dresses, professors dressed semi-formal but too cool to act like it, and the crew—all wide-eyed and excited, passing around programs and laughter.

The theater glows in the soft spill of marquee lights, buzzing faintly overhead as you approach, clutching your clutch tighter than necessary.

The car pulls up just as you step onto the red-carpeted pavement.

And then you see her.

Michaela steps out first, the silk of her silver dress catching the light like water. It slips over her frame effortlessly—cool-toned and reflective, like moonlight turned human. Her lips are painted a soft coral, her eyes dusted with shimmer, and her smile—bright, unbothered, breathtaking—lands like a punch to the chest.

Then comes Caleb.

He unfolds from the car in slow, unhurried movements, sleeves of his black dress shirt rolled neatly to his elbows beneath a tailored blazer, the collar unbuttoned just enough to suggest trouble. His hair is slicked back, not too perfect, and a hint of cologne catches the air as he leans slightly toward Michaela, saying something close to her ear.

You feel it instantly—the pull. The heat.

They look like they stepped off a magazine spread. Like they’re here to be looked at. Owned it. Earned it.

Your stomach twists.

But then her eyes find yours.

“Yn!” Michaela beams the second she sees you, waving you over like the oldest friend in the world. Her voice cuts through the crowd with effortless warmth. “You look stunning! Oh my God!”

You force a smile, walking toward her as she reaches out and takes your hand for a brief spin. “See? I told you that dress was the one. Absolutely gorgeous.”

“Thanks,” you murmur.

Caleb’s gaze drifts lazily toward you. His eyes widen slightly, just for a second—subtle, but there. And then that crooked, lazy smile of his crawls up his face like he’s trying not to let it show too much.

“Damn,” he mutters under his breath, voice low, just loud enough for you to hear over the soft chatter of the crowd. “You do look good today, shortcake.”

You don’t turn to look at him. You don’t smile. But your pulse stutters anyway.

Inside, the lights are low and flickering, casting everyone in gold.

You find your seats near the front.

You sit first.

Then Michaela slips in beside you, smoothing the back of her dress.

Then Caleb—his thigh brushing against hers, jacket folding as he slouches back with that usual too-cool ease.

And then—

An empty seat. Reserved with a single placard.

SYLUS QIN

You stare at it for a second too long.

The serif font. The clean white card. The space he hasn’t filled.

People slowly fill the theatre, and the chatter dies down as soon as the introducing speech starts. Cheers and laughter are exchanged as the producer welcomes everyone, and soon, lights begin to dim, the hush rippling through the room like a spell settling.

The first flicker of light sears across your vision—too bright, too sudden. You blink, disoriented.

The grainy opening shot bleeds onto the walls, painting everyone in uneven strobes of white and shadow. Your hands curl into the fabric of your dress.

Then you hear your voice.

Just a small line, off-screen. But it makes your throat tighten.

And then you’re there. You.

A glimpse of your face on camera—too quick, too exposed.

Your stomach flips. A cold rush spreads down your back. You shrink into your seat without meaning to.

The flickering continues—scenes switching with sharp cuts, too fast, too loud. Your eyes strain to follow. The glow of the screen presses against your skin like heat.

You feel it in your temples. In the base of your skull.

A thrum. A pressure.

You try to breathe slower.

But there you are again.

In the corner of the frame. Behind Michaela’s shoulder. Walking across the background, smiling as she delivers a perfect monologue.

You’re always there—but never really there.

Never centered. Never seen.

Just enough to anchor the shot.

Never enough to be remembered.

Your heart races faster.

You glance sideways—Michaela is watching intently, chin tilted just so, the soft rise and fall of her breathing unbothered. Her hand rests lightly on Caleb’s arm.

You try to focus on the screen, but the lights are too much now. The images change too quickly. Your skin feels hot. The sound dips and rises, warping in your ears. Laughter in the film echoes strangely, like it’s bouncing around inside your chest instead of the room.

You swallow down the tightness clawing its way up your throat.

Breathe.

You stare at your knees. At your folded hands.

The screen flashes white again—another cut. Another shot of Michaela framed in golden light, eyes brimming with perfectly timed tears.

And just behind her, out of focus—your figure. Barely lit. Barely there.

You curl your fingers into your dress and force yourself to stay still.

Because if you move—if you flinch, if you breathe too loud—it’ll feel too real.

Like this isn’t just a movie. Like your position in the film is just as it is in real life.

Your breath hitches.

Get through this. Just get through this.

But the room feels too full. Your lungs too tight. Your face too visible under the flickering screenlight.

So, with quivering hands, you quickly excuse yourself out quietly, muttering a soft “I need to use the toilet,” to Michaela.

Your fingers brush her arm as you squeeze past, knees knocking against the velvet seat in front of you.

You don’t look at Caleb.

You don’t dare.

The moment you reach the aisle, you bolt.

The darkness of the theater presses in from all sides, but the exit sign glows red—blessedly real, blessedly distant from the version of you being projected for everyone else to see.

You push through the heavy doors.

Out into the hallway.

Into the quiet.

It’s cooler out here. Dimmer. The hum of the projector muffled by layers of walls.

And still, your hands shake.

Your chest heaves.

You press your back against the corridor and squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to breathe again.

To stop hearing the lines you spoke, the laugh that wasn’t yours, the way you stood just out of frame.

You weren’t supposed to matter.

You weren’t supposed to be seen.

But seeing yourself just that—seeing yourself as nothing more than a narrative device—knocks all air out of your lungs.

And so you do what you do best in situations like these.

You walk.

Down the corridor. Past posters for old plays and peeling signs pointing to locked rehearsal rooms. The soft clink of your heels echoes against the concrete, sharp and rhythmic, the only sound in the hush that follows you.

Left. Then right.

You take the stairwell without thinking—something about the way the door hangs open, waiting.

Up.

One flight. Two.

You’re not counting. You’re not really anywhere.

Just moving.

The final door gives with a groan.

And then—open air.

The rooftop is quiet. Dimly lit by a few tired bulbs and the soft haze of city lights glowing from below. The wind brushes past your cheeks, tugging at the hem of your dress, the strands of your hair.

You inhale slowly—deeply.

The air fills your lungs and doesn’t choke. For the first time tonight, your chest doesn’t feel so tight.

You hug your arms around yourself, rubbing warmth into your skin as you move toward the edge of the rooftop. The wind tangles softly in your hair. The quiet is heavier than silence—it’s soothing. Honest.

The sounds of the premiere, the echoes of your lines, the weight of Michaela’s smile, Caleb’s lingering glances—all of it stays behind those concrete walls.

But the moment your shoulders finally drop—the tension unwinding from your spine like thread pulled too tight—

a voice slices through the quiet.

“The movie boring?”

You jolt.

And there he is.

Leaning lazily against the railing at the far edge of the rooftop, one hand resting in the pocket of his black slacks, the other loosely curled around a cigarette he hasn’t lit. The wind toys with the edges of his shirt, untucked and open at the collar, the soft fabric fluttering just enough to hint at the warmth beneath.

His silver hair—bright even under the dull rooftop lights—shifts with the breeze, strands falling across his forehead in that effortless way that should be illegal. The city glows behind him, casting shadows across the hard angles of his jaw, the sharp lines of his cheekbones. His eyes catch yours beneath long lashes, amused, unreadable.

He doesn’t move.

He doesn’t need to.

Just the sight of him—calm, crooked smile in place, posture loose like he’s got nowhere to be and nothing to prove—pulls something taut inside you all over again.

Sylus Qin.

Looking like trouble sculpted in moonlight.

And you walked straight into it.

Your voice stumbles out, more breath than word.

“What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just tips his head slightly, eyes trailing over you in that infuriatingly slow, unreadable way of his.

“Didn’t realize rooftops were exclusively yours now.”

His voice is quiet but laced with amusement, like he’s already enjoying how thrown off you are. The wind picks up, tousling the silver strands of his hair. He doesn’t fix them. Just leans back against the railing again like this is his space now. Like you’ve wandered into his scene.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he adds, gaze settling on you. “Didn’t strike me as the type to abandon your own premiere.”

Your jaw tightens. “It’s not my premiere.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs, eyes glinting. “You were in almost every shot. That little background smile of yours really carried the emotional arc.”

You shoot him a glare. He shrugs.

“Relax,” he says, voice dipping just enough to make your skin prickle. “I’m just making conversation.”

And then, without breaking eye contact, he pulls the cigarette back out from his pocket—like he knew exactly when to use it for effect.

You watch as he rolls it between his fingers, slow and practiced, before slipping it between his lips. His eyes flick downward, shadowed beneath dark lashes, as he flicks the lighter.

A soft click.

A brief spark.

Then flame.

He cups the light with one hand, shielding it from the wind, the gesture intimate in its precision. The flame catches the edge of the cigarette, a quick sizzle, and then a curl of smoke unfurls between his lips as he leans back—head tilted, silver hair brushing the collar of his jacket.

He exhales through parted lips.

Smoke spills from his mouth in a lazy stream, rising into the night air.

And for a moment, the whole rooftop smells like sin.

You swallow. Hard.

Because it shouldn’t look that good.

No one should look that good doing something so simple.

But he makes it look like poetry wrapped in gasoline.

Dangerous. Beautiful. Impossible to look away from.

He glances sideways, catching your gaze—then smirks around the cigarette.

“What?” he says, smoke curling past his teeth. “You want one?”

You ignore his question as you cross the distance between you with quiet steps, heels clicking softly against the rooftop floor, until you’re beside him.

Close, but not touching.

You lean forward onto the railing, elbows braced, eyes fixed on the world below. The city stretches beneath you—cars like fireflies, neon signs blinking against concrete, life spilling in all directions.

“Heard you’re pretty close to Michaela these days.”

Words slip out of your mouth before you could stop them—carried off too quickly by the breeze.

Sylus doesn’t respond right away. Just takes another drag, eyes still on the skyline, unreadable behind the soft glow of the city lights and the rising smoke.

“Is that what people are saying?” he asks, voice low, like he’s half-amused, half-bored.

You glance sideways at him, but his expression doesn’t shift.

“She’s been… talking,” you murmur.

He exhales slowly, smoke curling from the corner of his lips. “Yeah. She does that.”

There’s a beat of silence. The kind that leaves your thoughts too loud.

“She seems to like you,” you add, keeping your voice light. “Says you’re funny. Helpful.”

His gaze finally cuts to you, slow and sharp. An eyebrow arches. A slow, knowing smirk tugs at his lips.

“You sound jealous,” he says, voice dipped in something darker. Teasing. Dangerous.

Your breath falters.

“I’m not.”

He hums, low in his throat, clearly unconvinced. Then, he turns—just slightly—enough to face you, enough to make you feel it.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs, voice barely above the wind.

He leans in, just a bit. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough that the air between you shifts.

“I mean… if you wanted my attention,” his eyes drag slowly down your face, “you didn’t have to bring her up to get it.”

You blink. Hard.

The smirk deepens. He takes one last drag from the cigarette, flicks it to the side, and exhales—

Right past your shoulder, warm and slow, like it was deliberate.

Then he turns back toward the railing, arms resting casually as if he didn’t just turn your pulse inside out.

“Relax,” he says again, voice smooth and cruelly amused. “I’m just making conversation.”

“Fuck you and your conversations.”

“Language, princess.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, slow and smug, like he enjoys your bite more than he should.

He doesn’t look at you when he speaks next—just watches the lights below with that lazy, unreadable calm.

“The deal’s still on, by the way,” he says, almost offhand. “I don’t usually hold my deals this long.”

Your breath catches—but you don’t answer. Not immediately.

Instead, eyes still fixed on the city, you ask quietly,

“What’s it like?”

He glances sideways.

“To smoke,” you murmur, voice soft against the wind. “What does it feel like?”

That catches him off guard.

His smirk fades into something quieter—still sharp, but thoughtful.

He straightens a little, resting his elbows on the railing, eyes narrowed at the skyline like he’s remembering something he can’t touch anymore.

“It’s… warm,” he says eventually. “First few seconds burn. Then it’s just heat in your chest. Makes everything a little slower. A little duller.”

He glances at you again, eyes shadowed beneath silver strands.

“You’d hate it.”

And then, softer—

“You’d get addicted.”

You glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “That confident, huh?”

His smile returns, crooked and slow.

“Always.”

Then—without looking away—he reaches into his pocket, pulls out the pack again, taps it once against his palm.

“Wanna try?”

You hesitate.

Just for a second.

The rooftop wind brushes your skin. The lights below blur like you’re not quite grounded anymore.

“…Okay,” you say finally, barely above a whisper. “Sure.”

His gaze lingers on you for a breath longer than it should—sharp, slow, searching.

Then, with practiced ease, he slips the cigarette between his lips, flicks the lighter, and inhales. The tip glows ember-red. Smoke curls around his face like it belongs there.

He steps closer.

Not fast. Not aggressive. Just… inevitable.

Until your backs are no longer parallel, but aligned.

Until his body is angled toward yours, his hand brushing the railing beside your arm.

Then he exhales—slow, steady—up into the air first, just to show you how.

And before your thoughts can catch up, before your pulse even finds a rhythm, his hand slides around your jaw. Gentle, but certain. Fingers curling under your chin, tipping your face up to his.

“Open,” he murmurs.

And you do.

He leans in—closer, closer still.

Not to kiss. Not yet.

His mouth hovers just a hair’s breadth from yours, and then—

He exhales.

Smoke floods from his lungs into yours, warm and heady and tasting like fire and him.

It hits you all at once—your lips parted against his, the heat of his breath rolling into your mouth, your chest, your nerves. Your hands grip the railing behind you, fingers curling tight.

And just as your knees begin to weaken, just as the smoke begins to burn—

His lips press to yours.

Not soft.

Not tentative.

It’s full, hungry contact—heat and pressure and something sharp beneath the surface. He kisses you like you’re something he earned. Like he knew this was coming the moment you stepped onto that rooftop.

And god, you let him.

His hand slips from your jaw to your throat, thumb resting lightly just beneath your pulse. You feel it hammering there, wild and fast. He deepens the kiss, mouth coaxing yours open further, tongue tracing the edge of your bottom lip like a tease, like a challenge.

You kiss him back.

Harder. Needier. Like you’ve been holding it in.

Like you’re finally letting go.

The smoke lingers between you. In your mouth. Your chest. The heat of it coils through your veins, makes the moment feel reckless, dangerous, electric.

When he finally pulls away, just barely, your lips are still parted—still chasing after him.

And Sylus—

He’s already smirking.

“Told you,” he breathes, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

“You’d get addicted.”

Your breath comes shallow. Foggy. Like you’re drunk—from the smoke. From him.

From the way his voice sits too low in your stomach, too warm in your throat.

You blink, dazed. “What the fuck was that?”

He laughs—low, rich, and dizzying.

“Still want to call it a mistake?”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

Not with the nicotine still curling in your lungs. Not with his breath still ghosting yours.

Maybe it’s the way the air thins between you again.

Maybe it’s the flush that rises to your cheeks when you look up at him and realize he hasn’t stepped back this time.

Or maybe it’s just that dangerous cocktail of heat and haze and the taste of sin still lingering on your tongue.

“I think,” you whisper, eyes flicking to his mouth, “you didn’t teach it properly.”

His gaze sharpens. That smirk falters, just for a second—enough to show the hunger underneath.

“Oh?” he breathes.

You nod. Barely.

He leans in. Slowly. Purposefully.

His hand grazes your waist, his breath brushing your lips—and just when you think he’s going to kiss you again—

He pulls back.

Barely an inch. Just enough to keep you chasing.

His smirk returns, lazier this time. Meaner.

“Didn’t think you’d beg so soon,” he murmurs.

You glare. “I didn’t beg.”

“Mm,” he hums, dragging a finger along your jaw, “Not yet.”

Then—finally—he kisses you.

But it’s slower now. Crueler.

His mouth moves with calculated ease, like he’s studying you. Like he wants to see how long you can last with the tension stretched this thin.

He barely gives you what you want—just enough heat to make your knees unsteady, just enough pressure to make you lean in.

When your hand fists in his shirt, tugging him closer, he lets out a quiet laugh against your lips.

“Impatient,” he mutters, and you feel it—low and hot—right in your throat.

And then he deepens the kiss.

Because he knows you’re done pretending you don’t want it.

And he’s done pretending he doesn’t love watching you unravel.

But in the middle of it all—his fingers sliding under your shirt, your hands fisted in the back of his hair, breaths shared like secrets—

It hits you.

A crack of clarity.

Sharp and sudden, cutting through the haze.

You pull back.

Not far, but enough. Enough to breathe. Enough to speak.

“Why are you doing this?”

His brows knit, just slightly. You feel the shift in him, the quiet tension settling beneath the heat.

You keep going. You have to.

“What will you get out of the deal?”

Your voice is low, but steady. The question tastes bitter in your mouth—maybe because you’ve been trying to pretend it didn’t matter.

But it does. It always did.

He watches you, smoke still clinging to his breath, his thumb pausing on your skin.

And for a moment, he doesn’t answer.

Like he’s deciding what version of the truth to give you.

Like he’s debating if you’ve earned it.

He fully pulls away, the warmth of his body gone in an instant.

You watch as he straightens his spine, smooths down his collar with one hand, runs the other through his wind-tousled silver hair—like he’s putting his armor back on. Like he needs the distance again.

“I’m not playing games,” he says.

His voice is low. Still sharp, but there’s something underneath now. Not heat. Not flirtation.

Something older. Quieter. Worn.

You cross your arms, still catching your breath. “Then what is this?”

He pauses.

You see the flicker in his eyes—a calculation, a hesitation. The part of him that always weighs what to say and what to bury.

Then his lips tug into that same maddening smirk.

“You’re just really pitiful,” he says, voice lazy with mock sympathy.

