#(and shattered glass is always so sharp; she knows that too)

[pucksandpower]

Second Heart

Happy Nation: A Series of Standalone Fics

Lewis Hamilton x Senna!Reader

Summary: all you’ve ever wanted was to be able to race just like your Papai … no matter the cost (or in which always going for a gap that exists runs in the Senna family)

You sit cross-legged in front of the TV, shoulders hunched, the remote clutched tight in your little hand. The screen crackles, and there he is — Ayrton. Papai. His yellow helmet blazes under the bright afternoon sun, the car flying down the straight, smooth as a bird on water.

Your eyes don’t blink. The sound of engines growls through the speakers, vibrating all the way to your heart. It’s like he’s right there. Alive.

And so fast. So, so fast. You almost feel like you’re in the car with him, that if you close your eyes, you could taste the gasoline and the rubber, the wind whipping across your face.

“Papai …” you whisper, pressing the volume button louder.

Adriane steps into the room, the clink of her bracelets soft but steady. She pauses when she sees you, arms crossed, one hip jutted out.

“I thought you were doing homework.”

You don’t answer, too lost in the footage. The video cuts to a slow-motion shot of Ayrton weaving through the rain, tires spinning in the spray like magic. They call it genius — what he did at Monaco, at Suzuka, at Donington Park. To you, it’s just your Papai being Papai.

“Turn it off.” Your mother’s voice sharpens now. She hates it when you watch these tapes. You’ve heard her say it before, more times than you can count — It’s not healthy. You shouldn’t keep living in the past. But you don’t feel like you’re living in the past. You feel like you’re meeting him for the first time, every time.

“Just five more minutes,” you plead without looking away.

“No.”

“But I-”

“I said no, agora!”

Her tone makes you flinch. The remote slips from your hand onto the floor with a dull thud. But you still can’t tear your eyes from the screen, where Ayrton’s car crosses the finish line, the Brazilian flag draped over his shoulders as the crowd roars. Your heart beats faster. There’s a strange energy in you, like the buzz before a storm. You push yourself up to your knees, your voice small but determined.

“I want to race.”

Adriane’s laugh is immediate and sharp, like glass shattering. “Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not being silly!” You twist around to look at her now, the words spilling out. “I wanna race, Mãe! Like Papai!”

Her face changes. The air shifts, heavy and strange. You see it happen — the tightness in her jaw, the way her smile falls away like it was never there.

“No.”

“But-”

“No!” She snaps, louder this time, and it makes you shrink back. “Absolutely not. Never.”

You bite your lip, feeling the burn at the back of your throat. But you don’t stop. Not yet.

“Why not?” You whisper.

Your mother exhales sharply through her nose, as if the question alone is an insult. She crosses the room in two quick strides, crouching down until her face is level with yours. Her hands, delicate but strong, grip your shoulders tighter than usual.

“Because racing is dangerous,” she says, enunciating every word like she’s trying to hammer them into your skull. “Do you understand me? It’s not a game. It took your father from us.”

Her voice wavers on the last sentence, but you don’t care. There’s something stubborn growing in you, something you don’t quite recognize yet.

“Papai loved it.”

“And look where it got him,” she shoots back, her voice sharp as a knife.

You blink, stunned by the words. She’s never said it like that before. She sees your expression — hurt, confused — and her face softens, just for a second.

“Sweetheart …” She sighs, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “I know you miss him. I miss him too. Every single day. But I won’t let racing take you away from me.”

“But it won’t-”

“Enough.” Her voice is final, the way grown-ups’ voices get when there’s no more room for argument. “This conversation is over.”

You open your mouth, then close it again. She’s already standing up, brushing invisible dust from her jeans. The TV hums in the background, the commentators babbling about pole positions and podiums.

Adriane snatches the remote from the floor and jabs the power button. The screen goes black, as if Papai never existed at all.

You feel hollow.

Your mother stands there for a moment, the silence thick between you. Then she crouches again, her hands cupping your face this time, thumbs brushing over your cheeks.

“Listen to me.” Her voice is quieter now, almost pleading. “I lost your father. I can’t-” She stops, swallows hard. “I can’t lose you too. Okay?”

You don’t nod. You don’t speak. You just stare at her, your little heart breaking in ways you don’t fully understand yet.

“I’m serious,” she whispers, her forehead resting against yours. “No racing. Not ever.”

And then she kisses the top of your head, soft and lingering, as if that alone could erase the conversation, the dream, everything. She walks out of the room, her footsteps fading down the hall.

You sit there for a long time, staring at the blank TV screen, fists clenched in your lap. Your chest feels tight, like something inside you is being squeezed too hard.

You think about Papai. About how he smiled in the cockpit, how the car seemed to dance under his hands, how the crowd chanted his name like a song. He wasn’t afraid.

And neither are you.

You pick up the remote again. Your thumb hovers over the play button, hesitant for just a moment. Then you press it.

The screen flickers back to life, and Ayrton is there, flying through the rain like a miracle.

You smile.

One day, you think.

One day, you’ll race too.

***

The front door clicks shut behind you as you step into the house, dropping your school bag with a heavy thud. You bend down to untie your sneakers, already rehearsing what you’ll tell your mom — how your science project earned a gold star, how you managed to trade a snack with João without getting caught. You have it all planned, down to the way you’ll grin when she offers you that after-school snack.

But as soon as you straighten up, the voices hit you.

Loud. Sharp. Angry.

You freeze, one hand still on your shoelace.

“You have no right — none — to tell me how to raise my daughter!” Your mother’s voice is sharp, like glass breaking. She’s in the living room. You can’t see her from the hallway, but you don’t need to. You can imagine her perfectly — the tight set of her mouth, the way her arms probably cross over her chest.

And then, another voice, familiar in a strange way. Low and hard. “I’m not telling you how to raise her, Adriane. I’m telling you what she told me — how she called me crying because you refuse to let her chase the only thing she’s ever wanted.”

Alain.

Your heart skips. You know him. Everyone knows him. Papai’s fiercest rival — and, in the end, his friend. The man from the stories, from old photographs your mother keeps locked away. Alain, who came to the funeral and cried even when the cameras weren’t on him.

Why is he here?

You step closer, drawn by their words like a thread pulling you tight. You press yourself against the wall and peek around the corner, just enough to see them.

Adriane stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed exactly like you pictured. Her blonde hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, but her face is tight, her jaw locked in anger. Alain stands across from her, looking just as frustrated. His hands move as he talks, fast and insistent, like he’s trying to grab hold of the air between them and shape it into something that makes sense.

“She’s seven!” Your mother snaps, her voice cracking at the edges. “She doesn’t understand what she’s asking for.”

“She understands better than you think,” Alain fires back. “She understands perfectly. She called me in tears — tears, Adriane — because you shut her down without even listening.”

“I listened.” Her voice drops, low and furious. “And I said no.”

Alain scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “You said no because you’re scared.”

Your mother’s eyes flash. “Of course I’m scared! She’s my daughter! You, of all people, should understand-”

“I do understand.” Alain’s voice softens, but only just. “I carried his casket. I watched you cry over him. But that’s exactly why you can’t do this to her.”

Adriane’s face crumples for a split second, so brief you might have missed it if you hadn’t been watching so closely. “He’s not here, Alain,” she whispers, and it sounds like a confession and an accusation all at once. “He’s not here to see this, to say if it’s right or wrong. And he’s not here to save her if something goes wrong.”

Alain’s voice drops, steady and determined. “And you think Ayrton would want you to stop her? You think he would want her to live her whole life wrapped in fear because of what happened to him?”

“She’s my child.” Adriane’s voice cracks like a whip, but there’s something desperate underneath it now, like she’s fighting to keep her footing in a conversation she knows she’s already losing. “And I will not lose her.”

Alain’s eyes narrow. “You’re not protecting her. You’re imprisoning her.”

Your mother stares at him, her breath coming fast and uneven. For a moment, everything goes still — so quiet you can hear the ticking of the old clock on the mantel.

Then Alain steps forward, his hands on his hips. “If you won’t help her, I will. I’ll teach her to kart myself if I have to.”

Adriane barks out a bitter laugh, but it’s laced with pain. “You can try,” she says, her voice brittle. “But don’t expect me to come watch. I refuse to set foot at a race, and I won’t look at her as long as I know there’s a chance she won’t come back.”

Her words hang in the air, thick and suffocating. You feel like you can’t breathe. You press yourself harder against the wall, your chest tight with emotions you can’t name.

And that’s when the floor creaks.

Both of them turn at the sound.

“Meu Deus …” your mother whispers, her hands flying to her mouth. “You’re home.”

Alain’s face softens instantly. He kneels down, arms open. “Come here, sweetheart.”

You hesitate, just for a moment. Then, without thinking, you bolt from your hiding spot and run straight into Alain’s arms. He catches you easily, wrapping you in a hug that feels like safety. Like warmth.

Adriane stands frozen, her hands still over her mouth. Her eyes are wide, filled with a mix of heartbreak and anger and something you don’t fully understand.

Alain pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands resting gently on your shoulders. “Hey,” he says softly. “I’ve got a question for you.”

You blink up at him, your heart pounding.

“How would you like to come to Switzerland with me?” His voice is calm, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. “You could learn to kart there. I’ll teach you myself. What do you think?”

Your heart races. Switzerland. Karting. Learning to drive. It feels like a dream, one you didn’t even know you could have.

But then you look at your mother.

Adriane’s face is pale, her hands still clutched tight over her mouth like they might stop her from saying something she’ll regret. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears, and there’s a kind of pain in them that makes your chest ache.

You know what this means to her. You know how much it hurts.

But you also know what it means to you.

You’ve wanted this for as long as you can remember — for as long as you’ve been able to understand what racing is. And here it is, right in front of you. A chance.

You swallow hard and look back at Alain. His expression is kind but serious, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“It’s your choice,” he says quietly. “No one can make it for you.”

You take a deep breath. Your hands shake a little, but you ball them into fists to steady yourself.

“I want to go,” you whisper.

Your mother makes a soft, choked sound — like someone punched all the air out of her.

“Minha filha …” Her voice breaks.

You look at her, and it feels like your heart is splitting in two. “I have to, Mãe.”

She closes her eyes, pressing her hands tighter to her face. For a moment, she just stands there, trembling. Then she drops her hands and wipes her eyes with quick, angry swipes.

“Okay,” she whispers, her voice raw and broken. “Okay. Go, then.”

The words sting, sharper than anything you’ve ever felt. But you nod. You have to.

Alain gives your shoulders a gentle squeeze. “We’ll call every day,” he promises, glancing at Adriane, though she won’t look at him. “Whenever you want.”

Your mother doesn’t answer. She just turns away, her shoulders hunched like the weight of the world is pressing down on her.

Your heart feels heavy, but there’s something else now too — something lighter. Hope.

You glance up at Alain, and he smiles, soft and warm.

“Switzerland, huh?” You say, trying to sound brave.

Alain chuckles. “Switzerland.”

And for the first time in a long while, you feel like you can finally breathe.

***

Life in Switzerland feels like a dream. Every morning, the mountains rise outside your window, peaks dusted in snow even as the spring sun warms the air. The international school Alain enrolled you in is small, the kids friendly. They speak a mix of languages — French, German, Italian — and though it’s strange at first, you like how every word feels like a little puzzle to solve.

But school is just the beginning of your day. The real magic happens afterward.

Every afternoon, Alain picks you up in his car — a sleek, silver Audi with leather seats that always smell faintly like coffee — and takes you straight to the karting track just outside town. There’s a rhythm to your days now: school, then the track, where the scent of gasoline and hot rubber fills the air.

“Come on, petite championne,” Alain says every day as you hop into the kart, the nickname slipping off his tongue with an easy smile. “Let’s see if you can make me proud today.”

The kart rumbles beneath you, a buzz that shoots from your hands to your heart. The moment your foot touches the pedal, the world falls away. The wind rushes against your face, the engine purring with every twist of the wheel.

Here, in the kart, you feel free — like nothing can catch you, not even the pieces of your life that feel too big or too broken to understand.

Alain watches from the sidelines, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his face calm but focused. He takes notes every time you race, shouting tips when you pull up to the pit lane.

“Don’t wait so long to hit the brakes before that hairpin, you lose too much time,” he’ll say. Or, “You’re getting faster through the straights. Don’t get greedy on the corners, though — you’ve got to feel the grip.”

You listen to every word, hungry to learn. And when he grins after you complete a lap, clapping his hands like you just won a Grand Prix, your heart swells.

By the time you drive home, your body hums with exhaustion, but it’s the good kind — the kind that comes from chasing a dream.

And every night, after dinner, there’s dessert.

“Glace au chocolat tonight?” Alain asks one evening, pulling two tubs of chocolate ice cream from the freezer.

You grin. “With whipped cream?”

“Obviously,” Alain replies with mock seriousness. “What kind of barbarian do you take me for?”

He adds a mountain of whipped cream to both bowls, handing one to you before plopping down on the couch with his own.

As always, an old race plays on the TV. Tonight, it’s Monaco — 1988, the race your father dominated, right up until the moment he crashed into the barrier. The screen flickers as the cars glide through the tight streets, their engines howling between the stone walls.

Alain leans back against the couch cushions, spoon in hand. “See that?” He says, pointing at the screen with a mouthful of ice cream. “Your papa’s line through the Swimming Pool section — perfection. Like poetry in motion.”

You tilt your head, studying the way the yellow helmet zips through the narrow chicane. “How did he do it?”

Alain smiles, scooping another spoonful of ice cream. “He just knew. Ayrton could feel the track better than anyone else. It was like … like he was connected to the car in a way no one else could be.”

You lick your spoon thoughtfully. “Did you hate him?”

The question catches Alain off guard. He freezes, then chuckles, shaking his head. “Hate him? No.” He pauses. “Not really, anyway.”

“But you fought a lot.”

“Oh, we fought.” Alain smirks, a mischievous glint in his eye. “He drove me absolutely mad sometimes.”

You giggle. “Why?”

“Because he never gave up. Not even for a second.” Alain gestures toward the TV, where your father’s car rockets through the tunnel. “Ayrton wasn’t just racing other drivers — he was racing himself. Always trying to be faster, better. It was exhausting.”

He says it like a joke, but there’s warmth in his voice, too. You can hear it.

“And that drove you crazy?” You ask, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear him say it.

Alain laughs, a soft, fond sound. “Completely crazy.”

You curl deeper into the couch, your ice cream bowl balanced on your lap. “But you were friends, right? In the end?”

Alain’s smile fades a little, but it stays, softer now. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “In the end.”

There’s a silence between you, filled only by the hum of the TV and the occasional scrape of your spoons against the bowls.

You glance at Alain, his expression lost somewhere between memory and regret. “Do you miss him?”

Alain looks at you, and for a moment, you’re not sure if he’ll answer. Then he gives a small nod. “Every day.”

You nod, too, even though you didn’t really know your father — at least, not in the way Alain did. But somehow, you miss him all the same.

The race continues on the screen, the cars weaving through the streets of Monaco, chasing the perfect lap.

“You’ll be just like him one day,” Alain says suddenly, breaking the quiet.

You blink, surprised. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Alain replies, nudging your shoulder with his. “You’ve got the same fire in you. The same stubbornness, too, I think.”

You laugh, and Alain grins, pleased with himself.

“You just need to tweak your braking,” he adds with a playful smirk. “You brake like me, not like him.”

“Hey!” You protest, shoving his arm lightly.

He chuckles, holding up his hands in surrender. “What? I’m just saying! Ayrton would fly into corners like a madman. Me? I was always a bit more … sensible.”

“Sensible is boring,” you tease, scooping up the last bit of ice cream.

Alain pretends to be offended, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Boring? Sensible is what win me four world championships, thank you very much.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re grinning.

The credits for the race coverage roll, but neither of you makes a move to turn off the TV. These moments — curled up on the couch with Alain, the scent of whipped cream still in the air — feel like they could stretch forever.

And maybe, just maybe, they do.

***

Four years blur by like the laps on a familiar circuit. Days turn into months, and months into seasons. You grow taller, sharper, and faster. The kart becomes a second skin, every turn and apex something you know instinctively, like breathing. The track is your playground now — your sanctuary.

Alain teaches you everything: not just how to drive but how to think, how to be patient when you need to be and ruthless when the moment calls for it. He tells you about strategy and racecraft, how to listen for the slightest change in the engine’s pitch, how to make yourself invisible in the slipstream until the perfect moment to strike.

Some lessons come easy. Others, not so much. Like when he makes you practice for hours in the rain, your hands frozen, your kart slipping through puddles. Or when you spin out during a practice race and Alain doesn’t even flinch. He just waves his hand in the air.

“Again!” He shouts from the pit lane. “You have to get comfortable with making mistakes, petite. No champion gets there without a few bruises.”

And so you go again. And again. Because this — this dream — is the one thing you want more than anything.

Now, after all those years, the day has finally arrived. You’re old enough to compete in the FIA Karting Championship. This is what you’ve been working toward.