Your brows shoot up. “Excuse me?”

“Kind of like someone I knew,” he continues, like he didn’t just insult you to your face. His tone is still light, but something about the way he says it—too casual, too precise—makes you freeze.

He doesn’t elaborate right away. Just glances down at the city lights below, cigarette smoldering between his fingers again.

He takes one last drag from the cigarette before flicking it over the edge, watching the ember fall like a dying star.

Then he turns back to you—smirk faded now, voice lower, rougher. Real.

“Let’s just say—” he begins, eyes locking with yours,

“you get to use me to get whatever you want…”

A pause. A slow step closer.

“And I’ll use you to get whatever I want.”

He lets the silence stretch between you, lets the weight of the words hang there like smoke.

“Sounds fair?”

You don’t answer right away.

You just stand there—wind tousling your hair, the taste of smoke still clinging faintly to your lips—watching him.

Watching the way he doesn’t push.

Doesn’t ask again.

Just lets the offer hang in the air like a match waiting to be struck.

Your thoughts spiral—through the flickers of the film, the ache in your chest as you watched yourself play the shadow, Michaela’s bright voice, Caleb’s wandering gaze, Sylus’s mouth on yours, the weight of his hands, the things he said.

And the worst part?

The way all of it made you feel alive again.

Like something inside you had finally stirred.

Like you were tired of being careful. Tired of being quiet. Tired of waiting for someone else to hand you the pen to your own story.

You draw in a breath, meet his eyes.

“Fine,” you say, soft but steady.

“I’m in.”

His smile is slow. Pleased. Like he already knew.

But he says nothing. Just nods once and turns to leave, hands in his pockets, silver hair catching the rooftop light.

You don’t stop him.

You stay there for a moment longer, listening to the echo of your own heartbeat.

And when the rooftop door clicks shut behind him—

You’re still tasting sin.

Still thinking about the deal you just made.

And wondering who, in the end, will really get what they want.

[lauraneedstochill]

silence my storm

pairing: Jack Abbot x resident!reader summary: Abbot falls harder for you without even noticing, but he struggles to apologize for what he said. He might lose you before he finds the right words. part 2 of Can’t pretend

warnings: rivals to <friends> to lovers, slow burn, implied age gap (you can ignore it) / descriptions of war; mentions of dr*gs, horrible parenting and losing loved ones, dealing with PTSD and panic attacks / PITTFEST (mass shooting, blood and injuries), ANGST. but there’s a silver lining! ♡ / words: 9.5K / author’s note: I imagine Danny Glover as Donny because that man would def talk some sense into Jack ♡ this part is intense so buckle up! / {you also can read it on AO3}

As long as Abbot can remember, he always managed to stand out. He was unruly as a kid, flouting authority and speaking out against injustice. He got teased for his skin sprinkled with freckles, for curls that turned auburn in the sun; he was hated for his inability to yield. The same attitude got him into the army, the same relentlessness helped him push through the combat training — in ten weeks some men were broken and remolded to fit in; but not Jack. He was resilient and fast and competent — with first aid, hand grenades, and rifles, during the obstacle course and field exercises; he joked that it felt like a summer camp. It also felt like the perfect place for him, and the medic training only strengthened his resolve. He didn’t seek attention but he attracted people with his biting humour and his never-fading perseverance. And he believed he could withstand it all.

Then he got deployed to hotspots, to places where the earth under his feet was scorched by blasts, heat dizzying, pulse throbbing in his head. And he watched as the villages were flattened to the ground, vehicles made of steel reduced to wrecks, and half of the things he’d learned before were proven useless. It left him hardened but it didn’t break him. Because somehow Jack always knew the way and the right words, because if he could save a life a day, it was all worth it.

But then came the war zones, and those weren’t about saving as much as they were about survival: on battlefields, in trenches, on desert wastelands that stretched on for miles, sand swirling in the air, legs heavy with fatigue, skin slick with sweat. And death tore people limb from limb, never a negotiator but a butcher, only allowing Jack to dig more graves. Those years flayed him of his assurance and his ardor, and he was knocked down, beaten, maimed, his body scarred and heart shattered, the damage that seemed irreparable, pain that left so many soldiers hopeless. But Jack got right back up.

And he got rougher at the edges and he talked less, but he decided to give life another chance. Jack studied with the same diligence and he threw himself into his work, as persevering as before, as tough as ever. The patients found his stoic demeanor calming, and other doctors respected him for cutting to the chase and thinking quickly. And undeniably, there is some comfort in being the one people can rely on, a beacon that guides through the darkest nights.

But you make Jack feel like he is invisible. And that’s a first.

It would make sense for you to glare in his direction, to let hostility cut through your tone when he’s around. You do none of that. On Monday, when Robby finally comes back — sunglasses tucked in his hoodie pocket, a giant cup of coffee in his hand, a smile so big his cheeks must hurt — you rush in barely a minute after and greet him, quite warmly. You say nothing to Jack although he’s standing right there next to him. Jack stops himself from following you with his gaze and listens to your retreating footsteps. It’s Dana who is glaring at him.

Robby is yet to notice it, his eyes on the board. “I see, the house is packed as always. How’s everyone been doing?”

“Peachy,” Dana deadpans, then moves a medical tablet to him with one hand. “Enjoy.”

His smile wavers at her tone, his gaze darting from her to Jack. “And how is our new senior resident?”

Abbot doesn’t meet his eyes. “Good.”

“Okay, what’s with the one-word answers?”

Princess rolls her chair closer with a smirk: “She’s very good.” Robby groans and she huffs. “What? It was more than one word! Everyone’s so cranky post-COVID.”

“First of all, my test came back negative so it was not COVID. And I do not appreciate you guys trying to ruin my mood this early in the morning,” Robby remarks although he doesn’t sound offended.

But his gaze wanders back to Jack as if he can read something from his reticence, as if he had suspicions before he even came through the doors. “Dr. Abbot, why don’t you tell me about the patients admitted overnight?” Robby suggests nonchalantly. “Come on, let’s take a walk. I’ve heard it’s good for health.”

Jack’s thinking of an excuse to stay. But then he sees you coming back, fresh scrubs on and face focused, and he almost turns around after you, he almost calls out your name. He has to reason with himself: it shouldn’t be a public conversation, you’d never want it to be. And he is yet to find the words for his regret. So he complies with Robby.

They step away, and Jack looks down at the screen, a colored spreadsheet with names and traumas. Robby cautiously looks around. And then he asks:

“So, back to the new resident. Are you getting along?”

Jack accidentally walks into a gurney someone left behind, curses under his breath and forces out: “Like I said, everything’s good.”

Robby hums, hardly convinced and clearly concerned. But not surprised. “You know what I’ve been thinking of recently?”

“I’m sure you are about to tell me.”

“You coming to work here. Remember your first few weeks?”

Those weren’t easy — not to live through, not to reminiscent of. Jack can recall some bland moments and hollow dialogues, a lot of pitying glances given to him. He had to bury his wife six months prior to that.

“I know I wasn’t a ray of sunshine—”

“You were kinda insufferable,” but Robby’s brown eyes are filled with sympathy as he says that. “I mean, obviously no one blamed you. I can only imagine how hard it was in the beginning.”

A crease settles in between Jack’s brows. “And you are reminding me of it why exactly?”

Robby stops, his hand landing on Jack’s shoulder. “Listen, we all adapt to new environment at our own pace. It’s easier for some people but for others, it can take time. And we, as the attendings, should give them that time and not take anything personally or rush to conclusions. If someone isn’t an open book, it may mean they have reasons to keep things to themselves.”

Jack only gives him a confused nod; although the words make sense to him, he can’t grasp their full meaning. “Okay?”

“Glad we are on the same page,” Robby gives him a pat and swiftly turns around.

“What about the patients?”

“Oh, I skimmed through the list, I’ll look up the rest if I need to. Go get some sleep.”

And Jack surely needs it. But Robby’s words stay on his mind, and the incomprehension bugs him, so much so that he comes back to the nurse station. Dana ignores him, loudly tapping on the same one key. He leans to her, lowering his voice:

“Was I insufferable when I first started here?”

“Why the past tense? You aren’t any better now,” she quips dryly.

He can’t hold back a heavy sigh, and when Dana casts a glance at him, he is equally tired and contrite. She grants him some reassurance, albeit begrudgingly.

“You were fine, Jack. All things considered. We knew you’ve been through some tough times. But you are a damn good doctor, and that’s all that matters,” she looks back at the computer. “Although you did scare half of our staff with your silent staring and your tactical knife. Please tell me you don’t have that thing with you.”

“I will refrain from answering that,” Jack straightens up, and her short chuckle gives him hope.

If only approaching you was just as simple.

It’s not that Jack cannot admit that he was in the wrong. Taking accountability for your mistakes helps you to learn from them, his therapist once told him, and words can hurt as much as they can heal. Jack’s had his fair share of hard conversations and harsh truths, and he would never shy away from either. But when he thinks of your heartbroken gaze, his usual equanimity escapes him, and no apology seems good enough to make up for his outburst. Still, he owes it to you to try.

Jack hopes to seize the moment before his night shift, he spends the day gluing together a small speech: he was unfair, he was wrong, he’s sorry. His gaze finds you as soon as he steps into the ER — a habit he doesn’t know how to get out of (nor does he want to). It’s almost laughable how hard it is for him to summon up the courage, it feels like every step to you takes twice as long. He is about to say it — Hey, can we please talk — but you breeze on by him, and then it is too late. Jack persuades himself the timing wasn’t right: he doesn’t want to distract you from your work, he’ll wait until you get a couple of free minutes.

You do not spare him even a second of your time.

It doesn’t seem unfounded: you are busy with patients, you help the nurses with case files, you keep an eye on Whitaker, and offer guidance to anyone who asks for it. Jack’s persuasion wavers but he clings to it, he is dead set on fixing things, he’s never been a quitter.

But your determination is a match for his — and you are awfully proficient at silent treatment.

One day of Jack’s futile attempts bleeds into two, then three, then a full week. And every time you walk past him like he doesn’t exist, like bones and tissues he is made of turned to dust. It should be a relief that you don’t make a scene; instead, your coldness wounds him, a deep incision somewhere at his ribs. And Jack is torn — he wants to put more effort in, he is afraid of taking it too far: it will not help his case if he ruins your lunch break or creeps up on you at the locker room. And it will make him reek of desperation.

But the uncertainty starts gnawing on him, a new bite with each day he fails. The short apology he crafted loops through his mind non-stop — until it sounds like a useless jumble of words, until Jack isn’t even sure him talking to you will not make things worse. You come and leave on time, you offer him no mercy, you master your avoidance as if he is a plague. And Jack is plagued with agitation, and by the third week he is already losing sleep: if he wasn’t desperate before, now he sure as hell is.

Jack checks his phone again because he keeps mixing up the days: it’s Tuesday, he came an hour early and hasn’t seen you yet. He pootles to the vending machine to give coffee another chance to wake him — and suddenly catches a familiar voice.

“Darling, I truly do not want to be a bother, but I have a friend here and I was wondering if you can —”

“Donny?”

It’s been a few years but he hasn’t changed one bit — six feet tall, gaze sharp but eyes warm, russet brown, short grey hair that looks silver against his dark skin, a charming half-smile. He’s also got a huge bruise on his forehead, and there’s a wheelchair he’s ignoring, leaning on the table with one arm.

Princess grins at the man and nods at Jack. “This is the friend?”

“No, this is my biggest pain in the ass,” Donny retorts but his smile grows bigger.

Jack smiles back and walks to him. “Of course, you can’t live out your retirement in peace. Did you head the ball again, sergeant?”

“You’re just jealous 'cause you suck at basketball,” Donny unceremoniously hugs him. But his poise falters slightly when Jack looks closer at his injury. “Apparently, I need a head CT. I keep telling 'em it’s no big deal —”

Jack shakes his head, silently tapping on the chair — Donny rolls his eyes and sits down without protest. “Page me when radiology is ready to take him,” Abbot tells Princess, then smoothly wheels Donny away. “Let’s get you comfortable in the meantime.”

“Do I get a cute nurse?” Donny curiously glances around. “Who can you page to sneak me a Margarita in here?”

“You get me and a cup of ice you can munch on.”

“Jesus, you do know how to kill the buzz.”

“This is me giving you preferential treatment.”

“Aw, you are honoring our unshakable camaraderie? Or have you gotten softer with age, Abbot?”

“It’s neither, but if you die on my watch, Martha will skin me alive.”

“Actually, she’d probably drink to it — we divorced last year.”

“Good for her.”

Donny snorts with laughter, boisterous and unapologetic, slapping Jack’s hand wrapped around the handle. He is about to talk back but then someone catches his attention — Donny turns his head, and his voice turns mellow:

“Oh, here you are, my angel! I was looking for you. Should’ve known the best doctors are the busiest.”

Jack pulls up short — not in reaction to Donny’s words but at the sight of you, standing a few feet away and looking right in his direction. And then the strangest thing happens — a miracle like an oasis in a desert, like a flower blooming in the dead of winter: you smile.

Jack’s breathing hitches.

And he watches like you a blind man who’s seeing sunrise for the first time in his life. It’s faint but undeniably sincere — joy dancing at the corners of your lips as you come near, your gaze kind when you talk to Donny. “Haven’t I told you to take it easy?”

“You know I can’t sit still, I like doing things. I’ll rest when I’m in the grave.”

“And I’d rather it happen later than sooner,” the words are stern but your voice is gentle, caring — something Jack suddenly wishes to deserve too. But you talk to Donny as if there’s just the two of you. “What was it this time?”

“That atrocious painting! I swear Martha superglued that thing to the wall. I spent an hour trying to tear it off, had to go grab a ladder. And I don’t know, maybe I slipped on the puddle of my own sweat,” he grumbles, a tad bit embarrassed. “And now I’m waiting for you guys to stuff me inside that noisy metal barrel. I better not get stuck in that thing.”

“You’ll fit just fine,” you say simply, gaze grazing his head: nothing too alarming for you to stare at. “You can close your eyes and pretend that you’re on a beach. Somewhere in Santa Monica, just like last summer.”

“Yeah, minus the imminent bump on my head,” he cackles. “Do you get lunch breaks in here? Will you come talk to me when you have a minute?”

“I’ll find you after you get a CT,” you promise — and then brush his shoulder with a quiet remark: “You are in good hands.”

And Jack can’t help another glance at you but you already round the corner to disappear somewhere in the hall. So he keeps his face straight and finds Donny a bed, then helps him sit against the pillows.

“You fell off a ladder? Should’ve mentioned it,” Jack takes the tablet and pulls up his medical records.

Donny squints at him. “Hmm, that’s weird. Man, what is this feeling...”

“What, does your head hurt? Vision getting blurry or —”

“It’s the tension between you two!” Donny hisses. “Why were you so awkward around her?”

Jack opens his mouth; then closes it, unsure. He’d love to know how you and Donny met but he doesn’t want to snoop around. His eyes are on the screen, his tone flat:

“Your angel, huh?”

“Oh, I’m sorry I don’t have a cute name for you. Your grumpy face doesn’t exactly call for it.”

“Luckily this face comes with a smart head and steady hands. That’s what you’d want from a doctor.”

“Well, aren’t you a modest one,” Donny doesn’t sound amused. “Now stop deflecting and tell me what’s going on. Were you hard on her, is that it?”

Jack wants to say yes. He was insensitive, he was an idiot, and now you’re giving him a cold shoulder, and it’s been driving him insane. But whining will not make things better. And Donny’s wisdom and support should be offered to you, not Jack.

Donny gives him a level stare. “Listen, I know seventy-eight doesn’t exactly instill fear. But I still can pack a hefty punch. And I swear I’ll punch you if you aren’t treating her right,” — and he immediately relents, his words in between a plea and a request. “Man, I’m serious. Go easy on her, the girl’s been through hell.”

“Haven’t we all?” Jack mumbles.

There is no bitterness and no harbored resentment — it’s just how life has been for Jack. And Donny is aware of that so he isn’t judging. He thinks over what he is about to say. Jack reads his file: irregular pulse, complaints of fatigue, some swelling of the legs.

“You know I’m not the one to sugarcoat all the crap we’ve been through,” Donny tells him bluntly, and it’s the truth. “When I hear random folks raving about their picture-perfect military days, I always call them out on their bullshit. But if there’s one thing I am grateful for, it’s the people. My closest friends are from the army and none are finer,” Donny holds a pause, like he is climbing over an imaginary fence, into an imaginary vault your secret’s hidden in — but not anymore. “Her brother was in the army too.”

Jack stops reading. He hesitates because he realizes right away that this is personal, this isn’t a story meant for just anybody to know. But then again, he knows nothing about you. How bad can this one story be? He looks up, and Donny continues.

“He was definitely one of the good ones. Damn, Sammy was a gem, such an enthusiastic kid. We served in Syria, and it was a shitstorm — well, you know what it’s like — but I can’t remember him complaining once. Good morals, quick reaction, awesome shooter.”

A happy ending is unlikely so Jack calculates the options: killed in combat or crossfire, body delivered in a sealed coffin. Or maybe never found, left somewhere in a foreign land, bones crumbling into dirt, a ghost that haunts his family for years.

“He got sent off to Kabul, a lot of snipers did. Back when Bush thought Al-Qaeda just ambles out in the open, waiting for the brave americans to show up and shoot everyone dead.”

“So, shitty planning?” Jack guesses.

“More like no planning. They got stranded in the mountains, Sammy and his squad. Lost contact with the base, half of them massacred within a week. He dodged a lot of bullets but he took a nasty fall — arm twisted backward, pulled his shoulder out of its socket.”

Jack instinctively grimaces. “That’s 11 out of 10 on the pain scale.”