But Alain surprises you one quiet evening at home. No ice cream, no old races on TV — just you and him, sitting across the kitchen table with two mugs of hot tea. His face is serious, but kind.

“There’s something we need to talk about,” he says, tapping his fingers lightly against the mug. “You have a choice to make.”

You lean forward. “What kind of choice?”

Alain tilts his head, his sharp hazel eyes studying you carefully. “Your name.”

You frown. “My name?”

“Yes. You’ve been racing locally for a while, but things are different now.” Alain takes a sip of tea, gathering his thoughts. “The FIA Karting Championship is international. There will be journalists, scouts, team representatives. If you race under your real name, everyone will know exactly who you are.”

You sit back, the weight of what he’s saying slowly sinking in.

“You can use a pseudonym if you want,” Alain continues. “Plenty of drivers do it, especially when they want to build their career on their own terms.”

You blink, caught off guard. You’ve thought a lot about racing — how fast you want to be, how badly you want to win. But this? The idea of hiding your name? It’s a curveball you didn’t see coming.

Alain gives you time to think, his hands wrapped loosely around his mug. “There’s no shame in it, petite,” he says gently. “It’s not about denying who you are. It’s about deciding how you want the world to see you.”

The words hang between you. He’s not pressuring you — Alain never does that — but you can feel the weight of the decision anyway.

You toy with the edge of the mug in front of you, tracing the rim with your fingertip. “Do you think … if I use my real name, people will only see Papai?”

Alain shrugs, but his expression is thoughtful. “Some will. There are people who won’t be able to separate you from Ayrton. They’ll compare you to him before you’ve even taken a proper lap.”

You nod slowly. You’ve known this would happen — how could you not? But hearing it out loud makes it more real.

“At the same time,” Alain adds, “it’s not something to be ashamed of. Ayrton was … well, he was Ayrton. If anyone has the right to be proud of their name, it’s you.”

You bite your lip, the edges of uncertainty fraying inside you. “What would you do?”

Alain smiles softly. “It’s not my decision to make, ma chérie. This is about you. Your future.”

You stare into your tea, watching the steam curl toward the ceiling like tiny ghosts. A part of you aches at the thought of hiding your father’s name — like you’d be denying him, pretending he didn’t matter. But there’s another part, quieter but insistent, that wants to know what it’s like to stand on your own. To earn your place without the shadow of a legend following you everywhere you go.

You tap your fingers against the table, the rhythm matching the beat of an engine in your mind. And then, suddenly, the answer clicks into place.

“I think …” You take a deep breath. “I think I want to use a different name. Just for now.”

Alain raises his eyebrows, curious but approving. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nod, more certain now. “It’s not because I’m ashamed. I’m not. I want people to know one day. Just … not yet.”

Alain leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “So what’s the plan?”

You grin, the excitement building in your chest. “I’ll race under my mother’s last name. And when the time’s right — maybe after I win a few championships — I’ll tell them.”

Alain chuckles, shaking his head. “You think they’ll like the surprise?”

You laugh, a full, bright sound that feels like relief. “Can you imagine their faces?”

Alain grins, clearly amused. “I can already hear the headlines.” He adopts an exaggerated announcer voice: “The karting prodigy who stunned the world by revealing she’s Ayrton Senna’s daughter!”

You burst out laughing, the tension from the conversation melting away. “They’ll lose their minds!”

“And you’ll love every second of it,” Alain adds with a knowing smirk.

You grin, unable to hide the spark of mischief in your eyes. “Maybe a little.”

He shakes his head fondly, ruffling your hair as he stands up from the table. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Comes with the territory,” you say, beaming.

Alain gathers the empty mugs and places them in the sink, still chuckling to himself. “Well, I think it’s a smart choice. Gives you time to find your own rhythm.”

You nod, feeling lighter than you have in days. “Yeah. It feels right.”

Alain leans against the counter, crossing his arms as he looks at you. There’s pride in his eyes — quiet, steady, and unmistakable. “Your papa would’ve been proud of you, too,” he says softly.

Your throat tightens, but you smile through it. “Thanks, Alain.”

He nods once, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Come on,” he says, nudging his head toward the living room. “Let’s celebrate with some dessert. I think we’ve got tarte au citron in the fridge.”

You follow him, your heart light and your steps easy. The road ahead is still long — there will be races, wins, and losses. But for the first time, it feels like it’s yours to drive.

And that? That’s the best feeling in the world.

***

The drive from Switzerland to Imola is quiet. You sit with your thoughts, the hum of the engine beneath you and the road stretching endlessly ahead. Alain offered to come with you, but you declined. This is something you need to do alone.

It’s not that you didn’t want his company, it’s just … how do you explain to someone — even someone who knew your father so well — that you need to meet this place on your own terms?

For eighteen years, you told yourself you weren’t ready. Maybe you never would be. But here you are, taking deep breaths as you steer your way closer to the circuit where it all ended. Where everything about your life changed before it even really began.

When you finally arrive, the gates to the Imola track feel strangely peaceful, nestled under a canopy of autumn leaves. The air is crisp, and the sky is that soft, pale blue you only get in early fall. You park the car and head toward the Ayrton Senna memorial, your footsteps crunching through the leaves littering the path.

Each step feels heavier than the last, your pulse loud in your ears. You try to steel yourself — this is just a monument, just a place. You’ve been to a thousand race tracks in your life. But this one is different. This one holds pieces of someone you never got the chance to know.

As you approach the monument, you expect silence. You expect to be alone. But then you notice someone sitting there — another figure crouched near the bronze statue of your father.

The man shifts, startled by the sound of your footsteps on the gravel. His head turns, and you recognize him almost immediately.

It’s Lewis Hamilton.

He blinks up at you, clearly not expecting company either. There’s a moment of awkwardness, both of you standing there, caught off guard in a place meant for solitude.

You clear your throat. “I’m sorry,” you say softly. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

Lewis waves off the apology, his face softening. “No, no. You’re not bothering me.” He pulls himself up a little straighter, brushing leaves from his jacket. “I always stop by here before Monza. Helps me … I don’t know. Reset.”

You nod, unsure what else to say. There’s something strange about seeing him here — Lewis Hamilton, one of the biggest names in motorsport, sitting quietly in front of your father’s monument like he’s just another fan.

“I came for the same reason,” you admit. “I’m Brazilian. Wanted to pay my respects.”

At that, something shifts in Lewis’ expression — understanding, maybe. “You’re Brazilian?” He repeats, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That explains it. Every Brazilian racer I know carries Senna with them like … well, like a second heart.”

You laugh softly, kicking a stray leaf with your shoe. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Lewis shifts, resting his forearms on his knees as he looks back at the monument. The wind stirs the leaves around your feet, scattering them across the ground.

“He’s always been my hero,” Lewis murmurs, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “Even before I really understood what racing was, I just … knew he was special.”

You don’t respond right away, your gaze fixed on the familiar features of the bronze effigy — your father’s intense, focused expression captured in metal. It’s strange, standing here with someone who feels the same reverence you’ve always felt but never quite known how to express.

Lewis glances at you again. “What do you race?” He asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.

You tuck your hands into your jacket pockets. “Formula Renault 3.5.”

His eyebrows lift, clearly impressed. “That’s a serious series.”

You shrug, trying to play it cool, though there’s a flicker of pride in your chest. “Yeah, it’s been good so far.”

“Good enough to think about Formula 1 one day?” Lewis asks, a knowing smile on his face.

You grin. “That’s the plan.”

He chuckles, the sound warm in the cool air. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for you. What’s your name?”

For a split second, you hesitate. But you remind yourself — he doesn’t need to know everything. Not yet. “Just … Y/N,” you say casually. “For now.”

Lewis tilts his head, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, but he doesn’t press. “Y/N. Got it.”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, unsure how to fill the silence. But it’s not uncomfortable — just … quiet.

“You said you come here every year?” You ask after a moment.

“Before Monza, yeah,” Lewis confirms. “It’s become sort of a ritual. Helps me feel grounded, I guess. Reminds me why I do this.”

You nod, understanding more than you expected to. There’s something about this place — this simple, quiet memorial — that strips everything else away. The politics, the pressure, the noise. It leaves only the pure love of racing behind.

Lewis stands then, brushing dirt from his pants. “Well,” he says, “I should probably get going. Got a long weekend ahead.”

You nod, though part of you wishes you had a little more time to talk to him. There’s something easy about the way he carries himself — no arrogance, no pretense. Just a racer who loves what he does.

Lewis glances at the monument one last time, his gaze lingering on your father’s face. “He would’ve loved to see how many of us still race because of him,” he says quietly.

Your throat tightens, but you manage a small smile. “Yeah. I think so, too.”

He gives you a nod, something warm and reassuring in his expression. “Take care, Y/N. I’ll be watching.”

With that, he turns and walks down the path, his footsteps crunching through the leaves. You watch him go, the wind stirring around you again, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and autumn.

For a long moment, you stay there, standing in front of the monument, just you and the bronze figure of your father. You don’t say anything — there’s nothing that needs to be said. But in the quiet, you feel a strange sense of peace.

Maybe it’s the years of racing, the laps you’ve turned, the lessons you’ve learned. Or maybe it’s just knowing that people like Lewis exist — people who carry your father’s spirit with them, even though they never knew him.

You brush a hand over the cool surface of the monument, tracing the edge of the plaque with your fingers. “I’m gonna make you proud,” you whisper.

And this time, you believe it.

The wind picks up again as you turn away from the monument, heading back toward the car. Monza is waiting. And so is the rest of your story.

***

The paddock feels like a world unto itself — buzzing with life, engines roaring in the distance, team personnel hurrying from garages to pit walls.

You’re barely a day into your first GP2 weekend with DAMS, and it’s already overwhelming. The DAMS crew is friendly but businesslike, and the constant stream of engineers, mechanics, and journalists passing by your garage is a reminder that you’ve officially stepped onto the big stage.

Your heart pounds as you adjust the collar of your race suit, nerves crawling under your skin. You spent the morning doing seat fittings, debriefs, and media duties, but now you’re finally free for a few minutes before the next round of meetings.

Alain walks beside you, calm and collected as ever, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. He’s been like a steady lighthouse in the chaos of this new chapter, guiding you through the storm with quiet assurance.

“Remember,” Alain says as you both weave through the paddock, “it’s just another race. Keep your focus. Don’t let the noise get to you.”

“Easier said than done,” you mutter, scanning the sea of faces for anyone familiar — or anyone dangerous, like a journalist with too many questions.

Alain smirks knowingly. “That’s why you have me.”

You can’t help but grin, a flicker of relief easing the tension in your chest. Alain’s been by your side for so long now that the idea of navigating a race weekend without him feels unthinkable.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot someone you weren’t expecting: Lewis.

He’s walking toward the McLaren motorhome, surrounded by team personnel and a PR officer trailing closely behind, clipboard in hand. You see the moment recognition flickers in his eyes — he stops mid-step, gaze locking on you like he’s just solved a puzzle.

“Y/N?” He calls, eyebrows raised in surprise.

Alain glances sideways at you, bemused, but you can’t help the small, slightly guilty smile tugging at your lips. You wave at Lewis, feeling a little awkward but genuinely happy to see him.

Lewis strides over, his PR officer groaning softly but trailing after him anyway. “I thought I’d see you around here eventually,” Lewis says with a grin. “Didn’t think it would be so soon.”

You shrug, playing it casual. “Surprise.”

His eyes flick to Alain, standing quietly beside you. “And you … know Alain Prost?”

Alain raises a polite eyebrow, but there’s an amused glint in his eye, as if waiting to see how you’ll answer this one.

You shift on your feet, aware of Lewis’ confusion. “Yeah, he’s … been my mentor for years.” You keep your explanation vague, not ready to drop the full truth just yet.

Lewis frowns slightly, processing the unexpected connection. “You’ve been working with Alain Prost?”

You nod. “Since I was a kid.”

Lewis lets out a low whistle, looking between the two of you with new appreciation. “Wow. That explains a lot.”

Before you can respond, his PR officer steps in, clipboard clutched tightly in one hand. “Lewis, we really need to-”

Lewis waves her off without breaking eye contact with you. “Five more minutes. It’s fine.”

The woman hesitates, then sighs in frustration and backs away to give him space. Lewis turns his full attention back to you, his easy grin returning.

“So, GP2, huh?” He asks, hands on his hips. “How’s it feel to finally be here?”

“Terrifying,” you admit with a laugh. “But also kind of amazing.”

“That’s how you know you’re in the right place,” Lewis says, his tone encouraging. “The nerves mean you care.”

Alain watches the exchange quietly, and you can tell he’s measuring Lewis, sizing him up — not in a competitive way, but in that protective way he’s always had with you. It’s subtle, but you know Alain well enough to see it.

“I’ll make sure to catch the feature race,” Lewis promises, his grin widening. “I’ll be cheering you on.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to show how much that means to you. “Oh yeah? You sure you have time to slum it with us junior drivers?”

Lewis laughs, genuinely amused. “Come on, now. I started in GP2, remember? I know exactly how tough it is.”

“Guess I’ll have to put on a good show, then.”

“You better,” Lewis says, mock-serious. “Otherwise I’ll never let you hear the end of it.”

The two of you share a quick, easy laugh, and for a moment the chaos of the paddock fades into the background. It’s just two drivers, standing in the middle of it all, sharing a moment of understanding.

“You’re going to crush it,” Lewis adds, his voice low and certain.

Something in his tone makes you believe it — makes the nerves that have been simmering all day settle, if only for a moment.

Alain clears his throat softly, a reminder that time is ticking. “We need to get back to the team,” he says, his voice gentle but firm.

Lewis nods, taking the hint but not before offering you one last smile. “Good luck, Y/N. I’ll see you out there.”

You return the smile, feeling lighter than you have all day. “Thanks, Lewis.”

He gives Alain a respectful nod before turning to leave, his McLaren team falling into step around him as he disappears into the paddock.

As you watch him go, Alain leans in slightly, his voice quiet but laced with amusement. “Friend of yours?”

You smirk, still watching Lewis disappear into the crowd. “Something like that.”

Alain chuckles, and the sound is warm, familiar — like the engine note of a car you’ve driven a thousand times.

“Come on,” he says, nudging your shoulder gently. “We have work to do.”

You follow Alain back toward the DAMS garage, the nerves still there but tempered now with something else — excitement, anticipation, maybe even a little confidence.

Because this is your moment. Your chance to show the world what you can do. And with people like Alain and Lewis in your corner, you know you’re not facing it alone.

***

The Bahrain sun beats down relentlessly, the heat pressing against your skin even through your race suit. Sweat clings to your brow, mixing with the overwhelming, heady cocktail of fuel, rubber, and victory. You’re breathless, exhausted — but none of that matters.

You did it. You won.

The feature race trophy feels almost weightless in your hands as you stand on the podium, the sound of the Brazilian anthem thundering in your ears. The cameras flash, the crowd cheers, and for the first time since you entered GP2, you allow yourself to savor the moment. You close your eyes for a second, letting the anthem sink deep into your bones, and think of your father.

When the rose water sprays, it feels like you’ve broken through a barrier — proof to yourself and to the world that you belong here. That you’re not just someone chasing the shadow of a name, but a racer in your own right.

The post-race chaos is a blur — interviews, debriefs, more interviews. It’s not until you’re finally allowed to step away from the DAMS garage, damp with sweat and floral liquid, that the realization hits you again: you won your first GP2 race. The adrenaline still courses through your veins, but beneath it, there’s a quiet hum of contentment.

You round the corner of the paddock, searching for a quiet moment to collect yourself — when a familiar voice calls your name.

“Y/N!”

You turn, and there he is: Lewis, dressed casually in his McLaren team kit, that signature grin stretched across his face. His eyes are bright under the paddock lights, and his presence feels like a cool breeze against the heat of Bahrain.

Before you can say anything, he’s already jogging up to you, wrapping you in a quick, spontaneous hug. The smell of his cologne lingers in the air between you — spicy and warm, like cedar and citrus.

“That was incredible!” Lewis says, pulling back to look at you. “Seriously, you drove like a pro out there.”

You grin, still catching your breath. “You saw the whole race?”

“Of course I did.” He says it like it’s obvious, as if there was no way he could have missed it. “I told you I’d be cheering you on, didn’t I?”

“Guess I didn’t disappoint, then,” you say, teasing.

“Not even a little.” His grin softens into something warmer, more personal.

The way he looks at you — like he’s genuinely proud — makes your chest tighten, but not in a bad way. It’s strange, but comforting, the way he’s here, grounding you in the whirlwind of it all.

“Come on,” Lewis says, gesturing toward the paddock hospitality area. “You deserve a proper celebration. We’ll grab something to drink, at least — water, preferably, because you look like you’re about to melt.”

You laugh. “Thanks for the concern, but I’m not passing out just yet.”

“Still,” he insists, walking beside you. “Gotta take care of the winner, right?”