“He gave it a 100. They were out of meds, completely lost, he was in and out of consciousness. Then, by sheer fucking luck, they found some tiny village, and one of the locals sheltered them. He was no doctor, and I’m sure he meant well... He suggested opium for the pain. The guys agreed.”

Abbot thinks he’d rather step on a landmine again. Any death in combat is a tragedy, but at least it’s quick. Addiction kills you slowly.

“They popped his shoulder back into place but the pain lingered,” — and Jack imagines torn ligaments and damaged blood vessels, the bruising changing color from red to blue. “It was hard to wear a backpack, hard to sleep at night.”

Abbot deduces grimly: “He needed more opium.”

“And he came back an addict,” Donny nods. “It wasn’t just opium, it never is. But Sammy did try to get better, I’ll give him that. Two years in support groups, in therapy, going from one rehab to another. And she would always follow him around, pay him visits, send him letters. She refused to give up on him, and he loved her to pieces, and we all wanted for him to get a grip… I wish I could tell you why he never did. He just kept falling off the wagon, and eventually, he ran out of money. So he borrowed some — from the people you should never be in debt to. And when he didn’t pay in time, they thought: what’s a better bargaining chip than his dear sister?”

Jack wishes he could go back in time and tell Donny he doesn’t want to hear this story. Heavy, hot rage already simmers in him — at the mere thought of someone hurting you; it also pains him deeply.

“They roughed her up, pretty badly. And one of them got out a gun — on trial, they insisted they didn’t mean to fire it, they just wanted to scare Sammy so he’d pay. The guy aimed at her but then a fight broke out, and someone pulled the trigger. Sammy pushed her away at the last second. The bullet went right through his heart. He probably died before those fuckers even managed to escape. When the cops arrived, they had to drag her away from his dead body. She was fifteen.”

Jack wants to bang his head against the wall.

And he thinks of you freezing at the doors, of how your gaze didn’t meet his when you were wiping off his blood, of your strained voice. And you weren’t reckless, weren’t prideful or condescending. You were afraid he might get hurt trying to keep you out of harm’s way. Because it happened to you once before, because it tore your heart in half. And his words made you relive that.

“It’s hard to bounce back after that. I don’t know how she did. Not with her parents' help, that’s for sure.”

Jack clears his throat; his voice is marked by sadness. “They aren’t very close?”

“I still can’t believe they are related,” Donny rants. “I’ve heard that money ruins people but her parents set a new low. Couldn’t say a single good word about their own son at his funeral. Didn’t care to console their daughter. They were ready to fuck off as soon as the priest gave his speech but she didn’t want to go. And they just left her at the cemetery, can you imagine? I was the one to give her a ride home. And I swear, at some point that evening I contemplated murder.”

And he doesn’t say the exact words, but Jack reads between the lines: you’ve got no other family. You had to grow up having no one to rely on.

“They wanted her to get a banking job. Said she shouldn’t spend her life digging into someone’s guts, it is not very lady-like. But she studied day and night, managed to get a scholarship — hell, I didn’t even know they offered those in med schools. The day after she got into residency, she cut ties with her parents. Haven’t spoken to them since. And I guess the silver lining is that she did become a good doctor, despite it all.”

Abbot gets paged to radiology. But his thoughts are far away — in his childhood home, at the dining table in the kitchen: here’s his mother with her contagious laughter, his father with the deep voice and crude jokes, the comfort of a family meal and sharing conversations. There were arguments too, even fights — his dad and he were too alike to compromise sometimes. But he knew that his parents would have his back, and they always did. Not getting that support as a child sounds hard, harrowing. You must’ve been very lonely.

Donny studies him for a moment. “So are you gonna tell me what you did or should I start throwing punches?”

After all the truth he’s just learned, it feels wrong to lie. “I... I did go hard on her. But I will apologize,” Jack says firmly and faithfully, like a vow. And he can’t help but admit: “You are right, she really is great.”

Donny can’t resist a chortle. “I’m always right. You should know by now.”

His CT comes clean but he does reluctantly complain of headache. Jack figures it’s a mild concussion and lists the basics: take paracetamol for the pain, rest for a week, no physical activity. No alcohol.

“Not even a splash of whiskey? Not even a tiny —” Donny reads no from Jack’s unblinking stare. “You are no fun, Abbot. Like, at all.”

“Your liver will thank me.”

“My liver is attached to me, and right now I’m not feeling very grateful,” but Donny isn’t aggrieved either because he swiftly adds: “Where’s that cup of ice I was promised?”

The walk to the ice machine and back takes Jack about five minutes. He hears your voice first — and he can tell you’re smiling just from the sound of it. Jack sees you from afar and gets his hunch confirmed: Donny is scrolling on his phone to show you something, his face expressions eliciting a laugh from you, genuine and carefree. And when you are like this — not wearing your usual defense, not rushing anywhere, not weighted down by every bad thing you had to live through — there’s so much light in you, Jack finds it hard to look away. Warmth threads through him, quiet and calming, and he can’t stop looking.

And he is drawn to steal more glances at you, like would a treasure hunter carefully steal pieces of art.

Jack catches on to small things: you mindlessly tap on the corner of the chart when you’re deep in thoughts, you often bite the inside of your lower lip while you are reading, eyes darting quickly from left to right. And he wonders what your favorite books are, and if you spend your evenings cozied up under the covers in the dim light of your bedroom. But what is readable to him under the LED lamps of the ER is weariness that spills under your eyes and tugs at your limbs, your voice quieter and your pace falling off a little.

On Wednesday you have to stay an extra hour when one of the patients goes into preterm labor: it ends with her hemorrhaging, blood trickling on the floor, and Robby steps in, and everyone is loud and maybe slightly panicking. You aren’t — still steady and unwincing and knowing all the right steps, no guidance needed, no mistakes made. But then you walk out and pull the edges of your sleeves down to your fingers, as if you’re cold, as if your grit is frailing, and it makes Jack’s heart ache. He grabs a knitted blanket he has stacked deep in his locker — thick, soft, bright plaid, a handmade gift from one of the army vets he treated years ago. He leaves it at the nurse station, as if by accident. You almost miss it on your way out, but then your eyes glide over it — and you can’t help but touch it, putting your whole palm onto the fluffy wool. It’s just a speck of comfort before you back away, hands quickly tucked in the small pockets of your denim jacket.

But the next day, when Jack trudges to the ER after another failed attempt to sleep, he sees that you’re already dressed to leave — your hoodie half a size too big, your hair down and head titled as you talk to Dana, — and you are holding to the blanket with your fingers, relaxed or tired enough not to fight a smile. He lingers at the doors and gazes at you for a long minute. And then he sneaks into one of the waiting rooms so your face won’t fall at the sight of him. When he comes out, you are gone, but the blanket still has some of your warmth. And he aches all over.

On Friday there’s a storm alert, and the evening comes dreary and drizzling. Jack isn’t surprised that they get a car crash victim barely ten minutes after he is in. It is a woman in her thirties — with a head injury and three broken ribs, clothes wet with rain and blood, her vitals weak. But somehow her daughter is intact, and she’s brought in by one of the paramedics: six years of age, tight curls and a tiara on her head, poofy dress that’s sky-blue and sparkling. And she can’t stop crying.

People are drawn to help — the nurses come to offer her kind words, to bribe her into calmness with some sweets. But her sobs turn into wails, cheeks red, and body shaking, and she’s too terrified of everything to be reasoned with. And Jack is bothered by how powerless he feels, how much he wants to be of help too but has no clue where to begin. There was a time when he really wanted kids; but recollecting it feels like reopening a wound he spent years on healing.

You emerge out of the trauma room and take the gown off with one swift motion, your gaze already on the girl. But you tread carefully, slowly, waiting until she sees you coming with her teary eyes. Then you crouch down next to her.

“Why is a princess crying in our hall? You are shedding tears all over your beautiful dress,” and your fingers smooth out the layers of satin and tulle, and she glances down at your hands. You give her a small smile: “You look just like Cinderella.”

She stops mid-sob, stares at you, then at her own dress again, bright sparks of glitter caught in the blue. She manages out, sniffling: “S-she is my fav-vorite.”

“Isn’t this what she wore to the ball where she met the prince?”

The girl goes quiet, wipes her nose. She gives you a nod — and then another one, more certain. Her words come out calmer: “Like in the movie.”

“Even prettier up close,” you assure her easily and wipe off her tears with your fingertips. She’s pouting but she isn’t crying anymore. You brush away a curl that stuck to her wet cheek. “I know you must be scared but you are safe now. And our best doctors are trying very hard to make your mom feel better. You just need to hold on for a little longer,” you murmur. Her lower lip trembles yet she fights against it, small hands grabbing the sparkling fabric. Her eyes are woeful but yours are warm, as is your voice. “What is that Cinderella’s mother used to say? Something about being kind and having courage.”

She looks like she’s about to burst into fresh tears. Instead, she shakes her head with defeat, curls bouncing at the movement.

“I don’t— Don’t think I have a lot of courage.”

“It’s okay, honey. You can take some of mine,” you tell her and take her hand in yours, fingers gently massaging the skin above her wrist. Her breath is even, all of the tears dried up; and timidly, she smiles. You get up, your hand still holding hers.

“We have a room with coloring books and a teddy bear who can keep you company. And on the way there I’ll let you pick a jelly, any flavour you like. How does that sound?”

She agrees eagerly, and you breathe out a short laugh, then lead the way. And Jack’s gaze stays on you, his own breath stilled — and a thought crosses his mind before he can stop it, vivid like a falling star: you will be a great mom. And in the next second, he forces himself to look away, to push back a myriad of other thoughts suddenly sparked into existence. Because it is unreasonable, because he fucked up, because it’s wrong to even think of that.

But it doesn’t feel wrong.

He battles with himself for half an hour. The girl’s mother pulls through — Jack learns about it from Robby who goes around looking for the kid.

Dana shrugs with the utmost indifference. “I didn’t see where they went. Dr. Abbot, any chance you did?”

He knows you must be still in the waiting room, and maybe now it’s time — he’ll walk in and make apologies, away from any prying eyes. He will be genuine and repentant, he’ll take all the blame. At this point, he isn’t above begging.

“I’ll bring the girl,” Jack mutters.

His heart rate instantly speeds up as he approaches, throat dry and body stiffening, even before the room comes into view. Jack breathes in and pulls the door handle — and right at the entrance, he comes to a halt.

It’s quiet inside, and on the small uncomfortable couch stuffed in the corner, you and the girl are sitting, covered with his knitted blanket. And you are asleep. The tension in his chest evaporates as he watches you — your head pressed to the wall, your face peaceful, and he wishes for nothing more than for you to always feel like this.

Jack takes one step in, and the girl peeks out from under the blanket. She puts a finger to her mouth, then slowly gets up, the blue dress shimmering and rustling slightly as she moves. The kid confidently struts to Jack, wraps one of her hands around his, holding the teddy bear in another. She looks up at him and whispers: “How is my mom?”

“She’s alright,” Jack whispers back. “You can come see her.”

She tugs at his hand, and Jack glances at you, commits the moment to his memory, convinces himself he’ll make it quick. The girl brims with excitement but she acts polite and walks slowly. And she peppers him with questions: how many rooms are there in the hospital? Can you fix everyone who’s hurt? Can doctors wear dresses at work? Are all of them as tired as the lady who gave her the orange jelly? Jack winces at the last one. But he likes talking to the kid — it’s actually quite easy, fun, not scary at all. When they reach her mother’s room, she turns to look at him again.

“This is Mister Courageous. You can take him,” she gives him the plushie, the bear’s paw pressed into Jack’s palm. The girl beams at him mischievously, and he sees her dimples when she adds: “Maybe you need some courage too.”

But with all his courage, Jack is short on luck: when he rushes back to you, the waiting room is empty, his blanket folded and left lone on the couch. It is upsetting because tomorrow is his day off; but he comes up with a flumsy consolation: he has more time to think over what he should say, to phrase it better. So in between the patients, he mentally constructs another speech, tactful and heartfelt, no less than you deserve to get. His nerves are eased a little by the morning; he gets home and gets about five hours of uninterrupted sleep: no dreams of oceans, no nightmares filled with fog.

The afternoon is sunlit, warm against Jack’s skin when he draws back the curtains. He takes a shower and makes lunch, then does the dishes and the laundry. And he turns on the police scanner — out of boredom, out of habit, just so he’s always in the loop. His day off lasts for about ten more minutes before the PBP frequency roars to life:

Shots fired. Multiple GSW.

He grabs the walkie and turns up the volume. It’s Code 3 — and he knows its meaning from the memo: Backup requested. Proceed immediately. All available units.

Jack gets ready like’s about to go back into combat — he dresses up in under two minutes, with measured breathing, and quick steps, and cold composure. He takes out the bag he’s got packed for emergencies: a mini ultrasound, tactical crickits, tourniquets, hemostatic dressings. He thinks about going to the ER on foot because the roads will get busy in no time. But he decides against it — running the distance with his prosthetics isn’t the wisest choice: it will be a long shift, he’ll need all his strength.

So he gets the keys to his pickup truck, hurries down the stairs and into the parking lot; he slams the driver’s door shut, then his foot presses on the gas. In nine minutes Jack’s already going through the sliding doors — Robby exhales when he sees him.

“Brother, I’m so fucking glad to see you,” he gives Jack a hug, his face laden with worry.

“I heard the news on the police scanner, drove here as fast as I could.”

“Yeah, I figured. You just missed the briefing.”

“Let me guess, colored slap bands? I’m in the red zone?”

“You and me both. Go grab yourself a fancy orange vest,” Robby nods toward the table already crammed with supplies.

“How many are we expecting?”

“I don’t know but it doesn’t sound good. Pittfest must’ve been packed.”

Dana walks past them, visibly nervous and holding up the phone. When Robby looks at her, she shakes her head no.

Abbot gets alarmed. “Wasn’t Jake supposed to go there?”

“He was, I gave him my ticket a month ago so he could take his girlfriend with him. But he went down with a nasty cough, and they had to cancel plans. Apparently, it’s COVID.”

“And he definitely didn’t get it from you,” Jack chuckles.

But Robby isn’t smiling, and Dana doesn’t put the phone away, doesn’t stop calling. And there is a feeling that crawls up Jack’s spine, like winter frost crawls up a window pane:

something is off.

He takes a look around, scanning the crowd of residents and nurses, and everyone is talking in hushed voices, and many faces that he knows now wear the expressions he doesn’t like seeing: fearful, hesitant, dismayed. A few are managing alright — Mateo and McKay are reassuring Javadi, Santos is helping Mel tie a gown, going over the instructions out loud. Whitaker is standing silent, his fingers clasped together and green eyes anxious, like deer’s.

That’s when Jack realizes that you aren’t here.

“Where’s your star resident?”

Robby averts his gaze. “She u-um... Took two days off. I heard that she’s been working overtime, and I didn’t want her to burn out. Seemed like she’s been a bit stressed these days.”

Jack is stung by guilt. Because he suspects it’s not just work that got you so stressed, because he is the one at fault and —

“Whitaker said she planned on going to Pittfest.”

Robby’s words have the effect of a grenade, the air knocked out of Jack’s lungs like doors out of a building by a blast. And he’s left deafened by the shock wave: Jack can see Robby talking but no sounds reach him, drowned out by the ringing in his head. He has to focus to read Robby’s lips — he’s saying you will be alright. You’re a tough kid. You are probably helping everyone who’s injured. You are too busy to pick up the phone.

But Jack’s imagination is adept at picturing the worst: deep wounds, deadly wounds, your heart flatlining, lungs stopping, every hopeless case from the textbook. And even worse is the razor-sharp realization:

he had so many chances to tell you.

Now he may never get another one.

His throat tightens like he’s about to get sick. A nurse bumps a disaster bin into him on accident, and Jack steps aside, unsteady on his feet. He has to bandage the pieces of his composure back together, and he desperately hammers disbelief into his head: no, you might actually survive, there is a good chance that you will.

He holds on to that thought like it’s his lifeline.

Jack gets the gloves and safety glasses, stands closest to the doors, waits for the first wave of injured. And once he sees it — fresh blood, torn flesh — the autopilot finally kicks in: Jack moves like he’s on the battlefield, where time is critical and every second counts. In the ER, it does too. In the red zone, it’s 5 minutes per patient, after that — it’s OR, ICU, or morgue. So Jack gives orders and intubates and cuts into bodies, his hands busy with tubes, bandages, and blades; he fights for every life. But then he notices a gurney fully covered — the first corpse — and he goes to look under the blanket, and his hands shake, a tremor that seeps down to his bones.

And it is getting harder to shake off his fear, to act like all his thoughts aren’t consumed by you.

Unwittingly, Jack looks for hoodies and denim jackets, for your hair color, for anyone whose face resembles yours. In the second hour, two more victims die, both male; in the third, they get a dead body from a civilian’s car — a woman, headshot to the head, a quick death. And every muscle in Jack cramps up when he sees her: it’s not you but it could’ve been. Maybe they’ll bring in your corpse next.

And he can’t take a full breath.

Jack makes up an excuse to leave for just a minute. He walks into the bathroom and presses his head against the cold tile wall. He slowly counts to 60 and gets back out, chugs half a water bottle. Then he sees Robby running out of the corner of his eye. Jack gazes after him — one second, two, three, four. And then his gaze stumbles upon you.

Dark green shirt, sleeves stained with crimson, blood drained from your face. But you are standing on your feet. You are walking on your own.

You are alive.

Relief hits him so hard, he almost chokes on his emotions. The ringing slowly fades as his lungs finally gulp air, his eyes now glued to you. You bring in an old man — one of the guards, shot in the leg: you stopped the bleeding, and he is responsive. Ahmad is following you, his shirt bloodstained too, a mark one of the victims left. He doesn’t care, he keeps mumbling something to you but you weakly wave him off. Your left sleeve is bunched up at the top like there’s a bandage underneath, and your every move is slowed down like you are fighting off exhaustion. Jack’s legs carry him to you with zero hesitation.