You follow him, your steps lighter than they’ve felt all weekend. It’s easy with Lewis — talking, walking, just existing in the same space. You can’t tell if it’s the lingering buzz of the win or something else entirely, but there’s a sense of ease between you that you haven’t felt with anyone in a long time.

He leads you to one of the quieter corners of the paddock, where a small group of McLaren personnel are relaxing. Lewis grabs two water bottles from a nearby cooler and tosses one your way.

“Catch.”

You catch it easily, the cool plastic a relief against your palm. “Thanks.”

Lewis leans against the back of a chair, his posture relaxed, but there’s a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. “So … how does it feel?”

“To win?” You twist the cap off your bottle and take a sip. “Like … I don’t know. Like I can finally breathe again.”

He nods, like he knows exactly what you mean. “First win’s always special. But there’ll be more. I can feel it.”

You tilt your head, amused. “You think you’re a psychic now?”

Lewis chuckles. “Nope. Just good at spotting talent.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but there’s no denying the warmth his words spark inside you. You glance away for a moment, trying to shake the strange flutter in your chest.

“So,” he says after a beat, “what’s next? A second win in Spain?”

“I mean, that’d be nice,” you say, grinning. “But I’ll settle for finishing with all my wheels intact.”

“Good plan,” Lewis agrees, laughing. “That track’s a nightmare.”

The conversation drifts easily from there, flowing from racing to random paddock gossip to stories from his early days in GP2. You’re both standing close — closer than two people probably need to stand. But it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. In fact, it feels … nice.

He pauses for a second, watching you with that thoughtful expression he gets sometimes, like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on beneath the surface.

“You’re really something, you know that?” He says softly, almost like it’s just for you to hear.

The words catch you off guard, and you feel your cheeks warm under the intensity of his gaze.

“Just doing my best,” you say, trying to play it off, but your voice sounds quieter than you intended.

Lewis’ eyes linger on yours for a moment longer, and there’s a flicker of something between you — something unspoken, but not unwelcome.

Before either of you can say anything more, a loud cheer erupts from a nearby group of mechanics, jolting you both back to the present. You laugh, the moment slipping away like sand through your fingers.

“Guess the celebration’s already started,” you say, motioning toward the rowdy crowd.

Lewis grins. “Looks like it. You coming?”

You hesitate, not because you don’t want to celebrate, but because part of you likes this quiet bubble you and Lewis have found.

“I think I might stay here for a bit,” you say, leaning against the wall and taking another sip of water.

Lewis doesn’t move to leave. Instead, he stays where he is, like maybe he feels the same pull to stay in this moment, too.

“You know,” he says after a beat, his voice low and a little more serious, “I meant what I said earlier. About you being something special.”

You meet his gaze, and there’s no teasing in his expression now — just quiet sincerity.

“Thanks,” you say softly, the word not nearly enough to convey what you’re feeling.

He holds your gaze for a second longer, then gives you a small, crooked smile. “Guess I’ll just have to keep watching and see what you do next.”

“Guess so.”

And just like that, the air shifts between you — charged with possibility, like the moment before a green flag drops.

You don’t know what’s coming next, but for the first time in a long time, you’re not afraid of it. Not when Lewis is standing here, smiling at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world.

And somehow, you think, this might just be the start of something worth chasing.

***

It’s late in the evening, and the Monaco paddock has fallen into a rare lull. The energy of race day — mechanics scrambling, journalists hounding drivers, engines screaming — has settled into a quiet hum. Most people have retreated to their yachts or hotel rooms by now, leaving only the occasional team member wandering through the maze of garages and hospitality areas.

You sit with Lewis on the edge of the harbor, the two of you tucked away from prying eyes. The water laps gently against the docks, and the principality’s golden lights reflect across the surface like scattered coins. Neither of you say anything for a while, content to let the quiet fill the spaces between you.

It’s been like this more often lately — stolen moments between races, conversations that drift into the small hours of the morning, and the unspoken pull that keeps you near each other, even when there’s no real reason to be.

Lewis shifts beside you, resting his forearms on his knees. “You ever just sit somewhere and wonder how the hell you got here?” He asks, breaking the silence.

You glance at him, the glow of the streetlights catching the sharp angles of his face. “All the time.”

He gives a small laugh, running a hand over his braids. “Monaco’s something else, isn’t it?”

You nod, hugging your knees to your chest. “Feels like the kind of place people dream about … like it’s not even real.”

He looks over at you then, his gaze lingering a moment too long. “Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Not sure what’s real sometimes.”

There’s something heavy in his voice, something unspoken. And for the first time tonight, the quiet between you doesn’t feel as comfortable. It feels loaded, like you’re both waiting for the other to say something neither of you know how to say.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. “You okay?”

Lewis exhales slowly, glancing out over the water. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

He hesitates, like he’s not sure how to begin. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately … about the future. About what I want, and where I want to be.”

You shift closer to him, sensing that this isn’t just idle talk. “What do you mean?”

He leans back on his hands, staring at the water like it might hold the answer. “I’ve been with McLaren my whole career. Since I was a kid. But … I don’t know. Lately, it feels like I’m stuck. Like I’ve hit a wall.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

He looks at you then, and there’s something raw in his expression — something vulnerable. “I’ve decided to leave McLaren at the end of the season. I’m signing with Mercedes.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and unexpected. You blink, trying to process what he just said. “Mercedes?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“But … McLaren’s your home.”

Lewis shrugs, but there’s a sadness in his eyes. “It was. But things change. And if I don’t take this chance now … I think I’ll always wonder what could’ve been.”

You stare at him, your mind spinning. “Do people know yet?”

He shakes his head. “Not many. Just a few people on the team. I wanted to tell you before it got out, though.”

You chew on your bottom lip, absorbing the weight of his words. “That’s a big decision, Lewis.”

“I know.” He looks at you, his gaze steady. “But it feels like the right one. Even if it’s scary as hell.”

You let out a breath, feeling a strange mix of emotions — pride, worry, something you can’t quite name. “Well … if it’s what you want, I guess it’s the right move.”

He smiles, but it’s a small, almost hesitant thing. “Thanks.”

The silence stretches between you again, but this time it feels different. Like something has shifted — not just because of what he said, but because of the way he’s looking at you now.

“You’ve been there for me a lot lately,” he says softly. “I don’t think I’ve said how much that means to me.”

Your heart beats a little faster. “It’s no big deal.”

“It is to me.” His voice is low, and there’s something in his gaze that makes your breath catch.

He shifts slightly closer, and suddenly the space between you feels impossibly small. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle brush of his shoulder against yours.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

You look up at him, and the world seems to narrow down to just this — just the two of you, sitting on the edge of the harbor, the night air thick with something electric.

And then, slowly — almost hesitantly — he leans in.

For a split second, you think about pulling away, about the million reasons why this might not be a good idea. But before you can overthink it, his lips brush against yours.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll pull away. But when you don’t, he deepens it, his hand coming up to cup the side of your face.

It’s not the kind of kiss that demands anything — it’s the kind that promises everything.

When you finally pull back, your heart is racing, and your mind feels like it’s spinning in a thousand different directions.

Lewis looks at you, his forehead resting gently against yours. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he admits, his breath warm against your skin.

You smile, feeling a strange mix of exhilaration and disbelief. “Yeah?”

He nods, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you move, caught in the quiet aftermath of the kiss. The world around you feels distant, like it’s just the two of you, floating in your own little bubble.

Finally, Lewis pulls back slightly, though his hand lingers on your face. “So … what now?”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound light and easy. “I have no idea.”

He grins, and it’s the kind of smile that makes your chest feel warm. “Guess we’ll figure it out, then.”

You nod, your heart still racing. “Yeah. I guess we will.”

And somehow, even though nothing feels certain — his future, your career, whatever this thing is between you — there’s a strange sense of peace in the not knowing.

Because whatever happens next, you know you’ll face it together.

***

The air in the McLaren garage is thick with anticipation. Cameras are set up, media personnel are adjusting their equipment, and there’s a palpable buzz in the air as the press conference prepares to start. You stand just behind the curtain, your heart racing. You can hear the hum of voices in the room beyond, reporters murmuring to one another, waiting for the big reveal.

The past few months have felt like a whirlwind — a blur of contract negotiations, meetings with McLaren’s team principal, and the quiet, creeping excitement of finally getting the chance to do what you’ve always dreamed of. But now that the moment is here, the weight of it is settling in. You’re not just about to become the first woman in F1 in decades, you’re about to step into the spotlight as Ayrton Senna’s daughter.

You take a deep breath, glancing down at the McLaren-branded polo shirt you’re wearing, the crisp fabric somehow making everything feel more real. This is happening. After all the years of hard work, all the sacrifices, you’re about to make history.

Alain stands beside you, his face calm, but his hand on your shoulder is firm and reassuring. “You ready?” He asks, his voice low, but steady.

You nod, swallowing down the nerves. “I think so.”

“Just remember why you’re doing this,” he says softly, his eyes meeting yours. “This is about you. Not your father. Not anyone else. You.”

You offer him a small smile. Alain’s always been good at grounding you, at reminding you that you’ve earned this, regardless of who your father was. He’s been there through it all — your highs and lows, your victories and failures. And now, here he is, standing beside you as you take this monumental step.

The curtains part, and the team principal, Martin Whitmarsh, steps onto the stage. The room quiets as he approaches the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us today,” he begins, his voice carrying through the room. “It’s not often we get to announce something of this magnitude. Today, McLaren is proud to welcome a new driver to our team for the 2013 season. Not only will she be the first woman to compete in Formula 1 in over 20 years, but she’s also someone with a legacy that speaks for itself.”

There’s a murmur of curiosity from the crowd, and you know the moment is coming. The reveal. The truth that you’ve kept hidden, even from the people closest to you.

“Please join me in welcoming, Y/N Senna.”

The sound of your name, followed by your father’s, echoes through the room like a ripple of shock. For a brief moment, there’s stunned silence. Then, the cameras start flashing, the murmurs turn into a roar, and all eyes are on you.

You step onto the stage, trying to steady your breath. The weight of the announcement, of who you are, feels heavier than you expected. But you push through, meeting the gaze of the journalists, the photographers, the team members standing off to the side. You can’t see him from here, but you know Alain is watching from the wings, his quiet support steadying you.

Whitmarsh continues speaking, but the words blur together as your mind races. It’s not until you hear the murmured whispers in the back of the room that your attention snaps back.

“Senna?”

“Ayrton’s daughter?”

“Why didn’t anyone know?”

As the press conference wraps up, and you’re led off stage, the questions start flooding in. Journalists swarm, desperate for a quote, for more insight into the mystery that you’ve kept hidden for so long.

But before you can respond to any of them, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“Y/N.”

You freeze, your heart dropping. You know that voice. You turn slowly, and there he is — Lewis, standing just a few feet away, his face unreadable.

The PR team tries to shuffle you away, but you shake them off, making your way over to him. “Lewis …”

He cuts you off, his expression dark. “You’ve been racing for all these years, and you never thought to tell me? Not once?”

The sting of his words catches you off guard, and you open your mouth to respond, but he continues, his voice low but sharp. “I thought we were close. I thought we were-” He stops, running a hand over his face. “You let me fall for you, and you didn’t even tell me who you really are.”

You feel the blood drain from your face. “Lewis, it wasn’t like that-”

“Wasn’t it?” He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours, hurt and confusion written all over his face. “I get it, okay? You didn’t want people to treat you differently because of your name. But me? I thought we were past that.”

“I didn’t want to use my father’s name to get ahead,” you say, your voice trembling slightly. “I wanted to make a name for myself, first. And I didn’t tell you because … because I didn’t want it to change how you saw me.”

“Well, it’s changed everything now,” he snaps, his voice tight with anger. “I thought I knew you, but clearly, I didn’t.”

You take a step back, the weight of his words hitting you harder than you expected. “Lewis, please. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Didn’t mean to hurt me? You’re Ayrton Senna’s daughter, and you never even mentioned it once. How could you keep something like that from me?”

You bite your lip, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to spill over. “I didn’t want it to come between us.”

“Well, it has,” he says, his voice quieter now, but still laced with pain. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

You stare at him, your chest tightening. The distance between you feels insurmountable now, like a chasm that you don’t know how to cross.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Lewis looks at you for a long moment, his expression softening slightly, but the hurt still lingers in his eyes. “I need some time,” he says finally, his voice rough. “I just … I need to figure this out.”

You nod, the tears finally spilling over. “Okay.”

He turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, your heart heavy and your world spinning.

As you watch him go, you can’t help but wonder if things will ever be the same between you.

***

The air at Imola is still. The late-summer heat clings to your skin, and the only sounds around you are the distant hum of cicadas and the soft crunch of leaves underfoot as you shift your weight from one foot to the other. You stare at the stone memorial, the bronze relief of your father’s face, the flowers people have left here over the years. Some are wilted, some fresh. There’s even a small Brazilian flag tucked against the base.

You exhale slowly, your hands stuffed deep into the pockets of your jacket. It’s been exactly a year since you first stood here, heart in your throat, hoping to find some kind of connection, some kind of clarity. The weight of the past year presses down on you now — signing with McLaren, the media frenzy, the fallout with Lewis.

And Papai. Always Papai.

You kneel, brushing a hand over the smooth stone, fingers tracing the engraved letters. “I made it,” you whisper. “I’m almost there.” Your voice catches on the words, a lump forming in your throat. “I wish you were here to see it.”

You close your eyes, trying to imagine what he’d say if he were standing beside you. Maybe he’d be proud. Maybe he’d tell you to push harder, go faster, never settle. Or maybe he’d tell you to slow down, to find a way to reconnect with your mother before it’s too late. But he’s not here. That’s the problem, isn’t it?

A soft rustling sound pulls you from your thoughts. Footsteps, deliberate but hesitant, approach from behind, crunching through the dry leaves scattered on the ground. You turn, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s Lewis.

He’s wearing a hoodie, hands tucked into the front pocket, his brows peeking out from beneath a baseball cap. He stops a few feet away, his dark brown eyes meeting yours. There’s something guarded in his expression, but there’s warmth there, too.

You straighten slowly, your heart hammering in your chest. “What are you doing here?”

Lewis shrugs, his gaze flickering to the memorial and back to you. “Monza’s coming up. Thought I’d stop by first … like I always do.”

The tension between you feels like a wire pulled taut, ready to snap at any second. For a moment, neither of you says anything, the silence stretching out like a canyon.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” you finally say, your voice quieter than you intended.

He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours. “I didn’t think I’d see you here, either.”

You bite your lip, looking away toward the memorial. “I needed to. Before the race. I … I haven’t been here since last year.”

Lewis shifts, the soft scrape of his shoes against the ground. “I remember.”

The air feels heavy between you, thick with all the things you haven’t said to each other. The words are right there on the tip of your tongue, but they feel tangled, impossible to untangle without breaking.

Lewis is the first to speak again, his voice soft but steady. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About what happened. About everything.”

You swallow hard, your hands clenching into fists in your pockets. “Me too.”

“I was angry,” Lewis admits. “Hurt, too. But … I get it now. Why you didn’t tell me.”

His words catch you off guard, and you glance at him, surprised. “You do?”

He nods slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “I know what it’s like to feel like you have to prove yourself, like the world’s already decided who you are before you even get a chance to show them. I just … I wish you’d trusted me with it.”

“I wanted to,” you say, your voice cracking slightly. “I did. But … it’s complicated.” You look down, kicking at a stray leaf with your shoe. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to figure out how to be his daughter without being defined by it. And now … now it’s all out there.”

Lewis steps closer, closing the gap between you. “You’re not just his daughter, Y/N. You’re you. And that’s who I fell for.”

The warmth in his voice makes your chest tighten. You blink quickly, trying to keep the tears at bay, but it’s no use. They spill over anyway, and you wipe at them angrily with the sleeve of your jacket.

“It’s not just about the name,” you whisper. “Racing … it’s all I’ve ever wanted. But it’s also what took me away from my mom.” You take a shaky breath, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “She can’t even look at me without seeing him. I haven’t had a real conversation with her in years. The last time we talked was my birthday. And it was just a two-minute call.”

Lewis’ face softens, and he reaches out, gently brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, sniffing quietly. “It’s not your fault. It’s just … hard, you know? I love racing, but it feels like it’s cost me everything else.”

He takes another step closer, his hand lingering on your cheek. “You’ve got me,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, your breath catching in your throat. “Do I?”

He smiles softly, his thumb brushing along your jaw. “Yeah. You do.”

The world feels like it tilts for a moment, everything narrowing down to just the two of you standing here, beneath the shadow of your father’s memory. And before you can think too hard about it, before the doubts can creep in, you lean in, closing the distance between you.

The kiss is soft at first — tentative, like neither of you wants to break the fragile peace that’s settled between you. But then his hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and the kiss deepens, the weight of everything unsaid dissolving in the warmth of his touch.

When you finally pull away, both of you are breathing hard, foreheads resting against each other.

“I missed you,” Lewis whispers, his breath warm against your skin.

“I missed you, too,” you admit, your voice barely audible.

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world fading away.

Eventually, Lewis pulls back slightly, his hand still cradling the back of your neck. “So … what now?”

You smile, a small, genuine smile that feels like the first one in a long time. “Now … we go win at Monza.”

He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Damn right we will.”

You laugh softly, the sound light and free, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the weight on your chest lifts.

As you stand there, hand in hand with Lewis, you glance back at the memorial one last time. “I think he’d be happy,” you say quietly.

Lewis squeezes your hand gently. “I know he would.”

And just like that, the knot in your chest loosens. You’re still Ayrton Senna’s daughter. But you’re also yourself. And that? That feels like enough.

***

The crowd roars so loudly that it feels like the earth itself is shaking. São Paulo is electric, the grandstands packed with people draped in green and yellow, waving flags, and chanting. You’ve been in big races before, stood on podiums, and tasted victory. But this … this is different.

This is Interlagos. This is home. And for the first time in your career, you’re leading an F1 race in front of your people.

“Alright, Y/N,” your engineer’s voice crackles over the radio. “Five laps to go. Everything looks good on the telemetry. Just bring her home.”

Your heart pounds against your chest as you navigate the tight curves of the circuit. Every bump, every rise, every dip feels familiar. You’ve studied this track since you were a child. This is where your father was a legend — and now, it’s where you can make your own history.

The tires hum beneath you, vibrations pulsing through your hands and feet. The sky is dark with heavy clouds threatening rain, but the track is still dry, for now. Behind you, Sebastian Vettel is chasing hard in second place, his Red Bull a glimmer in your mirrors, but you don’t think about him. Not now. This is about you. About crossing that finish line first.

Four laps. Then three. Every second feels like an eternity. You can hear the crowd over the sound of the engine, their voices rising every time you fly past the grandstands. “SENNA! SENNA!” they chant, over and over, as if your name — your real name — was always meant to be called alongside your father’s.

“Two laps, Y/N. Gap to Vettel is two seconds. Stay focused.”

Your grip tightens on the wheel. You shift gears, your mind and body moving in perfect sync with the machine around you. The wind whistles past your helmet as you race up the hill toward the final turn.

On the final lap, it starts to drizzle — just enough to slick the track and make things dangerous. Your car twitches as the tires search for grip.

“Be careful, Y/N,” your engineer warns. “You’ve got this. Just stay calm.”

You breathe in. Breathe out. And then the chequered flag waves ahead of you, and the world explodes into color and sound.

“P1, Y/N! P1! You’ve won the Brazilian Grand Prix!” Your engineer’s voice is hoarse with excitement. “That was incredible — you just won at home!”

Your heart leaps as tears spring to your eyes. You punch the air, screaming into the radio, not caring who hears. “YES! YES! WE DID IT!”

The car coasts into parc fermé, the engine humming its final notes as you switch it off. You rip off your gloves and helmet, letting the cool air hit your damp face. The grandstands are still shaking with the cheers of thousands. Your name — Senna — is on every banner, every poster, and every fan’s lips.

You climb out of the car, adrenaline still surging through your veins, and jump onto the chassis. The crowd roars even louder as you throw your fists into the air, pointing toward the sky. The thought flashes through your mind: This one’s for you, Papai.

You jump down and make your way to the barriers where your team waits, already celebrating with hugs, fist bumps, and slaps on the back. You push through the throng of mechanics, your heart so full it feels like it might burst. And that’s when you see her.

Among the sea of McLaren team uniforms, standing stiffly with her arms wrapped around herself, is your mother.

Your steps falter for a moment, shock flooding through you. She’s here. She’s really here. You blink, wondering if the tears in your eyes are playing tricks on you, but no — there she is. Adriane.

She’s thinner than you remember, her hair streaked with more silver now. She looks out of place among the mechanics, but she’s here. Her eyes, so much like your own, are filled with something you haven’t seen in years — pride. And something more. Regret.

For a moment, you just stand there, frozen. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry or run the other way. Then her face crumples, and she takes a tentative step forward, her arms reaching for you like she used to when you were small.

That’s all it takes. You close the distance in an instant, throwing yourself into her arms.

“Mãe!” The word leaves your mouth in a sob, and before you know it, you’re both crying, clutching each other like you’re afraid to let go.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into your hair, her voice trembling. “I’m so sorry, minha filha. I was wrong. I should’ve-”

You shake your head against her shoulder, holding her tighter. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

She pulls back slightly, cupping your face in her hands like she used to when you were little. “I didn’t think I could do it,” she admits, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I was so afraid I’d lose you too. But then … then I watched you out there today.” Her voice cracks, and she brushes a strand of hair from your face. “And I saw him. I saw Ayrton. But more than that, I saw you. My daughter.”

You can’t speak — your throat feels too tight, and the tears won’t stop. So you just nod, leaning into her touch as the noise of the paddock fades into the background.

Adriane pulls you back into a hug, and for the first time in years, you let yourself feel it — the warmth, the love, the mother you thought you’d lost. And somehow, standing here with her in your arms, it feels like you’ve come full circle.

After a long moment, she pulls back and wipes her tears, a shaky laugh escaping her. “Look at us. Crying like fools.”

You laugh too, sniffling as you wipe your own face. “It’s okay. It’s a good day to cry.”

A voice cuts through the noise — your team calling you for the podium ceremony. You glance over your shoulder, feeling the weight of the moment settle on you. You turn back to your mother, hesitant. “Will you stay?”

She smiles, her eyes still glassy with unshed tears. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You nod, squeezing her hand one last time before you let go and jog toward the podium. The crowd’s roar is deafening as you step up to the top step, your name flashing on the giant screens around the circuit. The Brazilian flag rises slowly, and as the national anthem plays, you close your eyes and let the moment wash over you.

It feels like home. It feels like peace. It feels like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Later, after the champagne has been sprayed and the trophies have been handed out, you find Lewis waiting for you in the paddock, a grin stretching across his face.

“Not bad, Senna,” he teases, pulling you into a warm embrace.

You laugh, pressing your forehead against his. “Not bad yourself, Hamilton.”

The two of you stay like that for a moment, the chaos of the paddock swirling around you, but all you can feel is the steady beat of his heart against yours.

“Your dad would be proud,” Lewis murmurs, his voice soft in your ear.

You smile, closing your eyes. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I think he would be.”

***

The sun is setting over Monaco, casting the apartment in soft golds and pinks. You let yourself in quietly, the cool metal of the front door clicking shut behind you. Training was brutal today — your arms ache, and every muscle feels like it’s been wrung out. All you want is to find Lewis, maybe curl up on the couch together and recover with some takeaway.

You kick off your sneakers, already untying the knot in your ponytail, when you hear voices from the living room. You pause mid-step.

Lewis is talking to someone — no, two people. You creep forward on silent feet, heart quickening as the voices grow clearer.

“-I love her more than anything,” Lewis says, his voice low but certain. “And I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”

Your breath catches. You flatten yourself against the wall, just out of sight. It feels like you’ve stepped into some kind of dream, one where the pieces of your life are rearranging themselves into something both surreal and perfect.

Then you hear your mother’s voice — gentler than it used to be, softened by time and the walls you’ve slowly chipped away.

“You want my blessing?” Adriane says, her words slow, as if she’s tasting them, feeling their weight.

“I do,” Lewis replies. “I wanted to ask both of you. It felt right.”

Both of them? You inch closer, daring to peek around the corner. And there they are — Lewis, sitting on the couch, his elbows on his knees, looking more serious than you’ve ever seen him. Across from him sit your mother and Alain, side by side like a pair of mismatched bookends.

Alain leans back, arms folded, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he’s trying not to smile. “You realize what you’re getting into?” He asks dryly. “She’s more stubborn than Ayrton ever was.”

Lewis chuckles, but it’s a little nervous. “Yeah, I know.”

Adriane tilts her head, studying him like she’s trying to see through to his soul. “And if she says no?”

Lewis’ face softens, a quiet kind of love settling into his expression. “Then I’ll still be with her. Because I don’t need her to marry me to know she’s it for me.”

Something cracks open inside you. It feels like standing on the podium in Brazil all over again — overwhelming and humbling and impossibly full. You press a hand to your mouth, as if that will steady the emotion threatening to spill over.

Your mother leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. There’s a moment of silence so thick it hums.

“When Y/N was seven,” she begins slowly, “she told me she wanted to race. I told her no. I thought if I kept her away from the track, I could protect her from the same thing that took Ayrton from me.” She sighs, her gaze dropping to her hands. “But all I did was push her away.”

Alain clears his throat, glancing sideways at her. “It’s not easy,” he murmurs, more to Adriane than to Lewis. “Loving someone who belongs to the track.”

Your mother nods, her eyes glassy. “But you’ve made her happy. You’ve given her the space to be who she’s always wanted to be.” She pauses, blinking quickly. “And I see Ayrton in that. In you.”

Lewis rubs the back of his neck, clearly moved but trying not to show it. “That means more than you know.”

“And you promise me something,” Adriane says, her voice gaining strength, as if she’s gathering all her fears into this one request. “That you’ll never try to stop her. Not when things get hard. Not when it scares you.”

Lewis leans forward, looking her dead in the eye. “I swear. I’d never take that from her.”

Your mother exhales, like a weight she’s carried for years is finally lifting off her shoulders. “Then you have my blessing,” she says quietly.

Alain smirks, slapping Lewis on the back. “Looks like you’re in for the ride of your life.”

They laugh softly, the kind of laugh that comes with hard-won understanding.

And that’s when the floorboard under your foot creaks.

All three heads whip toward the sound, and you’re caught, frozen halfway between hiding and stepping forward.

Lewis’ eyes widen, and then a slow, guilty smile spreads across his face. “How long have you been standing there?”

You step fully into the room, arms crossed but fighting back a grin. “Long enough to hear that you’re plotting something.”

Alain chuckles, standing up and brushing off his jeans. “I think that’s my cue to leave.” He winks at you, patting Lewis on the shoulder as he makes his way toward the door. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, Alain,” Lewis mutters, rubbing his palms against his thighs, clearly nervous now.

Your mother rises as well, hesitating for a moment. She looks at you, her eyes soft. “I’ll call you later,” she murmurs, reaching out to squeeze your hand briefly before following Alain out the door.  

And then it’s just you and Lewis, standing in the golden light of your apartment, the door clicking shut behind your mother and Alain.  

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep your voice light. “So … what was all that about?”  

Lewis steps closer, and suddenly the nervous energy from earlier melts away. He takes your hand, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your palm.  

“Y/N …” he begins, and there’s something so tender in the way he says your name that it makes your heart skip a beat. “I wanted to do this the right way. To ask the people who mean the mos to you.”  

Your breath catches as he drops to one knee, right there in the middle of your living room.  

He pulls a small box from his pocket, opening it to reveal a ring that catches the light like starlight on water. It’s simple, elegant, and perfect.  

Lewis looks up at you, his dark eyes filled with love, nerves, and hope. “I love you, Y/N. I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you at Imola. And I want to spend every day from now on making you as happy as you’ve made me.”  

You cover your mouth with your hand, tears already welling up in your eyes.  

“So,” he says with a smile that’s both warm and a little crooked. “What do you say? Will you marry me?”  

For a moment, all you can do is nod, words caught somewhere between your heart and your throat. Then you finally find your voice.  

“Yes,” you whisper, your smile breaking wide and free. “Yes, I’ll marry you.” 

Lewis’ grin lights up the room, and he stands, slipping the ring onto your finger before pulling you into his arms. You kiss him, slow and deep, and in that moment, it feels like everything — the years of struggle, of loss, of love — has brought you to exactly where you’re supposed to be.

When you finally pull away, breathless and giddy, Lewis leans his forehead against yours, his hands cradling your face.

“Guess Alain was right,” he murmurs, grinning. “This really is the ride of my life.”

You laugh, pure and full, wrapping your arms around him tighter. “Buckle up, Hamilton,” you tease. “It’s only just getting started.”

[flwrkid14]

You Don't Get to Call Yourself Family (Tim Drake is a Fenton)

part 1 , part 2

It starts with another of Dick’s attempts to be Tim’s Big Brother™.

It’s well-meaning, of course. They’re mid-patrol, crouched on a rooftop, when Dick gently brings it up.

“You know, Tim, we could be family if you’d just let us.”

Tim freezes for a moment, his grip tightening on his grappling gun. But then he exhales, forces himself to focus, and mutters: “I told you. You’re coworkers. That’s it.”

But Dick doesn’t drop it. And when they return to the Cave, the rest of the Batfamily piles on—each in their own way.

Jason: “C’mon, Replacement. Admit it. We’re at least kinda family.”

Damian, sneering: “He’s too much of a coward to acknowledge it.”

Bruce, quiet but insistent: “Tim, this is your home. We are your family.”

And Tim—who’s been holding this in for years—finally snaps.

“Family?!” Tim’s voice echoes through the Cave, sharp and brittle like glass about to shatter. “You think you’re my family?!”

Everyone goes still.

Tim takes a step forward, fury radiating off him in waves. “Let me ask you something—what kind of family depends on a thirteen-year-old to pull their grieving father out of the abyss because no one else could be bothered? What kind of family calls him Replacement and then beats him bloody because he’s not good enough?!”

Jason flinches, but Tim doesn’t stop.

“What kind of family tries to kill him multiple times and laughs it off like it’s a fucking joke?” His eyes land on Damian, who looks like he wants to argue but doesn’t. “And what kind of family stands by and watches it happen and does nothing?!”

The silence is deafening.

Tim’s breath hitches, and he rakes a hand through his hair. “If you’re family, then why—why the hell did you all hurt me so much?”

No one can look him in the eye. Not even Bruce.

Tim’s voice drops, tired and cracked. “I can’t call you family. Because if I did, I’d have to accept that my family treated me like shit. And I already have one family, that loves me—I don’t need another one that makes me feel like I’m nothing.”

He turns on his heel, heading for the exit. “You’re my coworkers. That’s all you’ll ever be, and honestly? It's more than you deserve.”

And then he’s gone.

————

Later, Jazz calls him.

“You okay, Timmers?” she asks gently, voice soft in that way only Jazz can manage.

Tim sighs, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah. I just… lost it at them. Finally told them off.”

Jazz hums thoughtfully. “Good. They needed to hear it.”

Tim doesn’t respond right away, staring at the faint glow of the Batcomputer across the Cave. “Do you think I was too harsh?”

Jazz doesn’t hesitate. “No. You set a boundary. They’ve been pushing it for years. Let them sit with it for a while.”

Tim doesn’t know if he believes her, but he nods anyway. “Thanks, Jazz.”

“Always,” she replies. “Now come home for dinner. Mom’s trying a new ectoplasm casserole recipe, and Danny is threatening to ‘accidentally’ destroy the kitchen again.”

He laughs, already grabbing his things. “Be there in ten.”

[dead-boys-club]

†  what do you want? : the fatui.

❥ scenario: answering a simple question. ❥ no triggers ❥ i don't have any beta readers - you get what you get. ❥ taglist: @mimis-happiest-day

"what do you want from me?" the words slip out, trembling in the cold. your voice is barely louder than a whisper, as if the weight of the question itself could shatter the silence around you. they stare back—each gaze colder or hotter, more calculating or more devouring than the last. whatever their answers, you know the fatui don’t give anything freely.

❥ arlecchino.

her gaze remained sharp as you stared at her, cutting through you like glass. "what do i want?" she repeated, almost mocking, but there's a softness - she thought over your words. "everything," she finally says, her hand reaching to trace over your jaw with the tip of her nails. "your loyalty, your strength, your heart. and, only if you're strong enough, your soul." her words are both a demand and devotion, the only way she would deliver them.

❥ dottore.

he chuckles, the sound low and unhinged. "what do i want?" he purrs in amusement. he takes your hand to hold it open, his thumb rested against your pulse. "to see what makes you tick, of course. to pull you apart, piece by piece - and then, perhaps, if you're good.." he trails off for a moment, his smile mischievous. "i'll put you back together, better than you ever were."

❥ childe.

he grins, a mischievous glint to his eyes. "what do i want? hm.." he echoes, moving closer, voice playful but laced with a surprising depth. "i want everything you've got - every laugh, every secret, every scar." his hand finds yours, fingers threading between your own. :i want to fight beside you, protect you, and maybe.. just maybe, find another reason to stop fighting."

❥ pantalone.

his smile is knowing as it forms, eyes shining with something dark and calculating. "ah, my dear, you know very well what i want." he steps closer, fingers finding your cheek, his gaze holding a weight you couldn't name. "loyalty, love - such beautiful words." his hand lingers a beat too long. "but, what i truly want.. is to see how far you'll go for me."

❥ signora.

her gaze is fierce as always, though tempered by something gentler, softer than her usual demeanor. "what do i want?' her voice is barely audible and she pauses, eyeing you closely. "i want to burn the world down, watch it all turn to ash - with you by my side. you're the one spark i never expected," she adds, a rare smile gracing her lips. ❥ scaramouche.

he scoffs, arms crossing in his usual fashion, acting like your question offends him. his tone is biting and mocking as he repeats your question. "i want you to stop asking stupid questions." but he looks away, letting out a deep sigh, annoyed. "you should know by now.. i wouldn't keep you around if i didn't think you were important."