Robby glances at him and back at the old man. “I’m taking this one. His vitals are surprisingly good.” Then he barks out at Ahmad: “Go change your shirt, you look like you got stabbed. You’ll give someone a heart attack. C’mon, now!” — and he wheels the old man away, Mel treading on his heels. A nurse groans behind them at the amount of blood splattered all over the floor.

But Jack couldn’t care less about the patients, his focus on you, his voice aching. “Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”

“I’m fine,” you tell him with your hand pressed to the wall, a little breathless, almost soft. Involuntarily so. Because of course he doesn’t deserve any of your softness. “Where’s the pink zone? I want to stick around.”

He wants to argue with you but then you meet his eyes, and your gaze is disarming, striking, and Jack is too guilt-ridden to oppose. So he concedes and points you in the right direction, then watches as your silhouette moves through the waves of white and red until you are out of sight.

Jack drinks more water and helps Mel with intubation. Whitaker passes by, maneuvering between the wheelchairs and the gurneys — he asks for extra bandages, and Robby shouts in reply that he’ll bring some. Princess asks around with irritation who the hell left bloody handprints on the wall.

“Speaking of not getting drenched in blood,” Robby comes running. “I just removed the absolute perfection of a tourniquet. Great placement, no cardiac issues, didn’t get a drop on me. Not that you can tell,” he jests tiredly and changes gowns.

“The old guard from the fest?” Jack asks absentmindedly.

“Yep. We patched him up so good, he’ll be dancing in a month.”

Whitaker’s face is suddenly splashed with incomprehension. “Wait, that can’t be right.”

Robby turns to him, one brow raised in a silent question.

“You just said the tourniquet worked well. But it’s his gurney that left a trail of blood at the entrance, I almost slipped on it,” Dennis explains.

That same feeling bites into Jack again — there’s something wrong. It’s something bad. Ahmad strides into the hall, clean shirt on, still half-unbuttoned because he’s in a rush. And he goes straight to Robby.

“Hey, man, can you reason with your resident? I ain’t no doctor but I’m pretty sure she shouldn’t be running around with a bullet in her shoulder.”

There is a lull — like one before a bomb strikes.

Then Robby roars: “She what?!”

And Jack’s already on the move, looking for you, heart in his throat, blood running cold. You never made it to the pink zone — you stagger in the hallway, holding yourself against a wall, the cotton shirt balled up in your hand. You wear a tank top, and now Jack sees it all so clearly as if he’s looking at an x-ray: your left shoulder slumped down, an entry wound right of your shoulder blade — the bullet must’ve missed the bone because there’s still some movement and you aren’t bent in pain. But dark maroon is smeared down your arm, the bandage soaked, the streaks of blood running to your wrist.

Then you sway slightly on your feet, and Jack reaches you just in time to catch you. Your eyes dip shut, and in a second you are unconscious, your body going limp and lifeless in his hands. Jack searches frantically for a pulse when he notices:

there is no exit wound.

So your shoulder is a minefield, six arteries waiting to explode on contact with the bullet — and now the count goes on for minutes. He knows that, he’s dealt with that, he should get to work. But he can’t move, swept by a wave of horror, dread filling him up like icy seawater.

Someone is yelling.

Someone is running to him.

A gurney hits the nearby wall, the metal screeching against concrete.

“Up, up, up!” McKay moves the gurney closer to him. “Why didn’t anyone check her for wounds? Does she have a pulse?”

“Yes,” Jack manages, voice hoarse, fingers unsteady on your neck. He moves them under your chin — and there is a beating, faint like a ripple on the water, enough for him to let out an exhale. “She does have a pulse.”

He picks you up and places on the gurney, one of his hands immediately slick with blood. McKay swiftly moves you through the hall with Robby running by her side, his face wracked with distress. “She didn’t say anything, she— Fuck, I should’ve asked.”

Jack is wracked with so many feelings that they are tearing him apart. He should’ve asked you too, he should’ve noticed, how could he not. How could he keep his penitence a secret for so long. The trauma room you’re wheeled into quickly fills with people — as if in some unspoken pact, it’s mostly women: Santos, Javadi, Mel; Dana is looming at the doors. Dennis peeks in from behind her back.

But in the sea of faces, Jack is only seeing you.

He registers some fragments, freeze-frame shots flashing through his mind: your body turned on one side, wound splashed with antiseptic, someone’s gloved hand gliding the transducer over. The gel mixes with blood, the clumps of it being wiped off your skin, more bandages pressed to the wound, more fluid leaking, soaking them. He knows the bleeding’s not arterial because it would’ve been much worse. It doesn’t make him feel better.

“Jack!” McKay calls out to him again; he only hears it on her third attempt. There is a rumbling outside — the thunder rolling in, a harbinger of rain.

“She’s O-neg, and we are short on blood bags. That’s your type, right?” Cassie asks louder. “Can you donate?”

“Yeah,” Jack replies distractedly. It takes a few seconds for the words to settle in. “How do you know her blood type?”

“We donated together,” Javadi hurriedly explains. “I mean, technically she was the one donating because I didn’t really— I’m kinda not a fan of needles and— Sorry, doesn’t matter. She’s O-neg.”

Jack gazes from you to Robby. “Did you locate the bullet?”

“It grazed the scapula and snuggled close to the axillary artery. No metal shards,” but the unease flickers through Robby’s concentrated face.

Because it isn’t just the arteries and bones: it’s webs of muscles, nerves and vessels — the bullet going through all that would leave a lot of damage. It can leave you in so much pain, you won’t be able to move your arm. It can put an end to your career.

The thunder claps once more. The nausea threatens to bubble up Jack’s throat again. “What caliber?”

“Pretty sure it’s a .22.”

Robby darts a glance at him, and Jack can read its meaning: a .223 bullet would’ve shattered the bone. Would’ve been lethal. A .22 is smaller, so you have better chances to recover. And Jack will get a chance to —

The monitor starts beeping as your blood pressure drops. More bandages are thrown out wet. The rain outside loudly scuds against the walls and windows.

“You sure the artery’s intact? She is still bleeding,” McKay notes, brows furrowed.

“Arterial comes in a different color,” Robby’s expression mirrors hers. He peers at the image on the screen, eyes narrowing, a moment that is unbearably too long. Then his brows shoot up. “It’s not the artery, it’s the vein.”

Your heart rate is bright before Jack’s eyes, the number inexorably increasing: 120, 124, 127, 130. Robby is aware of it too — he quickly moves the ultrasound machine away. Then puts on a new pair of gloves.

“The ORs are packed so we need to deal with this in here. Cassie, you’re with me, everyone else — get back to your patients. We will update you guys when I’m done.”

Jack’s gaze wanders back to you — your tank top cut in the middle, the fabric ruined, your shoulder marred by the open wound that will leave a lifelong scar. He only now realizes that he’s been holding to your green shirt. He grabs it tighter.

“Let’s do a direct transfusion,” he breathes out.

Robby has no arguments against it, and Dana rushes in without command. She rummages through the supply closet. “Hey cowboy, come sit.”

“I’ll stand—”

“No, you will sit. Don’t waste your time on testing my patience,” she stares him down.

Jack stalks in and takes the chair closest to you, his gaze fixed on you, his voice dull. “You can drain me.”

Dana glances at him with a huff. “I’d like to avoid that.”

She pulls his sleeve up, wipes his arm clean with antiseptic, then works fast: a cannula in, connected to the transfusion tubing, then to your vein. Then Dana gives him another look and asks more quietly: “Are you okay?”

Jack looks numbly at his blood flowing, then to the drops of yours left on the floor, harsh red against the muted blue. Robby inserts a tube into your throat. And Jack is not okay, he is very far from it. “I’m not the one on the table,” he notes despondently.

The fear stays wrapped tight around his ribcage like barbed wire.

Your arm is scrubbed with hydrogen peroxide, and Dana helps to hold it up. Your pulse is thready, and all the sounds are muted in Jack’s head, his mind clouded like the sky before the storm, the waves of agitation churning in. His gaze darts to your vitals then to the instruments — scalpels and forceps catching light, steel stained, dark crimson. He watches Robby work with bated breath: it’s dilute epinephrine irrigation to reduce the bleeding, then suture ligation to make it stop.

The red number of your heart rate is slowly going down. Jack’s nerves are tight like a taut string.

He is too overwhelmed to show any reaction when the bullet is extracted, the edges of your wound sewn, the breathing tube removed. He doesn’t notice when Evans takes the needle out and puts a band-aid on his arm. He barely feels his legs when he stands up, his eyes snag on your body being wheeled out to transfer to your room.

Jack follows you without a doubt, with no questions, in a heartbeat.

He leaves his vest at the nurse station, the reasoning he’s come up with is believable enough: his leg’s been hurting, he just needs a break. He takes the stairs and gets up to the patient’s floor right when McKay is coming out of your room. Jack snaps out of his pensiveness only when he’s sitting by your bed.

And he’s afraid to move.

He can’t concentrate on any thought, he doesn’t dare to make wishes, he’s learned not to rely on prayers. So in the silence that’s broken by the thrumming rain, he watches as your chest falls and rises with each breath. Jack balances right at the very edge of slumber, and the exhaustion is weighing on his body but he doesn’t let it up a bit. It feels like time is stretching into endless hours — in truth, it barely takes one. And then he sees your fingers twitching.

He anxiously drags his gaze — up from your hands to chest to shoulders. When he looks at your face, you are already slowly blinking, eyes on the ceiling. You let out a quiet groan — and unexpectedly, it’s followed by your voice:

“If this is about me being reckless again, I really don’t want to hear it right now.”

The hand Jack reached to you freezes midair.

You aren’t angry or annoyed, just tired — which hurts him more. All the unsaid words feel heavy on his tongue; he swallows them without a sound.

“I’m gonna call Robby,” he mumbles and quickly leaves the room.

Jack pauses when he’s outside, his heart pounding so fast he needs a minute to calm down. He takes a few deep breaths, one thought cycling through his mind like mantra: you are alive, he didn’t lose you, all his apologies can wait.

He doesn’t go back in with Robby. Instead, Jack leans against the wall next to the door and listens in on the conversation you are having. Robby holds back his discontent but you do offer him an explanation: you didn’t want to bother anyone, it didn’t seem too serious, you thought you’d ask for help when the ER’s less busy. Then come the standard questions: how much the shoulder hurts, how freely can you move your injured arm, is there still any discomfort? Jack’s getting mildly irritated with how long this process takes because he thinks you only need more sleep. And he does too. He bites his tongue when Robby finally walks out.

“We’ll monitor her overnight, probably will discharge her in the afternoon,” he taps on the tablet, then stretches his arms. “God, I’d kill for a glass of scotch right now. Wanna make a beeline for the bar across the street? I have about an hour left.”

“I think I’ll stay put. Maybe see if Evans needs some help with paperwork, or check up on Shen,” Jack trails off.

In all honestly, he feels like his legs are filled with lead. As soon as Robby leaves, Jack picks a chair and puts it right next to your room and almost falls on it, his limbs lumbering, his body worn to a frazzle. The floor is quiet, and he tells himself he’ll close his eyes just for a minute.

... He wakes up on inhale.

At first, he doesn’t know why.

The weather has calmed down, the raindrops tapping in the distance, the buzz of people echoing somewhere far enough to not be a bother. Jack rubs the back of his neck, his muscles tense, his mind a little drowsy — and he catches a small sound, something like a gasp. Then comes another one, sharp, desperate, like someone is struggling to breathe. And that someone is in the room he’s sitting next to.

Jack leaps off the chair and thrusts the door open, and instantly he meets your eyes — wide, terrified, lips trembling and parted. You are sitting in bed, one hand pressed to your chest as you are helplessly gasping for air. He rushes up to you, his voice low but firm, calm, coaxing.

“Hey-hey, you need to breathe through your nose,” Jack says, but you only shake your head, your fingers digging into the white hospital gown.

He sits on your bed and takes your hand before you can scratch into your skin through the thin fabric. “Can you think of a phone number? Any number. Try saying it out loud but backward,” he suggests, his gaze never leaving yours. “What’s the last digit? Let’s start with just one. You can do it, c’mon. Think about it and tell me.”

It takes you about a minute — with each new second your panic wanes, slowly but surely, like thick fog giving way to clear skies. Your voice cracks when you force out:

“T-two.”

“Okay, that’s good, you’re doing good,” Jack praises quietly. “And what’s the second to last?”

Without thinking, he brushes the inside of your palm with his thumb. You don’t recoil. You keep looking at him, and your voice grows stronger, and you are letting more and more air in as you name the remaining digits.

Only when he hears the tenth, Jack figures out: “That’s the ER number.”

You drop your gaze. “I don’t know many phone numbers. It was the first one that came to mind.”

But what he hears is that you don’t have many people you can call. He wishes there was a decent reason to share his number but he can’t think of any.

“How are you feeling?” he asks cautiously.

You take a deep breath in, then out. “Better, I guess. Thank you. I didn’t mean to bother you, it was just a bad dream.”

Jack guesses that it’s more than that: more serious, long-lasting, the imprint your trauma leaves behind, not letting you forget. Because he knows — from memories, from the experience, his own included. He almost sounds apologetic when he notes:

“That’s how PTSD usually works.”

“Isn’t this too soon?” you chuckle mirthlessly. “I was hoping I’d get one good night while I’m on morphine.”

But then your gaze flits back to him — and it’s wondering and heedful, like you are afraid to hurt him. Your question comes out in a whisper: “Did you have to deal with it too?”

Jack is taken aback although it’s not offense that paints his features — it’s genuine surprise. Did you ask around about him? How else would you know? You give him an explanation before he can find the words to ask.

“The dog tags. You tug at your chain sometimes when you think things over. That’s how I noticed,” and it’s your turn to be apologetic.

But your reply is softened by a smile, and you don’t move your hand away from his. It’s not the topic Jack likes bringing up: he’s rarely met with understanding, and he hates being pitied. But you don’t give him pity — instead, you look at him like you want to treat him gently. And he feels like he’d talk to you just about anything.

Jack slowly nods. “Hard to avoid PTSD if you’re in the military. But therapy helped. Lots of therapy, lots of patience. The good old recipe.”

“Can’t wait to break the news to my therapist,” you let out half a groan, half a laugh. “I’m sure she’ll be ecstatic.”

“My therapist would’ve loved it,” Jack blurts out.

You give him a puzzled look. But you sound intrigued. “Okay, you need to elaborate on that. Or find a better therapist.”

Jack breathes out a chuckle. “He just likes solving things — problems, puzzles, murder mysteries. And I feel like he’s getting a little bored of me. Sometimes when he is writing in his notebook, I wonder if he’s just got a crossword hidden in there.”

“Oh, mine loves baking. I used to leave with hands full of pastry. I shared it with colleagues, I even started feeding birds. It’s kind of a relief that we switched to online sessions. Pretty sure half of the pigeons in my neighborhood now suffer from obesity.”

A smile crosses Jack’s face — not at the thought of chubby pigeons but at the realization: you find it easy to talk to him too. But then your hand trembles in his, and instantly Jack is on alert for trouble: his eyes dart from your shoulder to the needle taped to your arm.

“Are you in pain?” Jack frowns. “What’s your morphine dosage? You can get a little extra if —”

“No,” you refuse sharply, and Jack’s acutely aware he chose the wrong words. You only sigh and tug at the blanket with your other hand. “It’s not about morphine, it’s just... My blood pressure is usually low so I get cold easily.”

Jack perks up: that’s something he can actually help you with. “Wait, I’ll be right back,” he promises and rushes out like he just got a second wind.

All his enthusiasm is blown out by the chaos in the ER: it takes him a mortifying amount of time to find where his wool blanket disappeared. He searches the entirety of the nurse station, goes through his locker, he checks both bathrooms and even ventures out into the morgue. He’s running past the entrance when he glimpses Shen — with the said blanket thrown over his shoulders.

“Hey man, look what I found!” Shen blithely tells him.

Jack darts to him and yanks the blanket off, his gaze burning. “Don’t. Just don���t ever touch this.”

Shen blinks uncomprehendingly. “What? It’s not like it had your name on it!”

When Jack comes back, he finds you curled up on the bed, the thin bedcover brought up to your neck, hands folded under your cheek. He tiptoes closer and puts the blanket over you, then tucks you in. He’s checking the IV line’s placement when all of a sudden, your fingers catch his palm — as if on impulse, or maybe out of habit you are unconsciously forming.

“You are so warm,” your voice is barely above the whisper.

His hand stays pressed to yours as you doze off, and Jack stands still. For a minute, five, ten; he doesn’t feel like moving.

And then, without letting go of you, he manages to reach the chair and pull it closer to your bed. He sits down and lowers one of the side rails, then leans to you, his elbows sinking into the mattress, your steady breath grazing his skin. Jack rests his chin on his free arm and watches you — with peacefulness that’s akin to tenderness, with some other feeling that fills him up with warmth.

And slowly, he gives in to sleep, lulled by the sounds of the rain and monitors, his hand tangled with yours, his thumb on your pulse.

GSW = gunshot wound / PBP = The Pittsburgh Police;

shout-out to @/thedarkesthistories who made a post about everything Jack’s got in his backpack ♡

I did a lot of research (the FBI agent watching me through my laptop was probably hella confused by me reading case studies and watching surgeries lmao) BUT obviously, I am not a doctor so please forgive me for any inaccuracies;

the title is a quote from “Wake” by SYML ♫

dividers by @/cafekitsune & me.

some bad and good news. the bad: this chapter originally was coming close to 20K and... no, I don’t think many people would’ve read that. so we’ll have 4 chapters in total instead of 3. the good news: the next chapter is half-written so hopefully it won’t take me forever to finish it (fingers crossed).