❥ columbina.

her smile is serene, unsettling so, as if she sees far beyond you. "what do i want?" she hums, thinking over the answers as her fingers dance against your shoulder. "i want you, my songbird. to sing for me, to shatter the silence. most of all.." her voice drops, becoming a whisper, like the next words were a deep secret. "i want you to stay, forever bound to this melody only we share."

❥ pierro.

his gaze is unreadable, maybe solemn if you had to choose a word, carrying to weight of worlds and beyond. he repeats your words, considering the question. "loyalty. strength. is that not what everyone wants? but with you.." his hand fingers your shoulder, steadying and grounding you both. "i want.. peace." there's a softness to his voice, a rare vulnerability that you deemed impossible. "stay besides me, and let us carve a legacy that will never be forgotten."

❥ sandrone.

her head tilts, observing you with an eerie, calculating gaze. she always looked at you as if you were a piece of her collection. she repeats the words, quiet and detached, in a way that made you feel like she didn't quite understand. "i want you to stay perfectly still, exactly as you are. i've never been fond of things that break too easily." he fingers lift, tracing your cheek bone, a possessive, chilling touch. "for you, i might make an exception. just don't disappoint me."

❥ capitano.

the weight of his voice is that of unspoken promises, deep and quiet, a rumble if nothing else. "what do i want?' he asks, his tone unwavering but something told you he'd never been asked such a thing. "i want you to stand beside me without fear. to see the world through your eyes and remember what it is i'm fighting for." a gloved hand rested on your upper arm, a surprisingly gentle touch. "and, you're willing, i want you.. as my reason to keep moving forward."

[hoe4hotchner]

Hi!! I had a dream last night and i was wondering if someone can make a readerxhotch fic about it. Reader are Hotch girlfriend for some time now, and she's having a really bad day. Everything she does, it goes wrong. Hotch comes by to take her to some date (because he was away for too long), she is SO frustrate with her bad day and Hotch is always gentle and patient with everything (even he's frustrate too) and reader start to crying because she is sorry for him, and he is just Hotch! Thank You!

Through the chaos | [A.H]

𝘗𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨: 𝘈𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘯 𝘏𝘰𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘹 𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘊𝘞: 𝘌𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘧𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘤𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘵, 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘹𝘩𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴. 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘤𝘺. 𝘌𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘳𝘶𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩? 𝘞𝘊: 1𝘬

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘐 𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 ;)

           The apartment was a mess, and you felt like a mess along with it. The day had been a relentless string of mishaps - spilled coffee, missed calls, and the final blow: dropping your phone and watching the screen crack. Every small failure piled up like bricks on your chest, and you couldn't catch your breath beneath their weight.

           You stood in front of your bathroom mirror, staring at your reflection. The dress you'd picked for the date with Aaron felt wrong. It clung too tightly to your skin, the color too harsh under the fluorescent light. You ran your fingers through your hair in frustration, pulling at the strands, trying to tame it into something presentable. But nothing worked today. Nothing.

           The knock on the door startled you, and your heart skipped a beat. Aaron was here. He’d been away for weeks, chasing case after case, and you’d been so excited for this night, for the chance to finally be with him again. But now? Now, everything felt wrong.

           Taking a deep breath, you walked to the door, hesitating before pulling it open.

           “Hey,” Aaron greeted you with a soft smile, his eyes warm and full of affection as they swept over you. He looked exhausted, but that didn’t stop him from being present, he cared too much about you not to come to see you instantly after getting home. “You look beautiful.”

           You tried to return the smile, but it felt forced, like the last bit of energy you had left was spent just trying to stand upright. "Thanks," you muttered, stepping aside to let him in.

           He frowned slightly as he stepped inside, sensing something was off. His eyes, always sharp, took in the cluttered apartment, the way your shoulders slumped in defeat. “Everything okay?” he asked gently, his voice filled with concern.

           You wanted to tell him it was fine, that it was just one of those days, but the frustration had built up too high, and you could feel it bubbling under your skin. "It's just been… a really bad day," you muttered, rubbing at your temples. "Everything is going wrong. I can't do anything right today."

           Aaron stepped closer, his hands reaching for you, but you backed away instinctively, shaking your head. "I don't even know why we're doing this tonight," you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended. "I can't… I can't even get ready properly. I look awful, and—"

           "Hey, hey," Aaron cut you off, his brow furrowing. "You don’t look awful. What’s going on?"

           But the glass had already shattered. "I’ve had the worst day. My phone’s broken, my hair won’t cooperate, I can’t get anything right, and now I’m ruining our night. I just wanted it to be perfect, and it's… it's not."

           His face softened, and he stepped closer again, but this time, his frustration showed too. He’d been away for so long, and all he wanted was to spend this evening with you, to take a break from the stress of his job. “I know it’s been a hard day, but I’ve been gone for weeks. I just wanted to spend some time with you.”

           You knew he was right, but the pressure of everything going wrong had you unraveling. "I know, but everything’s just…" You choked on your words, the tears rising, unbidden. “I’m sorry, Aaron, I didn’t mean to make this harder. I just… I can’t take it anymore.”

           The tears slipped down your cheeks, and you turned away, feeling overwhelmed, and guilty for snapping at him. The last thing you wanted was to make him feel bad after he’d just gotten back.

           But he didn’t let you pull away. His arms wrapped around you from behind, pulling you into his chest, his hand gently smoothing over your hair. “Shh,” he whispered against your temple, his lips brushing your skin. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

           You couldn’t hold back the sob that tore from your throat, your body trembling as the weight of the day came crashing down all at once. But Aaron held you tighter, his embrace steady and unwavering, grounding you.

           “I’m sorry,” you choked out between sobs, burying your face into his chest. “I didn’t mean to take it out on you. I’m just so… so overwhelmed.”

           Aaron pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his voice soft and full of tenderness. “You don’t have to apologize,” he murmured, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. “I get it. Sometimes it’s all just too much, and that’s okay.”

           You leaned into him, your tears slowing as you let yourself melt into his comforting presence. It wasn’t just the physical closeness - it was the safety he brought with him, the support that reminded you that you didn’t have to be perfect all the time, not with him.

           “I just wanted tonight to be nice,” you mumbled, your voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t want to ruin it.”

           “You haven’t ruined anything,” Aaron assured you, his tone gentle but firm. “We don’t need perfect. I just want to be with you. That’s all I need.”

           His words made you feel lighter like the weight had been lifted from your shoulders. You looked up at him, his eyes gentle and full of understanding, and a small, tearful smile broke through your exhaustion.

           “You sure?” you asked, your voice trembling.

           He smiled, the kind of smile that made your heart feel full even on the hardest days. “I’m sure,” he said, wiping the last of your tears away with the pad of his thumb. “We’ll make tonight whatever we want it to be. As long as we’re together, that’s enough for me.” Aaron had a way of making everything feel okay.

           You pressed your forehead to his, letting out a long, shaky breath. “Thank you,” you whispered, feeling the warmth of his love surround you.

           "What do you say, I cancel the reservation, we order take out and maybe go for a walk later, yeah?" Aaron murmured as he pressed a kiss to your lips.

           "I'd like that."

[munsonsreputation]

i can't talk to you when i'm like this

steve harrington x fem!reader

word count: [2.1K]

warnings: warnings: no use of y/n, established relationship, reader has a history of shitty ex's, steve accidentally makes reader cry, a lot of angst regarding past relationships (feelings wise), steve's shitty childhood & terrible dad (brief), fluff at the end (yes because i am a softie)

summary: steve never raises his voice at you, but the first time he does, you can’t find it in yourself to tell him what's really bothering you when you’re seconds away from breaking down.

You hate how the tears coming springing to your eyes the second Steve raises his voice a little too loudly beneath his already apparent annoyance.

Your brain blanks out the second it bellows against the walls and comes hurtling down to your eardrums. It feels like glass shattering in a million different ways, cutting you open and killing you with a thousand cuts.

He’s frozen in front of you, blinking with a look of oblivion on his face because he’s waiting. His arms still held wide open after he asked a question: one that was posed with a tone too sharp for your liking.

“Why are you making it such a big deal?”

His usually sweet and gentle tone was long gone, or at least that’s how you heard it. Instead, it dribbled with irritation and resentment meshed all in one. The kind that sounded like he was fed up and wanted nothing to do with you anymore.

He was just trying to do a sweet thing by picking you both up some coffee and yet here you were starting an argument — you always had to ruin a good thing.

Your teeth dig into your gums, trying to find any way to hold off on the waterworks that you know are about to pour any second now. Cloudy orbs shoot down to your bare feet, trembling against the floorboards while you excuse yourself from the kitchen.

“I’m g-going to the bathroom.”

Your voice is delicate yet not the kind that Steve knows like the back of his hand — the one where you keep it so quiet like an oath when you whisper you love him when you think he’s asleep and no one else is around to hear it.

This time the oath is broken, cracked, just like your voice, torn at the seams between fear and panic. Its edges are frayed and tattered, and its tenderness that is usually formed out of affection is long gone as it cuts through your chest and causes your back to heave as you walk away.

He knows he messed up.

It’s stupid. You shouldn’t be so worked up over the barista leaving her number on Steve’s cup. But you are. You’re worked the hell up and you want him to understand why it is such a big deal to you.

It’s upsetting because you shouldn’t be this wound up and insecure. You know Steve would never even dare to dial the numbers left on the cup, let alone remember the name she left on there. He’s head over heels in love with you the same way you are with him — yet you just don’t get it.

You don’t get the way this makes your insides turn and the thoughts to start whirlwind in your head. At first you were just upset about the number, maybe even just mildly irked — but then the second Steve’s voice came to you like that… that’s when you entirely forgot how to even tell him how you felt.

Now you just felt stupid for making it such a big deal and turning it into this.

“Breathe….” you murmur to yourself jaw trembling as you try not to tense.

The tears finally roll when your back collides with the bathroom door and your shaky fingers lock it shut. Your heart feels like it’s on fire, one that consumes your entire being and engulfs you in the bluest blue instead of the blazing red.

The only thing keeping you from collapsing is the door that’s holding up your weight and it’s not long after that the person you love yet are avoiding is on the other side making it more difficult for you to attempt to make it seem like it’s not a big deal.

“B-baby… I’m so sorry.”

The apology comes in an instant, and you could almost feel his breath hitting your neck from behind the wood. You know it’s genuine…Steve has never ever made you cry. You feel now like you’ve taken everything out of proportion — you should’ve just giggled and said ‘oh that’s cute! too bad you’re my boyfriend!’

All of the things you wished you would have said play in your mind like punishment for the way you’ve acted. How you know you’ve turned the tables on him and made him look like the bad guy when he was far from that.

He was just shocked to come home and hand you your favorite drink only to be asked about the barista he barely gave his attention to. Your accusing voice after he did something nice wasn’t something he was expecting.

Your throat tightened, eyes squeezing shut as you tried to cover it up and make it seem like you weren’t upset. You shuffled from the door, towards the sink, turning it on yet making no move to put your hands under the water.

“I’m fine! I—I just had to wash my face!” You lie, trying to cover your tracks as if Steve doesn’t already know it.

There’s been times when things have upset you, not things that Steve has done, but things that life throws at you and most of the times you hate how wound up you get. Without failure, you sneak away, just wanting a moment by yourself to cry without anyone feeling bad for you or asking questions because they’ll never get it. They don’t understand that the littlest things can trigger something inside of you to completely shut down from the rest of the world.

No one gets it… but Steve does.

“Baby,” His voice is stronger this time, yet tender, “please, can I come in? I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean…”

Your fingers finally come in contact with the frigid water, dabbing the droplets over your eyes attempting to get them to settle instead of looking like you were just crying. There’s a sniffle that comes from you as you clear your airways and a pathetic smile that you press onto your face to try to hide how you’re really feeling.

The water shuts off and you’re opening the door, cutting his apology off altogether.

“I’m fine, Steve!”

Your voice isn’t swaying even with the volume it carries and neither with the faint laugh you give him when you meet face to face. Your lashes still bear the droplets of salt and your cheeks tinted red with the path they’ve traveled down.

He can feel the pain in your voice and see the wobble of your chin as you hold back everything inside. He hates that you feel like you have to mask how you’re really feeling when, in actuality, you should be furious at him for what he did.

“Baby,”

Sadness joins his concern, and he doesn’t bother to hide it — he’s not sure he can when his eyes leak the same emotion, “Baby, you’re not fine…I know you’re not fine.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes unconvincingly. “I literally am, babe… it’s cool. Everything is fine.”

He knows that now you’re trying to reassure yourself rather than him. Trying to play it off and make it seem like everything was okay. Like he’s just supposed to accept it and let you hold everything inside like torture when that’s far from what he wants.

Your attempts to brush past him are futile when his hands come out to hold your shoulders, his fingertips kneading your tense skin. He can feel the blood rushing from under your clothes and it’s not the kind of warmth you usually carry — you are blistering and if he looks hard enough, he can see the way your chest is trying to level itself out as you hold back.

It takes everything in you to not draw your eyes away from his because you don’t want him to know that you’re still feeling it. Feeling stupid and at the same time nothing at all because you don’t know what to feel anymore. There’s a whirlwind of emotions and none of them you can put a finger on because you’re just lost.

You just don’t want him to think you’re crazy… like you reacting to him raising his voice like that was something that would daunt him away.

One of his hands stops its movement on your skin, raising up to your cheek and cradling you gently. There’s a crease between his brows and his eyes seep with regret and guilt. His lips part and the words that leave them come in whispers and fragility — croaks and cracks guiding them.

“Everything isn’t fine… I acted like an idiot and raised my voice at you. I’m sorry baby, I—I never meant to do that on purpose. It just came out, but that isn’t an excuse.” He shakes his head at himself disappointingly because he knows better.

Steve was far from perfect in his own eyes, but he knew better because all his life if there was one person he didn’t want to be like, it was his dad. The dad that used to scream at his mother, and scream at him, and scream at the world when everything went wrong, and didn’t know how to talk if it wasn’t screaming.

He’d never forgive himself if he made you feel that way or even became a smidge of what his father was. But it wasn’t him who he was blaming for this — this was all Steve himself, and he knew that. Accountability needed to be taken from himself because the only person he was hurting was you and it was going to be okay.

Not in the heat of the moment, not ever.

You hadn’t even noticed you had tugged your bottom lip between your teeth, the faint taste of iron trickling onto your tongue when you realized you were biting down on the skin too hard trying to stop yourself from crying.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry baby, please just—just tell me how to make it better.” His voice pleads and reasons, wanting to make it right with you anyway he could.

You close your eyes, letting the tears fall as you feel his thumbs wipe them away. He’s done this times before, wiping away your tears that had spewed from another’s doing. Never did he ever think he would be the cause.

“I-it’s nothing… it’s stupid, I’m stupid and dramatic.” You swallow thickly, sniffling and twisting your fingers in your hand to fight off the lingering feelings.

He shakes his head. The obvious look of disapproval for your words covers his face because this was far from your fault. Sure, he was bewildered about the whole incident, considering he didn’t even know the number was left there until you brought it up, but for him to not know how to convey his frustration better was the real issue at hand.

Not the accusation, not the stupid number, not the oblivious girl who left her number: it was him, Steve’s idiotic actions that got you both here.

“Stop, don’t talk to yourself like that.” He insists, staring deeply into your eyes, searching for a reason why you were blaming yourself,

Your jaw shakes roughly before a sob rips through your mouth. Tightening your eyes to try to get the tears to stop, yet they don’t cease no matter how hard you try. Frustration builds inside of you because you should be over it by now. The fact that he apologized and was here trying to comfort you should be enough.

But something inside of you won’t let it die. The silence is filled with the memory of his voice shouting at you and the face that he stared back with.

“I—I don’t want you to think there’s something wrong with me.” You croak, covering your face and turning away from him to save you the embarrassment.

But he strays to where you are, sticking beside you with a comforting hand resting on your back, “Sweetheart, nothing is—”

You sob one more, this time with a grunt that is direct to yourself. Stomping your foot against the cold tiles, your hands come down to grip the edges of the counter tightly. Your reflection in the mirror is only half of what you feel, and when Steve steps behind you, all you can see is guilt, but at the same time patience knowing he’s ready when you are.

You try your very best to at least keep your sobs at bay just enough for you to speak through them and for him to understand.

“You’re not gonna wanna be with me anymore knowing I can’t—I can’t talk to you when I’m like this! I don’t know why, but I can’t… it makes me feel stupid, like I’m crying over something so tiny and now I’ve totally forgotten why we were even arguing in the first place.”

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head and reaching in front of you to bring your hair back and away from your face. His eyes keep yours in the mirror, watching at you with such a gentleness that even now doesn’t falter.

“We weren’t arguing. I was just dumb and raised my voice when you were asking me about it.”

You move your sights from his to the bottom of the sink, shaking your head, “No, b-but I shouldn’t have reacted like that and made you look like the bad guy when yo—”

Your voice is traveling faster than you can think, spewing out words so hastily like you have to make him understand that it’s not his fault, but yours. It takes your breath away, hiccuping and coughing between a sob that leaves your mouth and bobbles in your chest.

Steve’s instantaneously rubbing your back, shushing you and trying to get you to calm down knowing you going on and on like this wouldn’t do you any good. He understands that you feel a lot of things very deeply and sometimes it isn’t an easy task to get them all out at once: he knows it and he’ll spend forever with you until you got it all out.

“Hey, hey, baby, c’mon… breathe,” He coos, his palm never stilling on your back feeling the deep breaths in and out, watching the tears fall down your cheeks and drip onto the counter.

It’s a kind of scene he hates to see, the one he wishes he could take from you and shoulder instead because watching you in such a state breaks his heart more than he could imagine. And this time it stings a little more knowing that he not only cannot shoulder your pain, but was the one creating it this time.

“Talk to me, please. What’s going on? Why’re so you upset at yourself and not at me?” He begs, trying to get a glimpse of what you’re feeling so he knows where the root is.

“B-because… I made it such a b-big deal.” You hiccup.

When you swipe angrily at your eyes with a ferociousness, that’s enough to make Steve step in and take it from here now that he knows where you’re coming from. A warm hand comes down onto your shoulder, pulling at you just enough for you to face him completely, weakly hanging your head low not knowing if you were strong enough to see him just yet.

“You didn’t make anything a big deal. I promise, we’re okay.” He whispers quietly, cupping your face in his hands, and bringing you face to face, “You’re not stupid and I could never think that you were. You’re human honey. It’s normal for you to be upset by things.”

“B-but I…I don’t want you to think you did something wrong—“

He stops you with a shake of his head. “But I did. I did something so wrong. I yelled when I shouldn’t have, and I made you feel like shit.”

Steve desperately needs you to know it. That this was his fault and no one else’s. That him making you feel like crap was the worst thing he could have ever done, but he was willing to man up to it and try to make things better, and at the same time he would understand if you wanted nothing to do with him after this.

Still, even after his words, you’re somehow even angrier at yourself, mind blaring at you for being such a dramatic person for making him go out of this way with all of this. That this was surely your fault and yours only, and if you didn’t take it off his plate, it was just something he would use against you one day to realize that he didn’t want to be with you anymore.

It’s what they all did — held it over your head and made you feel like you were wrong for feeling how you felt, so instead it was best not to feel anything at all. To hide it away and hope that being noncombative meant that everything was going to be okay and it wouldn’t give them a reason to run.

“I-it’s my fault—” You pinch your eyes, gulping back a cry as you shake your head in his hands.

His brows pull together, eyes squinting at you, not completely understanding why you’re doing this.

“Hey, stop, it’s not your fault. Don’t do that. Don’t take the fall for me,” Steve assures you with a sternness to his soft voice, continuing to wipe the seeping tears.

Somehow you can’t let it go, “But—”

“But nothing.” He starts, his voice composed yet unyielding in his tone.

He can’t stand it, clutching your face a little firmer, hoping that you would peek your eyes open to see him because he desperately needs you to. The second you do, your face twists again with heartache, praying that he would just let you go and walk out already, because by now, he probably thinks you’re insane — there’s no way he’s not thinking it.

His lips part, trying to find the right words to say, needing the perfect ones to get through you because he hates how you won’t let him take the fall, the one he so rightfully deserves to come crashing down on. You are everything to him and in some ways the feelings that you feel hit him right in the heart, and right now is no different, but there’s a wall between you both and his only goal is to knock it down completely.

“I—I don’t know why you feel like you have to protect me, but I promise you don’t.” He whispers, watching as you try to calm yourself, little sniffles going in and out and broken cries leaving your mouth.

His thumbs rub back and forth across your cheeks, soothing your withering skin. Slowly but surely your cries die little by little, eyes fixed on his, trusting that he means everything that he says, because Steve isn’t like the others — something that you should’ve known judging from his character alone.

“If I do something that makes you upset or sad, you should be able to voice that, not keep it in. I don’t ever want you to feel like you can’t tell me when I’ve done something wrong. I—I want you to feel safe and okay around me, enough to know that my love for you isn’t gonna change, just because you bring something up. You have every right to be upset, and angry, and disappointed, everything.”

He says it like he means it and you know it’s because he does. He lets every word hang from the stars as if he put them up there, and points them out just for you to know that they are there and true, because that’s all he ever wanted. For you to know that every word he speaks comes from his heart, and no matter how many times he needs to repeat it, he’ll do it over and over again, just so you know it’s real and until you believe them and know he won’t ever break them.

“Don’t ever blame yourself for me, please? I-I don’t want you to do that to yourself because I’m here and…and every time I fuck up or make a mistake, I swear I’m gonna own up to it and try to fix it. But I’m not gonna let you take the blame, okay?”

Being with Steve for so long still feels so new, especially when you know he isn’t like the rest of the boys from your past. He’s patient and kind with a big heap of understanding. Like everyone else in the world, he’s guilty of his own poor moments, but he’ll be damned if he takes that out on you or makes you feel like it’s your responsibility.

“I’m so sorry, baby.” He murmurs, letting his hands fall away from your face, letting you decide what the next move is.

The tears that escape are more so in between the remains of the sadness being washed away with tears of love and gratitude. Your arms wrap around his torso, pulling yourself into him and burying your face into his chest where the tears soak through his chest. Without a second thought, his arms envelop you, rocking you both back and forth as he presses kisses on the top of your head.

It mends your heart not merely because he’s just sorry, but because you didn’t get plenty of sorries before. Left only with sweeping things under the rug and pretending like nothing ever happened — it never solved anything and never gave you much.

But Steve gives you everything and so much more.

A big chunk of you feels like you don’t deserve him because he seriously is the best person with an even better soul wrapped up into one and yet he chooses you — every day. He sees you through all the good and the bad and never makes you feel like you’re alone even when you could be a distance away when you’re right beside him.

When you talk too much, say too little, or sometimes say nothing at all — he’s there giving you a listening ear and comforting shoulder to lean on whoever you need it. And on the days when you can’t talk to him when you’re like this… he’ll wait until you’re ready and show you that he’s always going to be there every step of the way.

He’s everything you could have asked for and more.

You pull your face away from hiding, resting your chin up on his chest as you stared up at him.

“I’m sorry too. I—I shouldn’t have been so indifferent earlier and just told you what I was feeling from the get-go.” You sniffled, rubbing your hands over his back, smiling faintly when he nodded understandingly.

He knows that sometimes he might not quite get it, might not see things in the same light as you, but he would never try to dismiss your feelings. He would sit beside you through the storms and sunshines, knowing that he was learning more about himself and you with you in his life.

That because of you, the younger version of himself got to heal his deepest wounds and open himself up to a love he only through he could dream up. You were here making him a better version of himself, all while he was doing the same for you. Showing you that the scars and fears of your past didn’t have to live in the next person you met — that you could let it go and open yourself up to the love you deserved.

His love.

“I forgive you only if you forgive me,” Steve grinned, swiping away at the dampness on your cheeks.

You grinned, nodding up at him. “Of course, I forgive you.”

“I love you so much… nothings ever gonna change that.” He hummed, cupping your face, taking you all in for the person he loved so dearly.

You closed your eyes blissfully before a kiss was placed on your lips.

“I know, I love you too.”

💌 reblogs, tags, comments, + likes are greatly appreciated! leave a comment and let me know if want to be added to my taglist!! 💌

a/n: hi all, I hoped you like this little one-shot/imagine... i had this one sitting in my wips for awhile and it was nearly finished but I didn't have the inspiration to finish it until now. I don't usually write angst bcs i am a fluff girl, but this concept just came to me bcs like a lot of people when someone raises their voice at me...i just freeze and i don't know what to make of it and i just start crying. i think steve would be super apologetic and i wanted to write this bcs i needed some stevie!comfort so yeah... i hope you all enjoyed!!!

taglist: @translatemunson @kennedy-brooke @manda-panda-monium @tvserie-s-world @givemeth @steveharringtonswife @astolenkiss @loving-and-dreaming @awkotaco24 @engenelxver @elfiaaaa @pbs-theundeadmaggot @johnricharddeacy @gaysludge @keerysfolklore @micheledawn1975 @ihatepeanutss @bakugouswh0r3

[star-har]

fading

it’s your birthday.

gojo’s been dreading it.

it had felt like carrying a heavy weight— a boulder that grows in size as the days passed by, until the calendar finally marked what he’s been fearing.

when he wakes up on your morning, he can’t get out of bed. doesn’t see a reason to.

it’s raining, loud and relentless. the drops patter against his windows, almost somber and melancholy and angry— as if the world itself is mourning your loss.

he doesn’t blame it. the world should be mourning, now that its one shining light and been burned out.

it’s late afternoon when he clambers from his bed, bounding to the kitchen to make his usual coffee; he used to make two. yours would be simple— coffee, milk and sugar. a complete contrast to his own, filled with syrups and chocolate and anything sweet his hands could find.

he would cringe in disgust as you sipped at it, wondering just how you drank yours such bitterly.

he only makes one cup now.

with the exception of the morning he’d woken up from a dream with you. he’d sauntered off to make your cup, assuming you were in the bathroom, and it was midday that it had dawned on him— you were only a dream.

your cat, mochi, is curled up on the couch, pawing aimlessly at where you usually loved to sit.

it’s the perfect view, you’d like to say as you scratched mochi’s belly, the sky looks beautiful from here.

she knows what day it is too. gojo had caught her waiting by the door as your birthday lingered nearer, waiting for your nonexistent arrival.

‘she’s not coming back, damn it,’ gojo would mutter as she pawed at the door. but the stubborn cat would return back to her post everyday without fail.

he decides to stand out on the balcony, despite the thundering rain. he’s remembering the way you’d hug his waist from behind and pepper kisses into his skin as you two watched the sun disappear, being replaced by the moon.

he grinds his teeth and throws his coffee on the floor, the glass shattering and scattering.

you’re everywhere— and it’s almost as if it’s amplified today. the one day gojo already feels like he shouldn’t be here. not without you by his side.

he curses and closes the balcony door, sweeping the glass so your cat won’t hurt herself. you’d kill him if she ever did.

he shrugs on his coat and leaves his flat after, stopping by a flower shop that you’d love to visit.

each, and every time, you’d pause by the pretty, pink lilies. with gentle fingers, you would caress their stems and sniff their fragrance— that beautiful smile always staining your mouth.

he sees them today. they’re beautiful, dainty. but the muted pink is replaced by a brighter one, full of life and colour and beauty.

as if they were a reincarnation of you. the love of his life given form again.

he picks them up with agile hands like you’d always do, making his way to the cashier.

the lady at the register seems surprised to see him there. “gojo, dear?” she says, thin lips pursing with a smile. “it’s been so long, sweetie.”

he hadn’t really had the courage to step into this shop when you passed last year— this has been his first time in a very long while.

“i’ve been busy, mrs. murphy.” he says the words softly but can hardly find it in himself to muster up a smile.

she seems to understand because she doesn’t pry and lets gojo leave with no more question. he’s grateful.

he places them in his car with the same gentleness you’d have, and reverses out of the parking lot.

your grave is a knife in his chest. a sharp stab that hurts and is recurring and painful because seeing it makes it so much more real than gojo thought it would.

as if all those months of reaching to your side of the bed to be met with cold emptiness hadn’t been because you were gone to use the washroom or to brew late night tea.

you were gone. you are gone. gojo can’t do anything about it.

he cries. he hasn’t cried since your funeral. he drops to your grave— polished with no rust because he’d paid monument care a hefty price to maintain your resting place. it only makes sense— for your grave to be as beautiful as you.

he places the flowers on the grass, tucking it into the mud so the wind doesn’t carry them away.

his tears mix with the rain, still thrumming down on him hard.

the rain continues as he spends hours there. wordless, quiet, staring with you as the sky turns pink and then dark blue.

he leaves before he can cry again and when he comes home, gojo pads off into your library. he hasn’t been there since you left him, but it’s a sudden urge— like he needs to feel you again in anyway he can.

mochi’s already there, scratching at the door, meows woeful.

he twists the door handle, and with a deep, shuddering breath, pushes in.

flowers. vanilla. love. your smell hugs him so tightly and gojo has never felt so warm. your embrace only tightens as he slips further into your library, fingers tracing shelves as mochi purrs after him, her paws scratching the wooden floorboards.

he stops by your window seat, heart breaking a little as he sees the book you’d been reading before you died. a classic— pride and prejudice.

he drops onto the seat and picks it up, mochi following in his wake. the fat, ginger cat curls up in his lap— he knows mochi is pretending. hoping he’ll give her the same feeling you used to.

in truth, no one can. your presence is one no one can replace nor match.

she meows in his lap, mourning. sad.

“I miss her too, mochi,” gojo says and pats the cat on its head.

the two sit there, long into the night, as gojo reads where you’d left off. you’d do this a lot, have mochi and gojo huddle around you as you read aloud to them.

he wishes he could remember how you sound. your voice had been a comforting melody to his ears, something that never failed to ease gojo’s pain away.

but as the days ticked by, his memory had grown to lose it.

had grown to lose nearly everything about you. your eyes, your smile, your singing. everything.

gojo cries again. he can’t help it. no matter how hard he grinds his teeth or how strong he fists his hands. he doesn’t try to stop the flooding, either. he needs this. needs a good cry to remember you and miss you.

only when mochi has gone to sleep in his lap and gojo reaches the final page to your story, closing his eyes, does he feel it.

a soft brush of wind.

the rain had stopped, being replaced by a humid and quiet night. odd for the wind to be out. but he feels it, nonetheless.

feels a breeze brush past his cheek, wisp through his hair and ruffle mochi’s fur.

he feels you. your warm embrace, your soft touch. and everything in gojo’s body calms. his thoughts quieten, his heart thrums steadily, his tears dry.

it’s you— he knows it. he’s never believed in an afterlife or anything alike it, but you could make him believe in everything and anything.

it’s you. your love, your touch, your kiss.

you engulf him with a hug that feels so natural and beautiful and gojo finds that this is peace. this is what he lives for— remnants of you and your love lingering in unexpected places and unforeseen ways.

you were always like that, in a sense. unpredictable and so, so peaceful.

gojo falls asleep soon, to the hum of your love and your whisper on the wind. and he finds it’s the best sleep he’s had in a while.

———

did I cry 10 times while writing this? yes. I hate angst. but oh how I loooooveee it.

I can never bring myself to right angst because I always end up making the ending a happy one but today I sat down and was like I need a good cry and I threw up this.

i hope it made u sad as much as it made me sad… <3

kisses and lots of love,

har xx

[astrcmoni]

⁖✦ ˖ flicker of light ˖ ✦⁖

pairing: billie eilish x fem!reader

MASTERLIST

genre: angst

synopsis: Two years after a devastating breakup, you unexpectedly cross paths with Billie, the ex who shattered your heart, at a crowded party. As the night unravels, unresolved emotions, lingering tension, and unspoken truths collide, forcing you to confront the love and pain that still bind you.

wc: 3.8k

warnings: angst, smoking, slight cussing

authors note: hope you all enjoy it as much as I did writing it, let me know what you think.

You never thought you’d see her again, not after the way she left. she had always been a storm—unpredictable, consuming, leaving wreckage in her wake. You tried to hold on, but there’s only so much a person can give before they break. When she walked out, it felt like she took the last of your light with her.

You remember the way it felt to watch her walk away—her oversized hoodie swallowing her frame, her head low like she couldn’t bear to face you. She didn’t even slam the door; it just clicked shut, soft and final. You told yourself you were done with her, but that was easier said than lived.

It’s been two years since that night. Two years since her voice, soft but certain, said, “I can’t stay.” Two years since you swore you’d never let her back in. But tonight, under the illumination of the glowing party lights you see her again.

Standing across the room like a ghost made flesh. drowning in her own sea of bodies as people danced around you both causing a claustrophobic separation. Her hair’s a different color now, and her face looks a little older—sharper in some ways, softer in others—but it’s her. There’s no mistaking those eyes.

You caught sight of her first, squinting at the back of her frame, not fully realizing who it was until she turned towards you. then, those blue eyes locked with yours. and it feels like the ground drops out from beneath you, leaving you weightless and frozen, suspended in a moment you can’t escape.

Your chest tightens—not just in surprise, but in something deeper. It’s like all the feelings you thought you’d buried are clawing their way back to the surface, making your heart ache in a way that feels almost physical.

Your breath catches, the kind of catch that’s barely noticeable but feels like everything inside you is short-circuiting. Time slows down, or maybe it speeds up—you can’t tell because everything is a blur, a haze of indistinct shapes and muffled sounds. You don’t even register the people around you anymore; they’re just noise, fading into the background as your vision tunnels on them.