English is not my first language, so feel free to tell me if you spot any major mistakes!

I also want to take a moment to thank everyone who left a comment and reblogged my fic(s). obviously, I am grateful for every like I get. but if I’m being honest, my imposter syndrome often beats all the motivation out of me, and as much as I enjoy writing, I spend an embarrassing amount of time on self-doubting. I know my fics aren’t everyone’s cup of tea (I rarely write short stories, I don’t include smut in every single one, my writing style might seem overloaded or too detailed... the list goes on), and that’s fine. but I also have an unfortunate habit of joining fandoms a little too late. which feels like walking into a cafeteria where all the tables are already taken, and no one intends to spare you a seat. I don’t feel like a part of a community and at the end of the day, I write for myself. which is why it’s so rewarding when people find the time to say something nice about my fics and to share them. thank you so much to every single one of you, that means a lot to me. ♡

[riddleswhcre]

hii i hope you’re doing well! 🤍🤍 could u please do one where the reader teases joel by sitting on his lap and casually placing his hand over her breasts while they’re at a gathering and she’s like giggling as he shifts his hips slightly and she hears him stifle a low groan?? and then she excuses herself to the bathroom and joel immediately follows her and pins her against the wall, determined to punish her for being such a bad girl?! (could u also possibly sprinkle a bit of a daddy kink in this if you’d like? like maybe she tells him “i’m sorry daddy” while he has her pinned against the wall and that only gets him more riled up hehehe)

────۶ৎ you started it, sweetheart

you tease joel at a gathering by making him touch you in front of everyone. he follows you to the bathroom and reminds you exactly who you belong to.

warnings: smut, public teasing, bathroom wall sex, rough sex, daddy kink, spanking, begging.

ᐟᐟ ⟢ a/n: not really a short drabble hehe i went full feral for u, hope u love this nasty daddy joel as much as i do

more

ᖭ༏ᖫ

you know exactly what you’re doing when you crawl into his lap.

it’s subtle enough—just a casual shift, a soft “can’t hear ya over there,” you say with a giggle as you settle across his thick thighs, your back pressed to his chest. his flannel scratches warm against your shoulders. his hand instinctively finds your waist. protective. possessive.

but you’re a menace.

so you guide his hand higher—slowly—until his palm rests right over your tits. no shame. no hesitation. and all you do is laugh like it’s nothing.

joel stiffens under you. you feel it. every tense breath, every tick in his jaw. his fingers twitch like they’re itching to squeeze. like he’s deciding whether to drag you outta here or fuck you right on this sofa.

he shifts slightly beneath you. subtle, but you feel it—the slow roll of his hips under yours, like he’s tryna relieve the pressure already thickening in his jeans.

and that sound. fuck.

a low, breathy groan, half-swallowed, barely audible—but you hear it. you feel it vibrate against your back.

"joel," you whisper over your shoulder, mock-innocent. your smile’s wicked. "somethin’ wrong?"

his eyes are dark when you peek back at him. hungry. pissed.

"you’re pushin’ it, darlin’," he mutters, low and gravelly, his breath hot against your ear. "don’t start what you can’t finish."

you lean in, teasing. grind just the tiniest bit back against him.

"m’not startin’ anything," you murmur. "just gettin’ comfortable."

then, as if you haven’t just lit a fuse, you stand up with a grin and hum, "gonna pop to the toilet."

joel follows. instantly. no words. no pretence.

you barely get the door shut before he’s on you.

his body crowds you back against the wall, one thick thigh between yours, hips pinning you there. he grabs your wrists and presses them up above your head, hard.

"bathroom, huh?" his voice is dangerous now—low, filthy. "you think you can tease me in front of all them people, sit there bein’ a lil brat, grindin’ on my cock, makin’ me hard, then just walk away?"

you’re breathless already. wet already. and his words make your stomach flip.

"joel—"

he tilts your chin up, firm, fingers rough against your jaw.

"s’daddy, now. you wanna play that game, fine. but you say it right."

your cheeks burn. your knees go weak.

"i’m sorry, daddy," you breathe.

his eyes flash.

"oh, you will be."

his hand slips under your skirt. no warning. no mercy.

"soakin’ through your panties already,” he growls, pleased. “you like bein’ bad that much?"

you nod. desperate. he slides two fingers along your slit, then hooks them inside with a curl that makes your legs shake.

"then you’re gonna take it, baby. every fuckin’ inch."

you don’t even have time to gasp before he’s turning you around, pushing your chest flat to the cold tile wall. one big hand stays at your hip, the other snakes between your legs, tearing your panties down with a growl.

"don’t move," he snaps. and you don’t. your thighs are trembling. breath coming short. he’s so big behind you—body burning, cock already out and heavy against your ass.

"look at this fuckin’ mess," he mutters, dragging the tip through your folds, slow and taunting. "drippin’ all over m’cock before i’ve even fucked you."

you whimper, try to press back into him, needy.

"uh-uh," he warns, smacking your ass once—hard enough to make you gasp. "you don’t get to be greedy. you earn it."

"please, daddy," you whisper, almost choking on it. "need you—need it so bad—"

joel leans in close, chest to your back, cock nudging your entrance but not giving it to you yet.

"what do you need, sweetheart?" he asks, cruel and calm. "say it."

you squirm. shameless now. lost in it.

"need your cock," you whine. "need you to fuck me—fuck me hard, please, daddy, i’ll be good—"

that’s all he needs.

he slams into you in one sharp thrust, thick and deep, filling you to the hilt. your cry echoes off the walls. his hand clamps over your mouth.

"shut that sweet mouth," he hisses. "you wanted this, remember?"

he fucks you hard. rough. relentless. hips snapping against your ass with a filthy rhythm. your hands scrabble at the tile. he’s everywhere—his body, his voice, his cock dragging deep and heavy inside you.

"fuckin’ bratin’ it up in front of people—makin’ me lose my goddamn mind," he pants against your neck. "gonna fuck the attitude outta you."

you’re falling apart. crying out under your breath, moaning his name like a prayer.

"daddy—i’m gonna—"

"that’s it," he growls. "cum on my cock like a good girl."

and you do. hard. your whole body shakes. he follows with a groan that sounds wrecked, spilling inside you with a sharp snap of his hips.

he doesn’t move for a second. just breathes, chest heaving against your back, his come dripping down your thighs.

then he nuzzles your shoulder, voice low and smug.

"now that’s what you get for bein’ bad."

ᖭ༏ᖫ

thank you for reading. reblogs & feedback appreciated.

[sqgeism]

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 blush, blush, blush, blush.. | amphoreus men x gender neutral reader

🍒 — ᥫ᭡ i can be your crush, crush, crush, crush, crush ! what are they like in the crushing phase?

love mail — LAZZY POST STRIKES AGAIN hi guys i needed to get this out 🙆‍♀️ do we fw red or naw or else im goinf back (ノ´ー)ノ im working on the requests everyone :3 pls dont accuse me of witchcraft

anaxagoras is relaxed about it, probably doesn't do much other than make subtle hints here and there. dropping your favorite drink by your desk or a small greeting of 'hello', followed by small talk. in truth, it's a very big step for the professor. he doesn't usually feel the need to make moves for someone, but there's this odd temptation. something exciting about the idea of pursuing you, and aeon forbid there's any kind of excitement in this old professor's life. you're different—it's nice, the kindness you bring to his cold heart.

mydei is a romantic. his mother told him stories of loving courtship, about how the greatest trait of a true, good man would be to care with their hands, not hurt. to love unconditionally and completely, to understand that their emotions are just as important as their strength. so the prince of castum kremnos fostered a fondness to care for others and a partner especially. he then became inherently romantic at heart, knowing he wanted to be a good lover. and so when he discovered his feelings for you, he was straightforward but respectful, pursuing you once you gave a yes to his courtship. honest and ever so ready to dedicate his heart to you.

phainon is a liiiittle bit of the opposite. it isn't that he plays around with feelings, but that he prefers more fun than romance. he won't just steal lovesick glances (he does on every pretty light you're under), he might as well grab your full attention. but the more he chased, the more he realized what he felt was becoming genuine. the intentional brushes of fingertips became lingering kisses on your knuckles, flirting turned into yearning—yearning turned into loving. he wanted it all, greedy as he is. the nameless hero could probably work for everything he could ever want, what stops him from trying to have a little more?

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)

god forbid a girl forgets her taglist : @milk-violet for phainon, @madam-herta @sillyseraphie @irisesaregreen @strawbairicake ♡

[wildflower-ramblings]

Because I want to quit my job and be a pretty little housewife right now, here’s my thoughts on the 141 and their opinions on the matter

(slight warning for mentions of DV?, breeding kink and housewife kink ahead, as always 18+ MINORS DNI)

Simon would be the least likely to want a housewife. He’s seen what happens to women who have nothing to rely on but their husbands, and whilst he knows he’d never do to you what his father did to his mother, there’s always that niggling voice in the back of his head saying what if. What if he can’t escape his father’s grip, what if he does turn out just like him? Of course he rationalises it to you by saying that if something happened to him, he wants to know you could take care of yourself, even though he knows damn well that he could set you up for life, between his pension and the money he’s stashed by never spending a cent on himself. But he wants you to have something just for yourself, something that couldn’t be taken away by him in any way. But if your job is causing you the slightest amount of stress? He’s the first to tell you to quit. If you want another job you can take your time to find the right one, but he won’t have anything distressing you, even if it’s just a micromanaging boss or tight deadlines.

Controversial opinion but Johnny has a slight preference for a career woman. Nothing against housewives, and he definitely loves seeing you at home by the stove in a pretty little dress telling him dinner’s almost ready, but something about a woman in charge just does it for him (he does love putting a woman on top...and on her back...and on her knees). It turns him on seeing you be confident and capable at work, especially if that job involves giving orders or putting people in their place. Plus it gives his ego a nice boost when he can take that strong independent woman and fuck you absolutely stupid until you can’t even remember your own name. It’s his favourite way to help you de-stress after a bad day. If you want to be a housewife, however...I hope you like kids. Because this man has the biggest breeding kink of them all, and nothing brings it out quite like seeing you being all soft and domestic and taking care of him. Besides, it must be so quiet and lonely when he’s away, wouldn’t it be so much better with a house full of children’s laughter?

Kyle doesn’t care either way. He’s your number one supporter in whatever you do. He’ll let you practice presentations on him and bring you dinner if you’re working late. (Plus both he and Johnny love hearing the office gossip) He’s absolutely got heart eyes listening to you explain some detail about your work. It doesn’t matter what your job is, this man is so proud of you for having it and will brag like hell to anyone who’ll listen. But if you ever wanted to leave your job, he’d still be so supportive. He’s so proud of you for recognising that it was hurting you, and for being strong enough to walk away when everyone else (and society as a whole) tells you you need to have a job to have value. He would do whatever it takes to reassure you that you’re not being a burden, that you don’t have to ‘bring something to the table’ in this relationship – you bring yourself, and that’s enough – in fact most times it’s more than he thinks he deserves. The least he can do is spoil you in return. And he absolutely does. If you want to spend all day on your hobbies, he’s got you – you have all the supplies you could ever dream of (and even some you couldn’t, because he brings back things you’ve never heard of from every deployment). Whatever you want he's 100% behind you (and in front of you, on his knees)

John wouldn’t call himself a feminist (he hates that word. Why does there need to be a special word for what should be obvious?) but he is, for the most part. He’s worked with plenty of women who could leave him in the dust, and sees no difference in a woman or man doing the same job. But you? He wants you at home with nothing to worry your pretty little head over other than what colour manicure to get or how you want to arrange the furniture. Not because he doesn’t think you’re capable of having a job – he knows damn well you could run the whole damn world. But he sees it as his responsibility to look after you, to provide for you, and that extends to everything you could ever want. If he can’t give it to you without you having to lift a finger, then he’s failed as a partner. He puts the fate of the world solely on his own shoulders, and you’re his world, so it makes sense he holds himself to the same rigid standards at home as he does at work. He’ll never admit that he has a raging domesticity kink and wants to fuck you over the kitchen counter wearing nothing but your apron and a pair of heels.

Dividers by cursed-carmine

[rafeslvbug]

(this was a request about how nfl!rafe and reader handle cheating rumours, because it’s a common idea about athletes, but i accidentally deleted it, so if you were the anon here’s your req!)

how nfl!rafe && reader handle cheating rumours…

he hates the rumours. hates the men who actually cheat more.

you don’t like being in the spotlight because you’ve got young kids, but if paps ever shout the question “are the rumours true?” you won’t hesitate to deny them.

you think that most celebs who stay quiet only spiral their rumours, and you’re not trying to worsen what’s outright false.

rafe might be subject to a lot of questioning from his teammates. ones he’s not too close with might nudge him on the shoulder and ask if they’re true

– “have you seen my fuckin’ wife? not a person in the world i’d trade her for, now get away from me ‘fore i do somethin’ you won’t like.”

the ones who are close to rafe already know they’re fake. he’s as a loyal as a dog, won’t even look at another woman if it’s not you.

if rafe goes on podcasts (think podcasts like in the heights w the kelce brothers) best believe he’ll complain about the paparazzi and use it as a platform to deny the rumours.

– “where’d they get off being so fuckin’ nosy?…they’re makin’ assumptions to fuel media drama…i��m loyal to my lady, always have been, always will. if you cheat, quite frankly you’re sickenin’. and to everyone out there who’s happy over the idea of me cheating, you’re not a fuckin’ fan, real fans love her as much as they love me, cuz i wouldn’t be here without her.”

just to rub it in more? a public outing with you and the kids, flipping off all the paparazzi, publicly making out which sickens your kids and holding hands down the road.

[the-tiny-mia]

Of Spilled Drinks and Spilled Truths (H.S One Shot +18)

General Masterlist

Summary: A weekend getaway with friends was supposed to be a break, but for Y/N and Harry, it becomes a turning point. After years of friendship riddled with unresolved feelings, some heated arguments gives way to confessions neither of them expected.

A/n: Hello, my loves! Here’s a smutty one shot with some good friends to enemies to lovers plot, i hope you all enjoy this!

Word count: 9.2k

Warnings: Smut, spitting, some confrontation between friends.

You needed a break—a well-deserved one. So when the group chat lit up with the message, “Roadtrip to Willowmist!” your eyes widened with excitement. Your 9-to-5 office job had been grinding you down, inch by inch, to the point where you’d even started contemplating quitting. But there were bills to pay: rent, groceries, your beat-up car, and a never-ending list of expenses that wouldn’t magically disappear.

Every year, you and your friends planned a road trip. And every couple of years, that road trip led to Willowmist—the cozy cabin owned by Eliza’s parents, who were generous enough to let your group use it whenever you needed an escape and the timing was perfect: it was May. The weather sat comfortably between warm and cool, ideal for hiking, swimming, and late-night bonfires.

Your friend group was a patchwork of personalities, a collection of memories, and an unshakable bond. Four girls and three boys: Aurora, Eliza, Harper, and you; Theo, Jasper, and Harry rounded out the crew. You’d been inseparable since high school. Even as life pulled you to different colleges and jobs, you’d stayed close, bound by shared histories and inside jokes that no one else could ever understand. At this point, you all knew too much about one another to ever drift apart—let alone become enemies. Normally, the trip always included all seven of you—plus the occasional “I’m seeing someone, can they come?” that inevitably added a new face to the mix.

You remembered how Aurora’s heart had been broken a dozen times (and how she still threw herself into love with reckless optimism), or the time Theo tripped and landed face-first in mud on the way to prom. Then there was Harper and Jasper’s ill-fated kiss—a spur-of-the-moment thing that had ended with Harper nearly gagging because, as she later admitted, she was into girls. None of you had known it at the time, but looking back, it made perfect sense.

And then there was you and Harry—the “typical friends” who, back in high school, everyone loved to tease about how cute of a couple you’d make. But that idea never quite stuck with either of you. After Aurora, Harry was the one you were closest to in the group. He was the friend you’d call and put on speaker whenever an Uber driver seemed a bit too sketchy. He was also the one who knew exactly how stubborn and moody you could get—and somehow, he never seemed to mind. Until recently. Lately, you and Harry had been clashing more often—not full-blown fights, but tense discussions that always seemed to end with you sighing, "I don’t really want to talk about this anymore," just to avoid things escalating into something worse. You weren’t entirely sure what had changed, but lately, Harry seemed irritated by almost everything you said. If you shared a funny video, he’d roll his eyes and mutter, “That’s lame. How can you even think that’s funny?” Or there was the time he showed you a picture of a redhead, casually mentioning, “This girl winked at me the other day,” to which you snapped back, “And? Like that means anything?” It was like every little exchange between you two had turned into a spark waiting to ignite.

The rest of the group had definitely noticed the growing tension between you and Harry. Whenever one of your “discussions” started, they’d jump in to ease the mood, steering the conversation before it could get too heated. Still, you couldn’t deny that you missed the late-night calls with him—those moments when you could rant about things that felt too personal or odd to share in public. But then again, you were stubborn. And giving in first? That just wasn’t your style.

Aurora: WILLOWMIST??? I’M IN!

Harper: I’m still seeing Becca. Can she come?

Eliza: Yes, of course! We have my car and Theo’s, but he’s bringing Cassie plus the food. I think we might need another car just in case.

Harry: Mine’s available too.

Theo: That’s settled then. Let’s meet at my place on Friday to arrange everything—rooms, cars, food, etc.

Aurora: YAY! I’m so excited!! You were excited. You always had a great time on the annual road trip. Now all that was left was to ask your boss for vacation time, and in three weeks, you’d be enjoying margaritas with the girls while the boys attempted their best backflips into the lake—or whatever crazy stunt they wanted. You just needed a break.

When Friday arrived, you all gathered at Theo’s apartment, greeted everyone, and slid onto the couch next to Harry.

“What’s up, idiot?” he said, nudging your shoulder.

“What’s up, arsehole?” you replied with a smile.

This banter was your usual rhythm—teasing and familiar—but somewhere between these playful jabs and the more serious arguments, the line was starting to blur.

“Okayyy, here it is,” Eliza announced, passing around a sheet of paper. She was crazy organized when it came to the annual trip—laid out in neat detail were all the meals, groceries, how much each person would pay, gas expenses for each car, liquor—everything.

“This looks better than ever,” Jasper said. “What about the cars? Which one am I in?”

“You’re with most of the food—Cassie and Theo—in his car,” Eliza replied. “I’m with Harper, Aurora, and Becca. And Y/N goes with Harry in his car.”

Everyone turned to look at both of you with unreadable expressions. You and Harry exchanged glances, then looked back at the group.

“What?” you both said in unison.

“Nothing,” they murmured, and you frowned, sensing they knew something you didn’t.

As everyone agreed on Eliza’s plan, the group scattered—grabbing beers and drifting into conversations about everything and nothing. You found yourself in the kitchen with Harper, listening to Aurora ramble on about some new guy, laughing every time Aurora made one of those hopelessly smitten faces.

“Why don’t you just invite him?” you asked.

“Oh no, we’re not there yet,” Aurora replied. “BUT WE WILL BE.” And there was that face again.

“Rori… get a grip,” Harper said with a chuckle, taking a sip of her beer.

Aurora made a mock glare at Harper and sighed. “Are you sure you want to ride with Harry? I can switch spots with you.”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” you asked, confused.

“You two have been fighting a lot,” Harper said.

“Yeah, well, he’s been annoying lately. But if he can manage to not be annoying for four hours, I think I’m good,” you said with a casual shrug, as if it was no big deal.

“Right…” Harper said, smirking. “You both just need to shut up for four hours.” She chuckled, then flinched as Aurora playfully pinched her arm.

“Hey!” Harper protested.

“Girls,” you said, waving off the tension, “I swear it’s fine. Yeah, we’re not getting along like we used to, but that’s okay. We’re not going to kill each other in four hours.”

Harper laughed. “Well, if you say so. Just don’t come crying to us when you two end up yelling at each other halfway there.”

Aurora rolled her eyes but smiled. “Honestly, I think you guys need this trip more than anyone. Maybe some fresh air will remind you why you’ve been friends all these years.”

You glanced at Harry across the room, who was chatting quietly with Jasper. Despite the tension, you could still see that familiar spark in his eyes—the same one from all those years of friendship.

“Yeah,” you said, taking a deep breath. “Maybe this trip is exactly what we need.”

The thought made you feel a little lighter. For now, you pushed the worries aside and joined the others, ready to enjoy the night.

The night was winding down, and the group was slowly saying their goodbyes. You and Harry ended up together by his car, the quiet tension between you still lingering.

“Want a ride home?” he asked, opening the door for you.

You nodded and slid into the passenger seat. As he started the engine, there was a brief silence before he glanced over and said casually, “So, maybe after this trip, you’ll finally admit I was right about everything.”

You blinked, caught off guard, and opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, Aurora’s voice came through the open window from where she was standing nearby.

“I think I’m taking Y/N home tonight. Don’t want you two turning a simple ride into a battlefield,” she said, opening your door.

Harry shot her a quick look, a half-smile tugging at his lips, and you let out an angry breath as his car left the driveway. “Are you sure you don’t want to switch places with me?” said Aurora going to her car “I’m sure, i’ll just get distracted with music or maybe i’ll sleep” you said

🌷

The morning of the road trip was crisp and buzzing with excitement as everyone gathered at Jasper’s house. The driveway was a chaotic blend of backpacks, duffle bags, and coolers being shuffled between the cars. Harper and Becca were already snapping pictures by the front steps, while Eliza checked her meticulously detailed list for what felt like the tenth time.

“Alright, everyone, let’s make sure we’re not forgetting anything,” Eliza called, waving the list like a baton. “Food? Packed. Gas? Topped up. Harry?”

“What about me?” Harry asked, lugging a box of snacks toward his car.

“Just making sure you’re actually listening" Eliza teased, earning a small chuckle from Jasper.

“Y/N, have you met Becca yet?” Harper called out, motioning you over while Harry busied himself adjusting something in the trunk.

“Not officially,” you said, walking over.

“This is Becca, my girlfriend,” Harper said, her tone warm with pride. “Becca, this is Y/N, one of the best people I know, though a little too stubborn for her own good.”

You laughed and extended a hand. “Nice to meet you, Becca. Anyone who can put up with Harper’s karaoke marathons gets my respect.”

Becca chuckled, shaking your hand. “Nice to meet you too. I’ve heard plenty about this trip—it sounds like a blast.”

“Oh, it will be,” Eliza  chimed in as she passed by, lugging a cooler. “Especially once we start roasting Theo at the bonfire. It’s tradition.” Across the driveway, Cassie leaned over to Aurora with a sly grin. “Hey, is it just me, or is there something weird going on between Y/N and Harry?”

Aurora raised an eyebrow but didn’t look surprised. “Weird how?”

“I don’t know,” Cassie said, glancing toward Harry, who was now arguing with Theo about fitting a cooler into his car. “It’s like... charged, you know? Are they a thing?”

Aurora laughed, loud enough to catch your attention for a second before she waved you off. “Harry and Y/N? Please. They’ve been like that since high school. It’s their love language—bickering and driving each other insane.”

Cassie smirked. “So they’re not a thing?”

“Nope. They are now in an “i hate you” mood but give it time,” Aurora said with a wink before walking off to join Eliza.

Back by Harry’s car, he closed the trunk with a loud thud and looked at you expectantly. “Ready, or are you going to keep bonding with Harper’s girlfriend all morning?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m all yours for the next four hours. Try not to cry from excitement.”

Harry smirked, opening the driver’s side door. “Trust me, I’ll manage.”

“Alright, people!” Theo’s voice boomed as he clapped his hands together. “Let’s hit the road before Eliza has a heart attack over her schedule.”

Everyone laughed as the final bags were loaded and doors slammed shut. As you buckled up, you heard Aurora shout from across the driveway, “Remember, no fighting! Or at least wait until we’re all out of earshot!”

The group chuckled as the caravan of cars started rolling out. You couldn’t help but glance at Harry, who had a small, knowing smile on his face.

This was going to be a long drive.

The morning sun was starting to peek over the horizon as Harry’s car merged onto the highway. The steady hum of the engine filled the silence between you, and for a while, neither of you said a word.

You stared out the window, watching the trees blur by. Harry tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, his gaze fixed on the road. The silence was heavy but not unbearable—at least, not yet.

“You want music or something?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“Sure,” you said, reaching for the aux cable. You scrolled through your playlist, finally settling on something upbeat to lighten the mood. The opening chords of a pop song filled the car, and Harry let out a dramatic groan.

“This? Really?” he said, glancing at you with mock disapproval.

“What’s wrong with this?” you shot back, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s just… basic,” he said with a smirk.

You scoffed. “Coming from the guy who listens to dad rock like it’s still the ’80s?”

“Excuse me, dad rock is timeless,” he said, and for a moment, the tension lifted as you both chuckled.

A few minutes later, he glanced over at you. “So, are we going to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” you said, feigning ignorance.

“The fact that we’ve can’t get along for weeks now,” he said bluntly.

You stiffened in your seat, not expecting him to bring it up so soon—or at all. “I didn’t know there was anything to talk about,” you said, keeping your tone light.

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You know what I mean. It’s like… everything I say pisses you off lately. And everything you say—”

“makes sense?” you interrupted, your voice sharper than you intended.

He glanced at you briefly before turning back to the road. The silence returned, heavier this time. The song ended, and the playlist moved on to another track, but neither of you made a move to acknowledge it. After a while, Harry spoke again, softer this time. “Look, I don’t want this trip to suck because we can’t figure out how to talk to each other anymore.”

You looked at him, his profile illuminated by the soft glow of the dashboard lights. “Me neither,” you admitted quietly.

It wasn’t an apology, not yet, but it was a start.

🌷

Eliza’s car was buzzing with chatter and laughter as they sped along the highway. Aurora was leaning back with her feet propped up on the dashboard, while Harper and Becca were cozied up in the backseat. Music played softly in the background, but the main soundtrack was their conversation.

“So,” Aurora began, twisting in her seat to look at the others. “Is it just me, or is something definitely brewing between Y/N and Harry?”

Harper chuckled, resting her head on Beccar’s shoulder. “Brewing, as in tension so thick you could cut it with a knife? or brewing as if they are probably becoming the biggest enemies ever?”

“Exactly!” Aurora exclaimed, waving her hand dramatically. “They’ve been at each other’s throats, but like… there’s something there, right?” 

Harper rolled her eyes but smirked. “Oh, totally. Y/N swears it’s just because Harry’s being ‘annoying,’ but she gets so worked up over it. You don’t react like that unless you care.”

“Or unless he’s genuinely annoying,” Becca teased

Eliza, who had been quietly listening, finally chimed in. “Okay, okay, but hear me out—I might know something.”

All three of them turned to her, eyes wide with curiosity.

“What do you mean ‘know something’?” Harper pressed, leaning forward in her seat.

“Well…” Eliza hesitated, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. “Remember last year’s trip to Brighton?”

“Yeah?” Aurora said, practically bouncing in her seat.

“I overheard Harry talking to Theo one night,” Eliza said, glancing at the others for dramatic effect. “He said something like, ‘It’s frustrating how she doesn’t see it.’”

“See what?” Aurora gasped, clutching her chest as though this were the most scandalous thing she’d ever heard. “”She” as in Y/N?”

“That’s the thing—I don’t know!” Eliza replied, laughing. “But he sounded serious. And you know Harry never talks about his feelings unless he’s pushed to the brink. AND, who would he be talking about to Theo?

Harper’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, that’s interesting...What if he’s into her and just doesn’t know how to deal with it?”

“That would explain why they’ve been so weird lately,” Becca added. “It’s like they’re trying to keep things normal, but it’s not working.”

Aurora clapped her hands together. “This is better than a rom-com. I’m calling it now—they’re either going to kill each other or finally kiss on this trip.”

“I’m betting on the kiss,” Eliza said with a knowing smirk.

“Should we meddle?” Harper asked, half-joking.

“Absolutely not,” Eliza said, shaking her head. “They need to figure this out on their own. Besides, the fireworks are way more fun to watch from the sidelines.”

The car erupted into laughter as they all imagined the chaos that might unfold, their gossip making the drive pass in no time.

🌷

The hum of the car engine filled the silence between you and Harry. The tension was palpable, like a balloon stretched too tight, ready to pop at the slightest provocation. Both of you seemed acutely aware of it, navigating this territory of forced civility.

“So,” you started, fiddling with the zipper of your jacket. “Eliza’s car looked packed. Wonder if they’ll even have room for their bags once they hit the liquor store.”

Harry let out a dry chuckle, his eyes focused on the road. “Knowing Eliza, she’s already calculated the exact cubic inches of trunk space available.”

You smiled slightly but didn’t laugh. “Yeah… probably.”

Another beat of silence.

“Did you, uh, bring anything for the cabin? Snacks or whatever?” Harry asked, his tone deliberately neutral.

“Yeah, a couple of bags of chips and some candy,” you said. “Not that it’ll matter with Aurora and Theo around—they’ll eat it all by day two.”

“True,” he said with a faint smirk. “I brought some stuff too. Protein bars and trail mix.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself. “Trail mix? Are you eighty?”

Harry shot you a look, his brow arching. “Excuse me for being practical.”

“I’m just saying, nobody ever gets excited about trail mix,” you said, trying to keep your tone light but failing to hide the underlying edge.

“Yeah, well, nobody gets excited about chips for the fifth year in a row, either,” he countered, his voice a little sharper than he probably intended.

You both fell silent again, the air in the car thickening.

This was it—the moment you both knew could spiral into yet another argument. But instead of pushing further, you bit your tongue, staring out the window.

Harry exhaled heavily, gripping the steering wheel. “This is stupid.”

You glanced at him, your brow furrowing. “What is?”

“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Tiptoeing around each other, trying not to say anything that’ll set the other off. It’s exhausting. You’re exhausting.”

You folded your arms across your chest. “Well, maybe if you didn’t always have to have the last word—”

“There it is,” he interrupted, Harry’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel, his jaw clenched tight. He pulled the car off the road into a small clearing, gravel crunching loudly under the tires. The sudden stop made your body jerk forward slightly

“What the hell are you doing?” you snapped, your voice rising with the frustration that had been bubbling beneath the surface.

Harry turned to face you, his green eyes sharp and stormy. “I’m tired of this, Y/N. I’m tired of the constant bickering, the walking on eggshells, the... whatever this is!” He gestured wildly between you both, his voice rising in exasperation.

You blinked, taken aback by his outburst, but your own stubbornness flared up. “Oh, so this is my fault now? You’re the one who’s been acting like everything I say is a personal attack!”

Harry scoffed, running a hand through his curls in frustration. “Maybe because half the time it feels like one! You can’t even make a joke without it sounding like you’re trying to one-up me.”

You glared at him, heat rising in your cheeks. “Oh, please. You’ve been nitpicking everything I do for weeks, Harry! And for what? To make yourself feel better?”

“I’m not—” he started, but then stopped himself, taking a deep breath. His jaw tightened as he looked away. “I’m not trying to make myself feel better, okay? I just—”

“What?” you pressed, your voice softer now but still firm.

“Nothing,” he said quietly, restarting the car and merging back onto the road.

You were mad, but with an hour still left in the drive, you decided against saying anything else. Exhaustion was setting in, and all you wanted now was a bit of calm before reaching the cabin. 

The silence stretched between you and Harry for the rest of the drive, thick with unspoken words. Neither of you tried to break it, too stubborn or too tired to make the first move. Outside, the trees blurred by, but inside the car, the tension was almost suffocating.

Finally, the cabin appeared, surrounded by tall pines and the quiet sounds of nature. One by one, the other cars pulled into the gravel driveway, laughter and chatter filling the air.

Aurora was the first to jump out, her bright smile unaware of the mood between you two. “We’re officially here, and we all are alive and ready!” she called cheerfully.

You didn’t respond. Instead, you quickly opened the door, stepped out, and headed straight for the cabin, slamming the front door behind you.

Aurora froze, then gave an awkward laugh. “Well… almost,” she said, glancing at everyone, who looked just as uncomfortable

Harry sighed heavily, resting his head on the steering wheel before looking over at Theo, who met his gaze with quiet understanding. Theo knew what was wrong—and so did Harry.

The group exchanged uneasy looks, the happy arrival now tinged with tension no one quite knew how to ease.

Aurora caught the look Harry gave Theo and immediately picked up on the unspoken message. She bit her lip, nodding subtly to herself as if filing it away for later.

She stepped back from the group, pretending to check her phone but really watching Harry’s car. Something was definitely off.

As everyone started unpacking, the usual buzz of activity returned. Jasper and Theo carried most of the groceries inside, while Eliza directed who should bring what where. Harper and Becca helped organize bags and handed out snacks and drinks. Laughter and chatter floated through the air, easing some of the earlier tension.

Aurora lingered nearby and after a moment, she quietly excused herself from the group and headed your way. She knocked gently on the door before stepping in.

You looked up, surprise flickering across your face but your frustration was still evident.

“Hey,” Aurora said softly. “You okay?”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “Just needed a minute.”

Aurora gave a small smile and sat down beside you. “If you want to talk or need anything, I’m here.”

“We had an argument…again” you said “I know…about what this time?” Aurora said coming near you and sitting on the bed next to yours “About everything, nonsense stupid stuff…” you said sighing “i really think this is it..this is were our friendship comes to an end”

Aurora’s eyes softened as she looked at you. “Hey, don’t say that. Friendships go through rough patches all the time. You two have been through so much together—this can’t be the end.”

You shook your head, feeling the weight of it all. “It just feels different now. Like we’re not even on the same page anymore. Every little thing sets us off.”

Aurora reached out and gently squeezed your hand. “Maybe you both just need some space to breathe. Sometimes distance helps clear the fog.”

You looked down at your hands, considering. “Maybe… but it still hurts.”

“I get it,” Aurora said softly. “But you’re not alone in this, okay? We all want this trip to be good—for you, for Harry, for everyone.”

You let out a shaky breath, grateful for her presence. “Thanks, Rori”

Aurora gave you a reassuring smile before standing up. “Come on, let’s get out there. Eliza’s schedule says today is a free day—no planned activities. Perfect chance to just relax and breathe.”

You nodded and followed her out of the room, the tension in your chest easing just a little. Downstairs, the others were unpacking and settling in. The cabin already smelled like pine and wood smoke, a comforting scent that reminded you why this place was special.

Some of the group were organizing groceries, laughing as they juggled bags of snacks, drinks, and supplies. Theo was stacking firewood near the porch while Jasper and Harper were debating which music to play first.

Eliza was busy organizing the kitchen, checking off items on her meticulously planned list, while Becca was chatting animatedly with Cassie near the windows.

You found yourself drifting outside, the fresh air filling your lungs. Aurora stayed close, leaning against the railing beside you. For the first time in days, things felt a little lighter. Across the door, you caught Harry’s eye for just a moment. He looked away quickly, and you did the same, neither of you daring to break the fragile silence.

No words were exchanged between you two — just a shared glance heavy with everything left unsaid. The tension lingered, but for now, it stayed unspoken as the day slowly unwound around you.