And then there’s the sting, sharp and raw, a rush of memories slamming into you all at once. The sound of her laugh, the way she used to look at you, all of the things that were left unsaid. It’s like your mind is running a reel of every mistake, every moment, and you can’t stop it no matter how much you want to. You feel too much and nothing at the same time—numb and overwhelmed, like your body and your emotions are completely out of sync.

Party forgotten all about and it feels as if the world narrows to just the two of you, that was the last thing you wanted right now. The more you two stare at each other the more the air around you feels heavy, like it’s pressing down on your chest, making it impossible to breathe. Every sound around you—voices, music, laughter, clinking glasses—starts to blur together, growing louder and louder until it’s just noise, grating and overwhelming. Your skin prickles with heat, the bodies around you seemingly too close for your comfort and it feels like the walls are closing in, each inch tighter than the last. There’s nowhere to focus, no solid ground to stand on, and your pulse pounds in your ears, drowning out everything else.

You feel an urgent need to move, to get away, to escape the suffocating weight of it all. Your eyes dart around, searching for an exit, anywhere you can break free from the crushing space around you. Shoving past the partygoers without even registering as so much of a face. Mind fixated on finding some fresh air, something open, and quiet.

Your mind raced, thoughts and questions zipping pass one another. What in the actual fuck was she doing here? This was supposed to be a small event but you should’ve known better. It was a album release party for a mutual friend, but with sightings of her becoming less and less your worry began to dissipate. But that all went out of the window tonight, just your luck.

Finally you found a door, pushing through it and being greeted by the cool air of the LA night sky. you inhale the air, gulping it as if you were abandoned at sea and it was your lifeline. Finding a small curb, you take a seat on it as your hands found their way to your knees, clutching yourself as you tried to steady your breathing, allowing you to be present once more. It’s not instant relief as your mind was still racing, chest still tight— but at least you’re out.

The crack of the earth beneath feet reaches your ears—a faint shuffle of footsteps against the pavement, growing louder with each step. Pace steady but hesitant, like they’re not trying to startle you but can’t decide if they should keep going. The click of shoes echoes quietly in the still night, a contrast to the muffled hum of music emerging from the party behind you.

You don’t turn around at first, every instinct inside telling you to stay still, like moving would somehow make it real. But the sound gets closer, the steps slowing as they near. There’s a pause—long enough for your breath to hitch—and then the faint crunch of gravel as they shift their weight. You can almost feel them standing there, their presence heavier than the silence between you. Your eyes flicked over to the shoes of the person that stood beside you and they confirmed your already strong suspicions.

“Can I sit?” Her voice is low, almost timid, and it throws you. Billie was never timid. She was loud, unpredictable, and bold. Always the one who burned brightest in any room you were in together.

Could she sit? tuh. The question lingered in the air between you, heavy and unwanted. After all the pain and bullshit she caused you, after the nights spent choking on tears you’d promised yourself were the last, the instinct was to scream a hard, unshakable hell no. How does she get to just show up, and ask something of you? You wanted to tell her to leave, to walk away as easily as she had all those years ago. It would’ve been so simple—just a few words, and she’d be gone again.

But your heart—that damned, stubborn heart of yours—betrayed you. Beneath the layers of anger and resentment, beneath the memories of slammed doors and empty spaces she used to fill, there was still a soft, desperate ache. A quiet part of you, buried under years of resolve, that wanted to hear her voice again, to feel her presence even if it hurt.

So you hesitated. The silence stretched, sharp as glass, and for a moment, she almost looked ready to walk away without an answer. But then you tilted your head ever so slightly, a gesture so small it almost felt insignificant, and her eyes flickered with something you couldn’t place—relief? Guilt? Hope? She moved quickly, like she thought you might change your mind, lowering herself into the spot on your left.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. She sat with her hands clasped tightly together, her shoulders hunched, as though she could make herself smaller, less imposing. And you just stared ahead, watching the glow of the streetlights dance against the asphalt, trying not to think about how close she was, how her scent—something faintly familiar, like lavender and rain—drifted toward you in the cool night air.

You wanted to ask her why she came back. You wanted to tell her to leave again. But most of all, you just wanted to feel something other than the confusing swirl of anger and longing twisting in your chest. And so, for the first time in years, you sat together in the quiet, the unspoken words between you louder than anything either of you could say.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” she says quietly, her voice cracking just enough to remind you why it mattered so much in the first place.

“yea…didn’t think I’d see you,” you reply. And you hadn’t. You’d spent months—years—working to get over her, scrubbing her out of your mind like a stubborn stain. Some days you thought you’d succeeded. But now that she’s here, all it takes is one look at her for the memories to pour back in.

The way she used to smile at you in the dark, like you were her entire world. The way her hand used to linger on yours, warm and grounding. The way she kissed you, like she was terrified you’d disappear if she didn’t hold you close enough.

And then the way she left.

The way you watched as her back disappeared the more steps she took, the way your heart shattered into what felt like millions of pieces and how you were left to pick up every single shard.

“So… how are you?”

Her voice cut through the silence like a blade, sharp and unwelcome. It lingered in the air, raw and exposed, forcing you to confront a question you hadn’t asked yourself in a long time.

How were you?

The truth was, you didn’t know. You’d spent the years since her absence piecing yourself back together, brick by brick, like a fragile tower of Lego blocks. Some days, the pieces fit; other days, they crumbled under the weight of the memories she left behind. You tried new things—picked up hobbies, traveled to places you thought might cleanse you of her ghost. You even let yourself fall into the arms of others on occasion, hoping someone else might finally feel right. But none of it stuck. None of it filled the void she carved into your chest.

Still, you couldn’t tell her that. She didn’t deserve the truth, didn’t deserve to know about the nights you stayed up convincing yourself you were better off, or the mornings when you woke to find her name lingering on your lips like a bitter aftertaste.

So instead, you told her the easiest lie. “I’m fine,” you said, your voice smooth, practiced. You didn’t dare look at her when you said it, afraid your eyes might betray the cracks still mending beneath the surface.

She nodded, a faint, almost imperceptible gesture, and for a moment, you thought she might believe you. But the way her gaze lingered—searching, gentle, and entirely too familiar—made you wonder if she could see through the facade, if she still knew you in ways no one else did.

You turned your eyes back to the streetlights, refusing to give her anything more. Fine was all she needed to know. Fine was all she was getting.

“I—” Billie stops herself, looks down. She does that thing where she chews her bottom lip when she’s anxious, and you hate that you remember it so clearly. “I’m sorry,” she finally says, her voice breaking on the words. “For the way I left. For… all of it.”

You scoff before you can stop yourself. “That’s it? You’re sorry?”

She flinches, and for a split second, you feel guilty. But then you remember the nights you spent crying over her, the days you spent forcing yourself to get out of bed, to move on. She doesn’t get to come back and expect it to be easy.

“I thought I was doing what was best for you,” she says quietly. “I thought if I stayed, I’d just keep messing you up.”

Your eyes roll so hard they could fall into orbit, a scoff bubbling from your chest at her words. The sentiment is tired, hollow, the same recycled bullshit excuse you’ve heard from past ex’s—but Billie? No, this was a new wound entirely. Of course, two years apart, and she’s already sinking her claws in, pricking at your nerves.

You fish into the pocket of your jacket, fingers brushing the familiar papered edge of a joint you rolled earlier, your lifeline in case the night went sideways—which, apparently, it had. With a soft click of your tongue, you press it between your lips, muttering a dry “tuh.” Seriously? This? Now?

But when you reach back into your jacket for a lighter, your brows knit together. Your hands shift to your sides, patting pockets with increasing urgency, fingers fumbling over fabric.

“The fuck?” you mutter under your breath, shuffling and searching as your irritation simmers into something hotter, more desperate. Something in Billie’s gaze says she knows exactly where it is.

“Oh, here,” she says.

The sound is sharp and intimate, slicing through the quiet like a whispered secret. A metallic click, clean and deliberate, breaks the stillness, followed by the soft scrape of the flint wheel turning. Then comes the bloom of the flame—a faint whoosh that carries a warmth you can almost feel. It’s steady, alive, crackling faintly as it dances in the dark, casting flickering shadows against the night. The scent of singed butane drifts into the air, sharp and chemical, grounding you in the moment. It’s such a small sound, but next to you, it feels impossibly loud, like a heartbeat outside your own.

She never indulged in your smoking habits, never shared in the way you leaned into the soft haze to escape reality. But she always carried a lighter. Always. For you. Because somehow, no matter how many times you bought one, you had a way of losing them, and she had a way of knowing.

Your heart ached at the thought. Even after everything, she still carried that lighter—still kept this tiny piece of you with her, like muscle memory she couldn’t unlearn.

She held the flame steady, her hand shielding it from the wind with practiced ease. You didn’t move, your hand hovering near her but never quite closing the gap. Instead, you watched as the fire danced, the golden glow illuminating her face in the dim light. The wind teased the flame, threatening to snuff it out, but she guarded it instinctively, her other hand cupping the lighter as if it were precious, fragile.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away, trapped in the flicker of light and shadow, as if the fire itself held some kind of spell over you. Or maybe it wasn’t the flame at all. Maybe it was her—the quiet familiarity of her gestures, the way she still did this for you, even now, even after the years and the pain.

To anyone else, it might seem like nothing. An ex lighting her ex-girlfriend’s blunt, an act so casual it hardly deserved a second thought. But to you, it was so much more. It was a thread connecting the past and the present, a bridge over the chasm of two long, lonely years.

It was intimacy. A kind you hadn’t felt in so long it almost scared you. The kind that knew your rhythms and your faults, that carried lighters for your bad habits and lit them without judgment.

Your mind screamed at you to pull away, to extinguish the fire before it burned you again. But your heart—foolish, stubborn thing that it was—ached for this moment, for this tiny act of care. So you stayed still, watching the flame dance as your heart and mind waged their quiet war. She watched and waited to see what you would do, and without thinking your body leaned forward, towards that bright ember of a flame. And when she finally lit the blunt for you, her fingers brushed yours for just a second too long, it felt less like a habit and more like a confession.

You watched as the flame stretched toward the blunt’s tip, small but fierce, its edges flickering and alive. It kisses the paper, and for a moment, it clings there, glowing brighter as it bites into the wrap. The paper darkens and crinkles, curling inward as the flame consumes it, leaving a thin line of blackened ash in its wake.

Your eyes meet hers, still in your crouched position, and for a moment, everything stills. The laughter and music fade into the background, muffled by the weight of her gaze. It’s so quiet in this bubble that it feels like you could stay here forever, wrapped in the soft, strange serenity between you.

But you don’t. You blink, the spell breaking as reality creeps back in. This moment isn’t yours to keep, no matter how much you wish it was.

A wisp of smoke rises, twisting lazily into the air, carrying with it the faint scent of burning paper and the earthy undertone of the tobacco or herb inside. The ember glows softly, pulsing like a heartbeat as it takes hold, the flame retreating once its job is done. What’s left behind is a smoldering edge, fragile and jagged, the beginnings of something that burns slow and steady.

Leaning back, you withdraw the joint from your lips, letting the smoke roll slowly from your mouth. You blow it to your right, away from her, the exhalation curling into the night air like a phantom. You’ve always been careful, always mindful, because you know how much she hated it.

You remember the first time you sparked up around her, the way the cloud drifted lazily in her direction and enveloped her. She coughed, sharp and sudden, her face twisting in discomfort as her hand shot up to wave it away. Later, she told you how it made her feel—the way the smoke clung to her throat, thick and choking, leaving a sour taste at the back of her tongue that wouldn’t go away. How it wove itself into her hair and clothes, lingering like an unwelcome ghost she couldn’t shake.

“I don’t mind you smoking,” she’d said back then, her voice soft, almost apologetic, “but just… not near me. It feels like I can’t breathe.”

Her words had stuck with you, burrowed deep into your memory, because they weren’t an attack—just honesty, delivered with that quiet gentleness she used to wield so well. Since then, you’ve been careful. Always turning your head, always blowing the smoke away, no matter where you were or how distracted you might be.

Even now, with her sitting beside you after years apart, it’s instinctive. The smoke twists and curls into the night, a hazy ribbon that never touches her. You glance at her from the corner of your eye, watching as she sits unaffected, her gaze somewhere far off, and feel the smallest tug of relief.

It’s such a small thing—redirecting the smoke, sparing her the discomfort—but it feels like an unspoken promise. A habit born out of care, out of knowing her in ways no one else did. And even after everything, you can’t seem to stop yourself from caring.

You laugh bitterly, picking back up on your conversation . “And leaving didn’t?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she looks at you with those ocean-deep eyes that always seemed to pull you under. “I didn’t stop thinking about you,” she says, so softly you almost don’t hear it.

And there it is. The part of you that still aches for her, that still wants to believe in her despite everything, starts to flicker back to life. But it’s just a flicker, nothing more.

“Why now, Billie?” you ask, your voice sharper than you mean it to be. You leaned your head on your right hand as its elbow rested on your knee. Spliff burning in between your middle and your index fingers as you slightly began swaying in thought. “Why come back?”

She hesitates, and for a moment, you see the storm inside her—the guilt, the hope, the fear. “Because I’m tired of pretending I don’t need you,” she says.

“So, you’re apologizing because you need something. Not because you’re genuinely sorry.”

The words leave your mouth, calm and measured, though they sting with the weight of years. You don’t look at her, not yet, but you can feel her gaze, warm and searching, on your face. You take a breath, letting the silence between you stretch. It’s the first time in a long while that you’ve allowed yourself to speak with this much clarity, this much honesty. And it feels both liberating and painful at once.

She’s silent for a moment, and when she speaks again, her voice is softer, quieter. “That’s not true. I am sorry. For everything.”

You nod slowly, processing her words. She’s sincere, you can hear it in the tremor of her voice, but that doesn’t make the past go away. The years of waiting, the nights spent wondering why she left, wondering if you were ever enough for her.

She hasn’t moved since she sat down, but the space between you feels vast now, like an ocean that neither of you can quite cross.

“But you hurt me,” you say, your voice quieter now, tinged with something raw that you haven’t let surface in so long. “I loved you, Billie. I loved you so much, and you just left me. No explanation. No call. Hell, you didn’t even leave me a damn text.”

You finally look at her. Her eyes are wide, full of regret, and for a split second, you almost forget all the reasons you’ve been angry with her. Almost. But the hurt is still there, simmering beneath the surface, and you can’t let it go. Not yet.

“I know,” she whispers, her voice breaking just slightly, the words thick with remorse. “And I am truly sorry. I’ll never stop apologizing for what I did.” Her gaze drops to her lap, and she takes a deep breath before she looks at you again, her eyes pleading. “But I love you. I do.”

I love you.

The words hang in the air, and for a moment, the world feels like it’s holding its breath. You want to respond, want to say something sharp and dismissive, to keep the walls between you up and firm. But instead you take another drag of the joint in your hand, as your heart—damned thing that it is—pounds in your chest, betraying you in the quiet of the night.

You swallow, the lump in your throat too tight to speak, and for the first time in a long while, you wonder if the distance between you could ever truly disappear.

You know what letting her back in could mean. You know the pain she’s capable of causing. But you also know the way she made you feel when things were good—the way she made you feel alive.

And as you sit there, staring at her in the glow of the streetlights, you realize you have a choice. You can let her back in and risk it all, or you can walk away and finally put her behind you.

Your heart races as you weigh the options, the silence stretching unbearably between you. And for the first time in years, you’re not sure what to do.

[tinkaaabutt]

Blue hair—Jinx

Synopsis for Blue hair:

Jinx has always felt like two people trapped in one body—the ghost of Powder lingering beneath the chaos of who she’s become. One night, in the quiet of her workshop, she turns to cutting her iconic blue hair in an attempt to sever ties with the past she can’t escape. When you walk in, you find her mid-breakdown, scissors in hand and surrounded by shattered remnants of herself.

Through raw vulnerability, shared confessions, and careful understanding, you help Jinx confront the pain she’s been burying and the pieces of her identity she’s been trying to destroy. Together, you begin the difficult journey of acceptance and rebuilding, one strand at a time.

A story of hurt, healing, and learning to hold the broken pieces without cutting yourself in the process.

trigger warning- self h@rm themes, mental health struggles , trauma references, emotional vulnerability,

Inspired by “Blue Hair” by TV Girl

The door to her workshop was cracked open, and even from the hallway, you could hear the erratic clinking of metal and the hiss of frustration. Jinx always worked late—her projects were endless—but something about tonight felt different. Wrong.

When you pushed the door open, the first thing you noticed was the mess. Not the usual clutter of tools and blueprints, but chaos—shards of broken glass scattered like jagged confessions, overturned boxes spilling bolts and screws across the floor. And there, sitting in the middle of it all, was Jinx.

Her long blue braids hung loose around her, tangled and frayed. A pair of scissors rested in her hand, their blade trembling as her knuckles whitened around the handle.

“Jinx?” you called softly.