In the Kitchen Theo grabbed Harry’s arm gently but firmly, pulling him aside near the pantry “Harry, man, what the hell…,” Theo said quietly, locking eyes with him. “Look, I get it — things with you and Y/N have been rough lately. But this silence, the cold shoulders, the snappy comments? It’s killing whatever’s left of you two.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, frustration and guilt mixing on his face. “It’s complicated, Theo. I don’t even know how to fix this. Every time I try to talk, it just ends up worse.” he whispered

Theo shook his head slowly. “That’s exactly why you have to try. If you don’t say what’s on your mind, what’s really bothering you… you’re just building a wall between you two that only gets higher. You risk losing her forever.”

Harry’s voice dropped. “What if I say something and it backfires? What if it’s too late?”

Theo’s gaze hardened a bit, but his tone stayed calm. “Then you deal with it. But at least you’ll know you tried. Because not saying anything? That’s giving up without a fight. And you’re not that kind of guy. God, do you really like her? go on and fix this mess”

Harry sighed deeply, looking over at the cabin where you were. “I just don’t want to make her feel worse. She deserves better than the mess I’ve become.”

Theo placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “None of us are perfect. But being honest — that’s how you show you care. That you’re willing to be vulnerable. You owe it to her, and to yourself.”

Harry nodded, swallowing hard.

Night had finally fallen over the cabin, the sky a deep navy blanket speckled with stars. Inside, the group had gathered around the large wooden table in the living room, the soft glow of lanterns and fairy lights creating a cozy atmosphere.

Eliza brought out an old, well-loved board game she’d packed—a classic everyone enjoyed. The clatter of dice and the occasional burst of laughter slowly chipped away at the day’s lingering tension. Harry and you found yourselves sitting across from each other, the game forcing a casual proximity neither had expected. For a while, the conversation was light—teasing jokes about who was the worst at strategy and who always made the boldest moves.

As the game progressed, the distance between you started to shrink, the walls built by earlier arguments slowly softening under the shared moments and friendly competition.

Occasionally, your eyes met across the table, and though neither said a word.

But then

Harper rolled her eyes and said, “It’s not fair! I should be the one winning — you’re all just ganging up on me.”

You and Harry both blurted out at the same time, “Well, maybe you shouldn’t be so bad at it.”

Everyone froze for a second, surprised by the identical replies. Jasper laughed and said, “Alright, alright, no team-ups! Let’s keep playing.”

The group quickly moved on, throwing dice and debating moves, but Harry and you exchanged a lingering look, the unspoken tension hanging in the air between you. Just as the moment stretched, Jasper, laughing too hard, accidentally knocked over his beer. The amber liquid splashed right onto your lap.

“Oh no, sorry!” Jasper exclaimed, reaching for napkins.

You stood up quickly, brushing at your pants. “Classic Jasper, I'll go clean this up,” you said, trying to keep your frustration in check.

Theo caught Harry’s eye from across the room and gave him a meaningful look — one that said, Go check on her. Harry immediately stood up and went to the kitchen, where he found you pressing a damp cloth against your shorts, trying to clean the stain. He stood there for a moment, saying nothing. The nerves were building up inside him—so this was it, he thought. Gathering his courage to speak, he was surprised when you beat him to it.

“Go ahead,” you blurted out. “You can say I look like I pissed myself.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” he replied softly.

“Sure you weren’t,” you said, rolling your eyes with a hint of sarcasm.

“Can we talk?” he asked quietly.

“Talk? Like the talk we had on the way here?” you shot back.

“No, I mean…” he sighed, running his hands through his hair in frustration. “Okay, then. Let’s just not talk. Just hear me out.”

“And why would I want to hear you?” you challenged.

“Please? Just… give me two minutes, and then you can even slap me if you want,” he pleaded.

The silence between you was thick, broken only by the faint laughter and chatter from the living room. You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, staring at Harry with a mixture of irritation and exhaustion.

“Two minutes,” you said sharply. “Go.”

Harry nodded, exhaling deeply as he ran a hand through his hair. His nerves were on edge, and for a moment, he looked like he might bolt instead of speak. But then, he met your eyes, his jaw tightening as if steeling himself.

“I know I’ve been an ass,” he began, his voice low. “I know I’ve said things that hurt you, and I know I’ve pushed you away—probably more than you deserved. But it’s not because I hate you, or because I don’t care.”

You raised an eyebrow, your arms tightening across your chest, but you stayed silent.

“It’s the opposite,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before he looked back at you. “I’ve been pushing you away because I started to feel… things I wasn’t ready for. Things I didn’t know how to handle. And instead of dealing with it like a normal person, I acted like an idiot.”

“Harry,” you said softly, unsure of where this was going.

He took a step closer, the weight of his words visibly pressing on him. “I didn’t want to ruin what we had. I thought if I could keep things the way they were, if I could just bury it, we’d be fine. But I can’t anymore. Because somewhere along the way, I started falling in love with you.”

The words hung in the air, his confession knocking the wind out of you. Your breath hitched, your mind scrambling to process what he’d just said. You searched his face for any hint of hesitation or insincerity, but all you saw was raw, unfiltered honesty.

“You…” you began, your voice trembling. “You’re in love with me?”

“Yes,” he said simply, his eyes never leaving yours. “And I know I’ve done everything wrong. I know I’ve hurt you, and I don’t expect you to feel the same way. But I couldn’t keep it in anymore. You deserved to know.”

Your heart thudded in your chest, the walls you’d carefully built around yourself cracking under the weight of his confession. A part of you wanted to lash out, to throw his words back at him for all the hurt he’d caused. But another part—the part that had always held a soft spot for him—wanted to believe he was telling the truth.

“I don’t know what to say,” you whispered, your arms falling to your sides.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said quickly. “I just needed you to hear it. To know that everything I’ve done—even the stupid, hurtful stuff—came from a place I didn’t understand until now.”

The sound of footsteps in the hallway broke the moment. Theo’s voice called out, “You two alive in there? The game’s getting intense, and Harper’s threatening to flip the board.”

Harry gave a faint smile, his eyes still locked on yours. “We’re fine,” he called back before lowering his voice. “I’ll give you space if that’s what you need. Just… don’t shut me out completely. Please.”

You nodded slowly, the weight of his confession settling over you as he stepped back, giving you the room to breathe.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the tension between you wasn’t suffocating. It was heavy, yes, but there was something else there now—a flicker of possibility, of hope.

You returned to the living room, the hum of chatter and laughter greeting you as you stepped inside. The group was still gathered around the board game, arguing playfully over the rules. It all seemed normal, like nothing had changed—but for you and Harry, everything had.

Aurora caught your eye first, her brow furrowing slightly as she noticed the look on your face. You quickly glanced away, not ready for questions. Sitting back down in your spot, you tried to blend back in, but the weight of Harry’s confession was impossible to ignore. Harry followed a few moments later, taking his seat with a small, relieved exhale. He avoided looking directly at you, but the tension in his shoulders seemed to have eased ever so slightly.

Theo, ever perceptive, glanced between the two of you. His lips quirked into a subtle, knowing smile before he turned his attention back to the game.

Harper noticed something too, narrowing her eyes as she pointed her game piece accusingly at Harry. “You’ve got that look,” she said teasingly. “Like you just got away with something.”

“What look?” Harry asked, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he avoided the trap.

“The smug one,” Jasper chimed in, grinning. “But then again, you always look like that.”

The group laughed, and you used the moment to ground yourself, focusing on the lighthearted banter. The tension wasn’t gone, but it had shifted. Instead of anger and frustration, there was now a strange, unspoken understanding between you and Harry—an acknowledgment that something had cracked open.

Aurora leaned over slightly, her voice low as she nudged you with her elbow. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, forcing a small smile. “Just tired.”

She didn’t press, but her eyes lingered on you for a beat longer before she shrugged and joined the game again. The evening wore on, and the atmosphere gradually lightened. Drinks were poured, jokes were made, and for a moment, you almost forgot the storm swirling in your mind. Almost.

Across the room, Harry caught your gaze. It wasn’t intentional—just a fleeting moment when your eyes met. But in that split second, everything he’d said in the kitchen came rushing back. You could see it in his expression: the relief, the vulnerability, and maybe even a flicker of hope. You looked away quickly, your stomach twisting into knots. The rest of the group might not have known what had happened between you two, but they could sense the difference. It was subtle but undeniable, a shift in the air that no one dared to point out directly.

For now, the game continued, the laughter grew louder, and the night pressed on. But beneath it all, the conversation in the kitchen lingered, an unspoken thread tying you and Harry together in a way that neither of you could ignore.

The cabin had finally quieted down for the night. The distant sound of crickets outside the window filled the room, a gentle reminder of how far removed you were from the chaos of the city—and the chaos of your own thoughts. Lying on your bed, you stared up at the wooden ceiling, replaying the conversation with Harry over and over again. His words were etched into your mind, the way his voice cracked slightly when he confessed: “I started to fall in love with you.”

Your chest tightened at the memory, a cocktail of emotions swirling within you. Anger, confusion, disbelief—but above all, the undeniable realization that you felt something too.

You squeezed your eyes shut, frustrated with yourself. After all the fights, the snide comments, the years of stubbornness between you two, how could it have come to this? But the truth was impossible to deny: somewhere along the way, you had fallen for him too. You hated admitting it, even to yourself. It felt like losing a battle you didn’t even know you were fighting. Yet, there it was—the tug in your chest whenever he looked at you, the way your heart raced during those rare moments when you weren’t at each other’s throats.

A soft knock on the door broke your thoughts.

Your heart jumped, and for a moment, you froze, staring at the shadow under the door.

“Y/N?”

Harry’s voice was quiet, tentative.

You sat up slowly, your pulse quickening. For a second, you debated ignoring him, pretending to be asleep, anything to delay the inevitable. But deep down, you knew you couldn’t avoid him forever.

“Yeah?” you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper.

There was a pause before he replied. “Can I come in?”

You hesitated, your fingers gripping the edge of the blanket. Taking a deep breath, you managed to find your voice.

“Okay.”

The door creaked open, and Harry stepped inside, his expression unreadable in the dim light. He stood there for a moment, as if unsure what to say or do.

“I know it’s late,” he started, his voice soft. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about… everything.”

Harry stood just inside the door, his hands in his pockets, looking more vulnerable than you’d ever seen him. His usual confidence was absent, replaced by a quiet uncertainty.

You nodded toward the chair by the window. “Sit.”

He hesitated for a moment, then moved to the chair, dragging it closer to the bed but not too close. He sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and you could see the tension in his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he started, his voice barely above a whisper. “For everything. For pushing you away. For being such an idiot half the time.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the rawness in his tone.

He ran a hand through his hair, looking down at the floor. “I don’t know when it happened, or how, but somewhere along the line, I stopped just… seeing you as my best friend. And I got scared, Y/N. I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I kept messing things up.”

You stayed quiet, letting him speak.

“All those fights, the stupid things I’d say—it wasn’t because I hated you. It was because I didn’t know how to handle what I was feeling. And I thought maybe if I pushed you far enough away, I could stop feeling like this.” He looked up at you then, his green eyes searching yours. “But it didn’t work. It just made me miserable. And I know I’ve probably ruined everything, but I had to tell you. You deserve to know.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest. For once, there was no sarcasm, no walls between you two. Just Harry, laying it all out there.

“I don’t even know what to say,” you admitted, your voice barely audible. “This—this changes everything, Harry.”

“I know,” he said quickly, leaning forward. “And I don’t expect you to feel the same way. I just—I needed you to know. Whatever happens next, it’s up to you. I just couldn’t keep pretending anymore.”

The room fell into silence again, the weight of his confession hanging in the air.

“I hated you,” you said suddenly, your voice trembling. Harry flinched, but you shook your head. “Not really. But I wanted to. It would’ve been easier if I did. Because the truth is, I think I’ve felt the same way for a long time. I just didn’t want to admit it either.”

His eyes widened, hope flickering in them.

“But you drive me insane,” you continued, a small, incredulous laugh escaping you. “And I’ve spent so much time convincing myself that you and I could never work that I don’t even know where to start, and maybe that’s why i wanted to be right all the time”

“We can figure it out,” he said, his voice steady now. “I know I’ve been an ass, but I want to try. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

You stared at him, the sincerity in his voice breaking down the last of your defenses.

“Okay,” you whispered.

“Okay?” he repeated, almost as if he couldn’t believe it.

“Yeah,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Harry’s grin softened as he looked at you, his gaze lingering just a moment too long. The air between you shifted again, the tension returning but of a completely different kind. It was warm, electrified, as if the room itself was holding its breath. He stood slowly, moving closer to where you sat on the bed. His eyes never left yours, searching for any sign that you might change your mind or pull away.

“Y/N,” he said softly, his voice low and cautious, like he was treading on fragile ground.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you leaned forward, quickly, closing the space between you in a movement so instinctive it surprised you both. When your lips met, it was hesitant at first, a testing of boundaries, but that hesitation didn’t last long. Harry’s hands cupped your face, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a release of everything unsaid, every argument, every stolen glance, every moment of yearning that had gone unspoken until now.

Your hands found their way to his hair, tugging lightly, and he groaned against your lips, the sound sending shivers down your spine. His touch was gentle yet demanding, as if he couldn’t quite believe this was real but wasn’t about to let it go.

When you broke apart, breathless and flushed, his forehead rested against yours, and his eyes fluttered open to meet your gaze.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, his voice hoarse, the vulnerability in his eyes unmistakable.

Instead of answering, you tugged him back down, your lips meeting his again with more urgency this time. You shifted back on the bed, and Harry followed, his weight pressing down on you in a way that felt grounding, solid, and intoxicating all at once.

His kisses trailed from your lips to your jaw, then down your neck, leaving a path of warmth that made your skin tingle. Your hands moved restlessly, exploring the breadth of his shoulders, the curve of his back, as if trying to memorize every part of him.

“Y/N,” he murmured against your skin, his voice laced with reverence and restraint.

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your breathing uneven. “Harry,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling within you. In one swift motion, you pulled your shirt over your head, leaving your chest bare. You had never been a fan of wearing a bra to bed, and the soft glow of the moonlight cast an intimate light over your exposed skin.

“Fuck,” Harry murmured, his voice low and rough as his gaze fell to your bare chest. His eyes darkened, and his lips parted slightly as he took in the sight before him. A wave of desire coursed through him, his body responding instinctively. Without hesitation, he leaned down, his lips capturing your left nipple. His tongue swirled over the sensitive skin, drawing a sharp gasp from you. At the same time, his hand slid up to your other breast, his fingers kneading gently yet firmly. “Are you sure?” he mumbled against your breast “If you ask me again, I swear…” you murmured, your voice already breathless and tinged with pleasure.

Harry paused, his fingers teasingly slipping beneath the waistband of your pajama shorts. His voice was steady but laced with restraint. “I need vocal consent,” he said softly, his eyes searching yours. “I need to know this isn’t just out of lust.”

Your body ached with anticipation, and your frustration spilled out in a desperate plea. “Harry, I swear, if you don’t fuck me right now—”

A grin tugged at his lips. “That’s good enough,” he whispered before crashing his mouth against yours, his kiss igniting every nerve in your body. Harry tugged at the elastic of your shorts, and you quickly wriggled out of them, your hands already moving to his shirt. You broke the kiss just long enough for him to pull it over his head, and your eyes lingered for a moment, taking him in. His well-built frame, the tattoos scattered across his skin, and… the undeniable bulge straining against his pants. You’d always known he was big—years of seeing him in wet swim shorts that left far too little to the imagination had made that impossible to ignore.

Before you could dwell on it, Harry’s lips found yours again with an urgency that made your head spin. His kiss was intoxicating, almost desperate, as though he feared you might disappear if this was nothing but a dream. One of his hands kneaded your ass, pulling you impossibly closer, while your fingers tugged at the waistband of his trousers, eager to free him of the last barrier between you, Harry quickly pushed his trousers and briefs down in one smooth motion, letting his throbbing cock spring free, the tip flushed and glistening as it slapped against his abdomen. The sight made your breath hitch, a mix of nerves and anticipation pooling in your stomach. “Fuck!” he groaned, closing his eyes and quickly looking away.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, frowning as you held onto his shoulders.

“I don’t have condoms,” he admitted quietly.

“I don’t either,” you said, the realization hitting you. “Theo might have some—he’s here with Cassie,” you added desperately.

“I can’t just ask him for condoms now. What am I even supposed to say?”

“Fuck…” you breathed out. “I’m clean, I swear. Haven’t gotten laid in the last six months, and my last screen came back clean.”

“I’m clean too. I can show you—I have it on my phone,” he said, looking around for his phone. But before he could reach for it, you cupped his face in your hands.

“I trust you,” you said softly. That meaning more than just trusting him on that specific thing. “I’m on the pill as well.”

He hesitated for a moment, then muttered, “Are you… fuck,” before snapping, and crashing his lips onto yours again.

One hand wrapped around his length, pumping slowly at the base, while the other found the damp fabric of your thong. Tugging it aside, his fingers quickly became slick with your arousal, making you whimper softly at the sensation.

“Shit,” he breathed, pushing two fingers slowly inside you. A small moan escaped your lips. “You’re a fucking dream,” he murmured, pressing his forehead gently against yours. “Look at me,” he whispered as he continued pumping his fingers in and out of you.

“I need you,” you gasped, voice trembling with need.

Harry’s eyes darkened with hunger as he withdrew his fingers slowly, bringing them to his mouth to taste you. “Fucking sweet” he whispered against your skin.

He positioned himself carefully, lips trailing hot kisses down your neck, each touch setting you aflame. Every second stretched, filled with raw, aching anticipation, dragging his tip through your folds, slowly “Harry” you whimpered

And he finally entered you, slow and deliberate, you both froze for a moment, breathing each other in, hearts pounding in unison.

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he groaned, moving with growing intensity, every thrust sending waves of pleasure crashing through you. “So fucking tight.”

You moaned at the feeling of him inside you, stretched perfectly, hitting every needy spot. “Yes… fffu—” your voice grew louder until he placed a hand gently over your mouth.

“As much as I want to hear those delicious sounds you make,” he murmured, pumping slowly, “we’re too close to Aurora and Eliza’s room.” You cursed silently, desperate to scream out in pleasure. You knew you were loud, so keeping quiet was going to be a real challenge. He began thrusting into you faster, filled with urgent need, feeling every inch of you. “You’re perfect... so good for me,” he groaned. “Fuck me harder,” you mumbled against his hand.

“Harder? That’s how you like it, love? Hard?” he asked, driving his thrusts with more force.

“Yes… yes, I like it hard,” you managed to say, but before you could say more, he slid two fingers into your mouth.

“Suck,” he commanded, locking his gaze on you, and you gladly obeyed “Look at me” he said still lost in pleasure “you look amazing like this” He pulled back, leaving you gasping at the sudden emptiness, your lips still tingling from the contact.

“Turn around,” he murmured, his voice low and urgent, as he gently helped you shift. His gaze raked over your curves, lingering on your ass for a moment before he delivered a sharp, teasing spank. With a slow, deliberate motion, he tugged your thong aside again, exposing your swollen, puffy core that ached with need. Without hesitation, he spat a warm drop of saliva onto you, the wetness spreading and glistening under the dim light. Then, with a powerful thrust, he sank back inside you, filling you completely once more.

His hands gripped your hips firmly, guiding each deep, powerful thrust as he set a relentless pace. You bit your lip to keep from crying out but some moans escaped your mouth, the heat and pleasure crashing over you in waves.

“God, fucking pussy all mine,” he groaned, his voice thick with need. His mouth found your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses while his hips slammed into yours.

You arched back, your fingers digging into the sheets as he stretched you perfectly, hitting every sensitive spot. The room was filled with the sounds of skin meeting skin and your shallow breaths.

“Harry,” you gasped, barely able to hold back, “please, don’t stop.”

He smiled against your skin, a rough, hungry smile. “Say it again” looking down at where your bodies merged

“Harry…” you whispered, voice trembling, eyes fluttering shut. Your hips began to lift involuntarily, matching his rhythm as waves of pleasure started to ripple from deep inside you. “i’m….i’m about to” you moaned His hand slid from your hip to grip your waist tightly, anchoring you as your body tensed, muscles clenched.The heat in your core became unbearable, a delicious pressure pulsing and tightening until it felt like you were about to shatter. Your breath came in short gasps, your heart pounding so loud it felt like it would burst through your chest. “Come…come all over my cock” he murmured against your skin, voice rough but steady. And then—release. A shudder tore through you, your muscles spasming around him as waves of bliss crashed over your body. You cried out softly, the sound muffled by the pillow, your entire being consumed by pleasure. He kept moving, slow and sure, prolonging the moment, grounding you as you rode out the tremors of your orgasm. Still buried deep inside you, Harry’s own control snapped. With a low, guttural groan, his hips jerked harder, driving into you with desperate need. His breath hitched, and his grip on your waist tightened as the tension built to an unbearable peak.

“Fuck—” he gasped, his voice rough and raw, before his body tensed and he spilled inside you, every shuddering thrust fueling the powerful release. You felt him fill you completely, hot cum now drenching your insides, warmth spreading through you as he held you close, grounding both of you in that intense, intimate moment.

Slowly, his movements softened, and he collapsed gently beside you, forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing heavily, connected and utterly spent.

You stayed still for a moment, your breaths mingling in the quiet room. The tension that had hung so heavily between you felt like it had finally begun to melt away. Harry’s heartbeat was steady against your skin, grounding you in the here and now.

“I’ve wanted that for a long time,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

You looked up at him, your eyes shining with a mixture of relief and something softer—something hopeful. “Me too,” you admitted, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest.

He smiled, a tired but genuine curve of his lips. “Maybe this is the start of figuring things out. Together.”

You nodded, leaning into him, feeling warmth spread through you—not just from the moment you’d shared, but from the possibility of what could come next.

🌷

The next morning, sunlight filtered softly through the cabin windows as everyone bustled around the kitchen, the smell of coffee and frying bacon filling the air. Plates clattered, eggs sizzled, and casual chatter floated through the room, but there was an unspoken agreement—no one was quite ready to bring up what had happened the night before.

You and Harry sat a bit apart on the sofa, exchanging shy smiles and quiet giggles, both pretending to focus on the morning but clearly still wrapped up in your own bubble. Last night was still a secret between both. Or so you thought.

Suddenly, Aurora appeared in the kitchen frowning “Thanks, Theo and Cassie, for fucking so loudly last night,” she said loudly, teasing. “I couldn’t even mute the sounds with my noise-cancelling headphones.”

Everyone froze, exchanging confused glances. Cassie blinked, genuinely puzzled. “We didn’t fuck last night. I was too tired—I fell asleep pretty quickly,” she replied, her voice calm.

Everyone was confused, if Theo and Cassie didn’t fuck and Aurora was certain he heard a male and female voice then…

All eyes swung toward you and Harry on the sofa.

“They’re looking at us” you said whispering

“They are stupid don’t worry” he said making you giggle

In fact, they weren’t, they immediately knew everything.

Taglist: @hermionelove @mads3502

[p1girlfriend]

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ ACADEMIC RIVALS TO LOVERS... 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ OP81

– You meet in uni and instantly rub each other the wrong way. Not because he’s rude — he’s not — but because he’s smug. Always one point ahead. Always smirking when he sees your name on the grade sheet just below his.

– You sit across from each other in class. He always notices when your pen runs out and passes you a new one without looking. You always return it with something petty written on a sticky note wrapped around it, like: “Hope this helps you overthink less.”

– You correct each other’s grammar in Google Docs. Like… passive-aggressively. But you also never delete the other's edits. Hm. Weird.

– He lives to fluster you in class debates. One time, you got so worked up arguing about some obscure political theory that he leaned in and whispered, “You look real pretty when you’re mad, y’know.” You forgot your entire rebuttal.

– Everyone thinks you're hooking up already. You're not. But when someone says it out loud at a study group, Oscar just raises an eyebrow and says, “Yet.”

– When you finally study together (after too much tension), you both spend the first hour in sarcastic silence. But then you start helping each other. And somehow… that night, he walks you home. And you both just… smile.

– “Still think you’re smarter than me?” “No. But I think you’re more fun to argue with.”

– The first time it happens? It’s after a stupid late-night library session. He’s wearing a hoodie, sitting next to you, both of you pretending you're reading — until he says something snarky and you snap.

– “God, you’re such a cocky little—” “Finish that sentence,” he mutters, “and I swear I’ll make you say it again with my fingers inside you.”

– He loves watching your mind go blank under his touch. It’s revenge for all those times you humiliated him in class. “What happened to the girl with the smart mouth, huh?” he whispers, hand between your thighs. “Gone now?”

– You’ve definitely had sex in at least one academic setting: a study room, an empty classroom, maybe even his car right after an exam. That need to out-do each other turned into a craving to be closer. To win in a different way.

– “You gonna take notes on this too, pretty girl?” he teases, hips moving slow and deep. “Or should I make it a practical lesson?”

– After? He’s weirdly soft. Holding your waist, pressing kisses to your shoulders, running a hand through your hair. “Don’t think this means I’m letting you win next time.”

– “Oh yeah?” you whisper. “I’m top of the class and on top of you.”

He groans. You smirk.

Rivals forever. But lovers now too.

©p1girlfriend

[science-hoes]

I neeeeeeed your prone bone thots on everyone

Prone bone thots for Charlie Reid, Pope Cody, Jack Abbot, and Michael Robinavitch. Here we gooooooo

Charlie is a fan of prone bone because it’s the best position for breath play. He’ll be buried deep inside you with a large hand around your throat. His thumb will compress against your trachea, and he can hear your staggered breaths until there aren’t any. He can perfectly time when you need to breathe again without hurting you. “Come on, baby girl, breathe for Daddy.” He’ll come in you that way, too, a hand gripping your hair and his fingers nearly leaving marks on your throat. “You want me to fill you up? Yeah? Think you deserve it?” You’ll come before he does, he makes sure of that, but the position leaves you feeling so full and cock drunk, leaving a drooling mess on the comforter of his bed.

Pope likes prone bone because it’s the closest he can be to you, closer than missionary. He keeps his forehead pressed against your temple, rutting viciously, making the bed rock with every snap of his hips. His sweet whimpers are right in your ear, and that gets you off more than anything. “I feel you. You’re almost there.” He’ll speed up, never slipping out too far, just enough to slam back into you with a bruising force. “Need to feel you come.” He needs to know he made you feel good, and of course you feel good. It’s apparent by how hard your walls convulse around his thick cock, springing him into his own release.

Jack actually prefers prone bone, especially after a long shift. He doesn’t wear his prosthesis any longer than he has to or else he could end up with chaffing, blisters, etc. But sometimes he still ends up with chaffing on his kneecap from the metal or prosthesis sleeve, so being on his knees is incredibly painful. Enter prone bone. He can lay on top of you and treat you like the queen you are. “So fucking good for me, baby doll.” He’ll kiss your neck, your shoulder blades, your ears, all while railing you into next week. The fat tip of his cock is slamming into that spongy spot inside you, and you can only see stars. “That’s right, give it to me.” You’ll come harder than any other position, especially as he continues to thrust until he reaches his own climax.

Robby loves prone bone. He’s so much taller than you that he has no issue keeping your back snug against his chest, his head tilted down so he can whisper sweet nothings into your ear while his hips piston into you, pressing wet kisses against your lips every now and then. “So good for me, kid.” With that height also comes length, and he has never slipped out of your pussy in that position, it would be nearly impossible. “Is it too much? Need a second?” He hits your G-spot over and over, and you’re a whimpering mess under him. Usually, you need clit stimulation to come, but not with him in this position. He gets you there, and he gets you there fast. It’s also the position that you conceive your first child in.

[buckysleftbicep]

letters though time (3) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: 1940s!bucky barnes x modern!reader

warnings: angst.

summary: you find a letter from 1944 hidden in the old brooklyn apartment you moved signed by one james buchanan barnes. you write back, he did too, and somehow, across decades, you both fall in love.

word count: 1.5k

author's note: i love this chapter so much. please leave some feedback or a reblog if you enjoyed it! i tend to forget about tags, please be patient with me, thank you loves. stay safe out there!

series masterlist

You reread his letter so many times the edges began to curl.

He was leaving.

You stared at the letter in your hands, heart pounding like it was trying to outrun history. The words blurred at the edges, but you didn’t need to read them again. You already knew.

You knew the date, April 8th, 1944, etched into your memory long before his handwriting ever reached you. You had seen it in textbooks, beneath faded photographs, on a bronze plaque mounted inside the Smithsonian: Sergeant James Barnes, deployed with Captain Steve Rogers to intercept a HYDRA transport in the Austrian Alps.

You knew that mission. Everyone did.

It was the one where he fell. Where the world believed he died.

Except he didn’t.

You knew what came after, how HYDRA had found him in the wreckage and broken him in ways no one should ever be broken.

How their scientists, cruel and methodical, stripped him down to nothing. Rewrote him. Erased him. Until all that remained was a killing machine, sharp and merciless, a ghost with a metal arm and no name.

When you first started working at the museum, you had gone down that rabbit hole, read every article, studied every declassified file, perhaps even the ones you were specifically told not to read.

You had seen the stills, the grainy footage, the Winter Soldier moving like a machine, swift and ruthless, with eyes that held no trace of the man writing you these letters now. The man you had fallen in love with.

And now he was writing to you, sweet, hopeful, himself, without knowing what awaited him on the other side of that mission.

You gripped the letter until your knuckles turned white, heart lodged so high in your throat you could barely breathe. You blinked, hoping the words would change. That maybe this letter would say he wasn’t going, that he had changed his mind. That somehow, knowing you, and perhaps falling for you had altered the path of fate.

But the words stayed the same.

And so did history.

Please wait for me.

Your chest felt too tight to breathe.

You didn’t sleep that night. You couldn't.

You sat on the floor beside the cabinet, the old walnut drawer yawning open, its linen lining wrinkled and worn from too many anxious, trembling hands.

His letters were everywhere, scattered like fallen leaves around you. Pages upon pages, thick with ink and hope, with quiet jokes, whispered dreams, and all the soft, unspoken pieces of him that had stitched themselves gently into your heart.

And now history was threatening to take him away.

You couldn’t stop pacing the next morning.

Couldn’t stop chewing at your bottom lip, eyes flicking toward the drawer every five minutes like it would somehow answer you.

When the next letter came, you nearly dropped it from the tremor in your fingers.

April 1st, 1944 Sweetheart, You’ve gone quiet. Did I say something wrong? I hope I didn’t scare you with what I wrote. I just… I need you to know I’m serious. About all of this. About you. It’s crazy, isn’t it? Falling for someone through paper and time. But I have. I’ve fallen for you. And maybe it’s selfish, but I hope you feel the same. I’ll write again tomorrow. Just… say something, will you? Please. Always, James

You sat down that instant and scribbled out a reply with shaking hands.

Bucky, Please don’t go on this mission. I know that sounds ridiculous. I know you can’t just walk away from orders. But something terrible is going to happen. I can’t tell you how I know, it would change too much, but please… don’t go on this mission. You won’t come back the same. If you do come back at all. Please, just trust me. Please.

You folded the letter with trembling fingers and tucked it into the drawer.

So you waited. And waited.

But no letter came the next day. Or the one after that. Or the day after that.

The silence grew heavy, pressing. Like the space between heartbeats stretched too far apart.

By the fourth day, the ache settled deep in your chest—sharp and constant, like something vital was missing. You kept his photo tucked in your wallet, pulling it out so often the edges had started to wear.

You stared at it until the ink blurred behind tears you refused to wipe away. You paced the apartment like a ghost in your own life, whispering his name into the quiet, as if somehow, just somehow, it might find Bucky. Might bring him back.

On the fifth day, you found a letter.

But the paper wasn’t soft with affection, it was creased, angry.

April 4th, 1944 (Y/N), You ask me to trust you, but you won’t trust me to finish this mission. You want me to believe you, about this, about danger, but you won’t say why. Won’t explain. You just beg me not to go. You say I won’t come back the same. That I might not come back at all. Do you know how that feels to read? Like you’ve already written my end for me. Is this all just a game to you? Some story you’re writing? Because it stopped feeling like fiction to me a long time ago. I care about you. I’ve trusted you with more of myself than anyone else in years. And now I don’t know what to think. I need time. - J

You stared at the letter for a long time.

Then you sank to the floor, hands cradling your head.

Tears slipped down your cheeks soundlessly. You didn’t blame him. Not really. You couldn’t explain how you knew what was coming. No, you couldn’t tell him he’d be taken, tortured, frozen. You couldn't tell him that his future was a blur of blood and silence and death.

You couldn’t say it without breaking something sacred.

But still, it hurt. god, it hurt.

You didn’t write back. Not right away.

You told yourself he needed space. That maybe he would feel your silence and understand it wasn’t anger, it was fear. A fear too heavy to put into words.

You wanted to give him time. But you didn’t realise just how little time he had left.

Four days passed. Each one sharp around the edges, like they had been carved from glass. Fragile and ready to shatter.

And still...no letter.

And then, on the morning of April 8th, you opened the drawer and found his letter.

Your breath hitched before you even touched it.

The envelope was different. Heavier. The paper thicker than usual.

You unfolded it with trembling fingers.

April 8th, 1944 Doll, We leave for Germany in a few hours. I couldn’t go without writing you one last time. I didn’t want things to end on anger. I’m sorry I pushed you. I just...it scared me, that’s all. The way you spoke like you knew what would happen, I was shaken, and I don’t like feeling helpless. But I trust you. I do. I told Howard what you said. I didn’t give him details, just that someone I cared about, someone important, warned me something could go wrong. He seemed to believe me, said that maybe time’s not as solid as we think. He told me he’s been working on something. Said he might have a way to pull me through. So if I make it back, if I survive, maybe there’s a chance we would meet. I'll find you. Please wait for me, (Y/N). And if nothing else, just know this, I love you. Always yours, James

You folded the letter in silence, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. The ache in your chest made it hard to sit upright, let alone think.

Your hands trembled as you reached for paper, fingers cold and clumsy around the pen. You didn’t write paragraphs, didn’t spill your heart across the page in desperate, sprawling confessions.

There was nothing left to say that could rewrite history. So instead, you wrote only three words, quiet, aching, infinite. Words that had lived in your chest for weeks. Words that felt both like a promise and a goodbye.

I love you.

You placed it in the drawer, fingertips lingering on the edge like a goodbye you weren’t ready to give. The paper felt heavier than it should’ve, like it carried every unspoken word you hadn’t dared to write.

You closed the drawer gently, too gently, like slamming it might break something irreparable.

And that was the last time.

You never got another letter again.

For days afterward, you couldn’t bring yourself to touch it. Couldn’t even glance at the cabinet without that familiar sting behind your eyes, without your chest tightening like your ribs were trying to hold something broken together.

The silence wasn’t just quiet, it was cruel. Loud in its finality.

You told yourself maybe tomorrow. Maybe the drawer would open and there would be something waiting. Another slanted signature. Another piece of him.

But there was nothing.

And eventually, the ache settled in deep, bone-deep, the kind of grief that didn’t scream but pressed down slowly. You found yourself avoiding the cabinet altogether, skirting around it like it might hurt you if you got too close.

You stopped checking.

Stopped hoping.

Because it felt like mourning someone who hadn’t died, but who had still somehow left you behind.

a/n: i hope you love this chapter as much as i did! thank you for stopping by!

taglist: @ndanddnd @darling-eos @alikkatz @creepybake @maryssong23 @mgchaser @hiraethmae @coffeecigsandcommentary @iyskgd @silverdoragon @lori19 @counterstr1ke @cyberxlust @throwmethroughawindow @keira-kaz2y5