Her head snapped up, and for a moment, her wide eyes were pure panic. She looked at you like you’d caught her mid-crime, like you weren’t supposed to see her like this.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice sharp but fragile, like glass about to shatter.

You stepped inside, careful not to disturb the broken pieces on the ground. “I was looking for you.”

“Well, you found me,” she said, her tone bitter. “Now go.”

You didn’t. Instead, you crouched down in front of her, your eyes flicking between the scissors in her hand and the uneven chunks missing from her hair. “Jinx… what’s going on?”

She laughed, a sound so hollow it made your chest ache. “What’s going on?” she repeated mockingly. “What does it look like? I’m reinventing myself.”

“By cutting your hair?”

“Why not?” she snapped, her grip on the scissors tightening. “It’s stupid, right? But maybe if I chop enough of it off, I’ll stop feeling like—” She cut herself off, her voice cracking.

“Like what?” you pressed gently.

“Like her.”

The word hung heavy in the air, and you didn’t need to ask who she meant. Powder. The girl she used to be, the girl who haunted her every thought.

Jinx dropped the scissors, her hands flying to her head as she tugged at the remaining strands of her hair. “She’s still in there,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I can feel her. Crying, messing everything up. She won’t shut up, no matter what I do.”

You reached out, your hand hesitating before brushing against hers. “Jinx, stop. Please.”

Her hands stilled, but her chest heaved like she was fighting to keep the storm inside her from spilling out. “I thought if I cut it, I’d feel… different. Less like her. Less like—” She broke off, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Less like you’re falling apart,” you finished for her.

Her eyes snapped open, locking onto yours. For a moment, she looked so small, so scared. “How do you know?”

“Because I’ve felt it too,” you admitted, your voice soft. “That need to do something, anything, to make the pain feel… real. To make it stop eating you alive from the inside out.”

Jinx stared at you, her usual bravado stripped away. “Did it work?”

You shook your head. “Not the way I thought it would.”

The room fell silent, save for the faint hum of her machines in the background. You reached for the scissors on the floor, setting them aside before gently taking her hands in yours. Her fingers were cold, her grip weak.

“It doesn’t matter how short you cut your hair, Jinx,” you said softly. “You can’t erase her. But maybe… you don’t have to.”

Her brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re not just Powder or Jinx. You’re both. You’re all the pieces, even the broken ones.”

She shook her head, pulling her hands away. “I can’t be her. I can’t.”

“You don’t have to be,” you said. “But you don’t have to destroy her, either.”

Jinx let out a shaky breath, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“You don’t have to do it alone,” you said, your voice steady. “I’m here. For every piece of you, Jinx. The messy ones, the sharp ones, all of it.”

Her gaze softened, and for the first time, her walls seemed to crack. “You don’t know what you’re signing up for,” she said, a weak attempt at humor.

“I do,” you replied, your dimples showing as you smiled gently. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Jinx’s lips quirked up, just barely, before she looked down at the strands of blue scattered around her. “Guess I really screwed this up, huh?”

You laughed lightly. “Yeah, but we’ll fix it. Together.”

And as you reached for a brush, guiding her to sit still while you worked to even out the jagged edges, Jinx let herself lean into your presence. For the first time in a long while, she felt like maybe—just maybe—she could stop running from the pieces of herself and start putting them back together.

[anamina0]

Echoes

Part I , Part II , Part III , Part IV, Part V , Part VI, Part VII

Summary: By not telling Vi, you are betraying her. By telling Vi, you are betraying best friend. There is no winning here.

Warnings/themes : angst , trauma , mentions of death , smut , nsfw (+18) , face riding, fingering, swearing

Word count: 6.1k

You’d been obsessing over it for days now. The thought clawed at the back of your mind, refusing to leave you in peace. No matter how much you tried to push it aside, Vi’s story gnawed at you, whispering echoes of something you didn’t want to face. It was too familiar—too eerily close to what Faye had once told you. You tried convincing yourself it was just coincidence, that your imagination was running wild, but deep down, you knew you were lying to yourself. Not because you were paranoid, but because facing the truth meant making choices you weren’t ready for. You didn’t want to betray Vi. Whatever was growing between you two—it felt fragile, precious, and you didn’t want to lose it. But this… this discovery could destroy everything. It terrified you. Still, pretending everything was fine felt even worse. Every time you looked at Vi, guilt twisted in your gut. You couldn’t lie to her, not while the questions burned in your chest like a wildfire. You had to find out the truth about her sister, no matter how dangerous it was or what it might cost you.

But asking Vi outright? That wasn’t an option. She’d see through you in a heartbeat, and if your suspicions were wrong, it would shatter her trust. No, you had to do this alone. Someone in Zaun had the answers, and you’d find them—no matter how long it took. And so, you started to pull away from her. Slowly. Carefully. You told yourself it was better this way, that creating some distance would make things easier for both of you. But the ache of it nearly broke you. Ignoring Vi wasn’t just an emotional wound—it felt like a physical one, gnawing at you from the inside out. Every glance you avoided, every touch you refused—it all hurt like hell. Yet you couldn’t let yourself face her, not when everything about her presence reminded you of the truth you didn’t yet have.

The bar became your hunting ground. The smoky, dim-lit room was alive with murmurs and clinking glasses, the perfect cover for your search. You paced behind the counter, ears straining for any snippet of conversation that might lead you to what you needed. Every so often, you’d grab a tray and wander between the tables, serving drinks and feigning indifference. This was Zaun. Someone always talked too much if you gave them the chance.

It wasn’t until you set down a round of cheap whiskey at table five that you caught something promising.

“Now she’s acting all high and mighty, like she’s too good for us,” a burly man grumbled, puffing out a cigar.

“Bullshit,” his friend shot back. “She’s still one of us. Always will be.”

“She used to be everywhere, you know? Drinking, fighting, playing cards at every dive in Zaun. Now she’s just… gone,” the first man spat, as though the thought physically disgusted him.

The name stopped you cold. Sevika. You’d heard whispers about her before.

“She’s still a regular at Bordelle,” the second man added, smirking. “You think she’s really gone straight? Nah, she’s just playing a bigger game now.”

“From Silco’s muscle to some fancy council member. Talk about an upgrade,” a third man muttered, taking a swig from his glass.

“More like a downgrade, if you ask me,” the first guy grunted. His eyes flicked to you then, sharp and suspicious. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Forget something?”

You froze for a moment, but quickly plastered on a smile. “Oh, no,” you lied smoothly, tilting your head like you didn’t have a care in the world. “I’m just new around here, and I’ve heard that name—Sevika. She seems important. Thought I’d ask who she is.” Your voice was light, your smile flirtatious, and it worked.

The man chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Important’s one word for it. She’s a legend ‘round here. Used to be Silco’s enforcer, now she’s on the council. If there’s something going on in Zaun, Sevika knows about it. Hell, she probably started it.”

Bingo. If Sevika was as well-connected as he said, she’d know who Vi’s sister was—and maybe more.

“Thanks for the tip,” you said sweetly, flashing a quick smile before retreating to the bar.

Your mind was racing. Bordelle. That was your next move. If Sevika was still a regular there, you’d find her. But the thought made your stomach twist. Bordelle wasn’t just any bar—it was an underground den of vice, a place where no one asked questions and everyone had something to hide. How the hell were you supposed to find someone like Sevika in a place like that, especially when you didn’t even know what she looked like?

It didn’t matter. You had to try. For Vi. For what you had with her. For yourself.

No turning back now.

Just like that, an hour later, you found yourself standing outside the bordello. Your heart pounded in your chest, hands clammy from nerves. You had no plan—no strategy—just a goal that led you straight to this place. With a shaky exhale, you pushed open the door and stepped inside. The room swallowed you whole. It was dark, like walking through shadows, with thin strands of colored light spilling from the cracks of half-closed doors. The air itself felt heavy, thick with whispers and quiet laughter, distant moans blending with muffled music. It was quiet and loud all at once, a contradiction that somehow made sense here.You kept moving, your footsteps soft on the velvet-carpeted floor as you passed by room after room. For a moment, it felt like you were trespassing—each door you passed hid lives you weren’t supposed to see. But you couldn’t turn back. There was no other way.

“Need some help, pretty girl?”

The voice behind you made you freeze. You turned, heartbeat skipping as a figure approached. She was tall—almost unsettlingly so—her dark purple hair cascading down her back in soft waves. She wore a sleek black dress, the kind that hugged her frame and split high up her thigh, showing just enough to tease. Her blue eyes were striking, almost mischievous, as they roamed over you, taking you in. She didn’t stop until she was impossibly close, the scent of her perfume enveloping you.

“I do need help,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. You leaned in just enough for your lips to brush her ear.

Her mouth curled into a smile, slow and knowing. “Whatever you need,” she purred, placing a hand lightly on your shoulder before trailing it down, the touch searing and deliberate. Then she dipped closer to whisper back. The low rasp of her voice sent chills down your spine.

“Not that kind of help, though,” you said with a sly smile, not breaking eye contact as her face hovered near yours. “I’m looking for someone.”

Her gaze sharpened, but her smirk remained. “Oh, darling,” she teased, “everyone’s looking for someone. That’s how they end up here.” She didn’t back away, didn’t make this easy.

“I’m looking for Sevika,” you pressed.

Something flickered behind those bright blue eyes. She recovered quickly, forcing herself into nonchalance, but you didn’t miss the pause.

“Oh,” she muttered softly before pulling back with another smile—still playful, though not as confident as before. “She is a regular of ours.”

Your chest tightened at her casual tone, as if Sevika was just another client rather than the person you were desperate to find. The woman tilted her head, inspecting you again, as though weighing her options.

“So,” she purred, circling you like a predator, “if I tell you where to find her, what’s in it for me?”

Your face fell. You didn’t have anything to offer—nothing valuable, anyway. Her expression said as much. For a second, you swore she enjoyed watching you flounder. Then, gathering what little boldness you had left, you took a half step closer.

“Come on,” you said smoothly, biting your lip just enough to sell the flirtation. “It wouldn’t kill you to help a pretty girl like me, would it?”The line usually worked on men—easy, predictable men—but her? Women were always harder to charm. Still, you watched her carefully as she exhaled, her shoulders dropping slightly, a wry smirk creeping across her lips as she rolled her eyes.

“You’re lucky I’m in a generous mood tonight,” she finally said, her tone edged with mock irritation. She leaned in, her lips barely brushing your ear as she whispered, “Room sixteen.”

You shivered despite yourself.

Before she pulled away, she glanced around cautiously, checking the corridor for prying eyes or ears. Her voice dipped low, warning. “Be quick. And careful. Sevika could crush you with one hand if she feels like it.” She grinned, her chuckle both amused and taunting. “Wouldn’t want that, would you, pretty girl?”

You flashed a nervous smile, already turning toward the hall leading deeper into the building. “Thanks,” you whispered over your shoulder before heading straight for room sixteen. Each step you took felt heavier, anticipation thick in your throat. You didn’t know what to expect when you got there, but one thing was certain: Sevika was close.

You hovered outside the door, your heart hammering against your ribcage as if it were trying to escape. The hallway was dead silent, save for the faint hum of voices bleeding in through the walls around you. This was it. You’d come all this way, and there was no turning back.Steeling yourself, you lifted your hand and gave the door a light knock. Polite. Measured. Anything but hesitant. You swallowed thickly, fingers brushing your thigh to keep yourself steady.

"Come in.”

The voice on the other side made you freeze. Low, commanding, and as cold as steel. Shivers ran up your spine, and for the briefest moment, you considered walking away. But no—you couldn’t. Not now. You pushed the door open slowly, careful not to make it creak, and stepped inside. The room was dimly lit, shadows lingering in the corners like silent sentinels. A faint curl of smoke filled the air, stinging your nose. Your gaze snapped forward—and there she was.

Sevika. She sat on the edge of the bed, her forearms resting casually on her knees, one hand holding a lit cigar. The smoke wafted lazily into the air, curling around her like it belonged there. She was everything people whispered about—towering, dangerous. Her short, dark hair framed a sharp jawline, and her piercing grey eyes locked onto yours the second you entered. Those eyes were unrelenting, like they could see right through you, dissecting you without her having to say a word. Her presence hit you like a physical thing, weighty and impossible to ignore. The door clicked shut behind you, and though the sound was soft, you still flinched. She noticed that. Of course, she did.

“Never seen you before,” Sevika said, her deep voice slow and deliberate, dripping with calculation. She leaned back slightly, but her gaze didn’t waver. “Must be new.”

New? Of course. What else would she think, seeing you standing there in this place? Her tone was laced with an unspoken assumption that made the back of your neck prickle.You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, Sevika shifted. She stood up—slowly, unhurried, like she had all the time in the world—and suddenly, she was there. The space between the two of you disappeared too quickly. Your instincts screamed at you to step back, but you couldn’t—not when your back was already pressed against the door.

Sevika loomed over you now, taller than you’d anticipated. The heat of her presence washed over you, oppressive and heavy, and you had to tilt your head up just to meet her eyes. Grey steel stared back, as sharp and unfeeling as a blade. You could barely breathe, though you forced yourself to hold her gaze. It wasn’t easy; nothing about this woman was easy. And then, her fingers brushed under your chin, catching it easily and tilting your face up farther. Her touch was surprisingly controlled—not rough or forceful—but there was no mistaking how dangerous it was. She was toying with you. Testing you.

And then she said it.

“Undress.”

The word hit you like a slap. Your stomach dropped, and every nerve in your body lit up at once. She couldn’t be serious—right? But Sevika wasn’t someone who joked. The look in her eyes was steady and expectant.

Your heart raced, panic nipping at your composure, but you swallowed it down, forcing your face into something neutral.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to pass,” you said, your voice quieter than you’d like but steady enough to count as controlled. You forced a small, tight smile onto your lips. “That’s not why I’m here.”

For a moment, Sevika didn’t say anything. She didn’t move, didn’t blink, just stared down at you in that suffocating silence, those sharp eyes narrowing slightly as if to cut right through you. Your pulse roared in your ears, your breath stuck somewhere between calm and barely calm. And then she exhaled. A soft sound escaped her lips—not quite a laugh, but close. Amused.

“Oh?” she drawled, pulling back just slightly, her fingers falling away from your chin. That smirk of hers tugged faintly at her lips, something dangerous dancing behind her gaze. “You’ve got some nerve,” she continued, and her voice was softer now, like she was teasing you—mocking you. “Acting so confident when you look ready to bolt.”

“Fake it ‘til you make it,” you shot back before you could stop yourself, your chin instinctively rising just a fraction. It wasn’t the smartest thing to say, but you couldn’t let her corner you any further. Even if the confidence you threw out was nothing more than a bluff. She regarded you carefully then, the faint smirk lingering at the edges of her lips, like she was trying to decide if she found you amusing or just stupid. Those grey eyes swept over you again, trailing slowly from head to toe and back up. Every second under that stare felt like walking barefoot on glass.

“You don’t look like you have much to fake,” Sevika muttered finally, amusement tinging her tone again as she stepped back. Her gaze lingered for a moment longer before she turned away, strolling lazily across the room like she hadn’t just rattled your composure to its core. She stopped near the edge of the bed, arms crossing over her chest, her back half-turned toward you as she spoke.

“You’ve got guts.” Her voice dipped lower, colder now, a warning curling around every word. “But guts don’t mean shit unless you back them up. So tell me—what makes this so important?”

It was an opening. Not much of one, but it was enough. You took a steady breath, forcing the last of your fake confidence to stick, even though your nerves still hummed under your skin like live wire. Sevika might have been testing you, sizing you up like an opponent in a fight. But this wasn’t a game you could afford to lose—not now, not with her.

“Talk fast,” her voice rang out, sharper this time. The message was clear—your time was running out.

“What do you know about Vi’s sister?” you asked, deciding it was best to cut to the chase. There wasn’t time to dance around the subject.

Sevika chuckled, her voice rough and amused, like you’d just dragged up someone from her past she’d rather forget—or maybe couldn’t. There was something bitter in that laugh, like the taste of smoke lingering too long.

“She’s dead,” she said sharply. No hesitation. No room for argument.

You shifted awkwardly, glancing around the dimly lit room. A chair in the corner caught your eye. You didn’t know why, but something told you to sit, so you did. Maybe it was her tone, maybe it was the weight of the topic. Either way, you settled in.

“Right.” You nodded as if that simple confirmation would somehow carry the weight of the dead. “Anything else?”

Sevika arched a brow, leaning back with an air of importance. “One more question, and then you’re out of here.”

Her words made it clear—she wasn’t in the mood for small talk. You hesitated but knew this was your chance.

“How did she look?” you finally asked.

Sevika tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “You sound real suspicious, you know that? What kind of question is that? You don’t know what Jinx looked like? What, were you living under a rock? Her face was plastered all over Zaun back in the day—wanted posters, graffiti. Hell, there’s even a damn memorial for her. People still dye their hair blue because of her supposed ‘heroic’ crap,” she scoffed, her lip curling. “‘Hero’ my ass.”

Blue hair. That was no small coincidence. You felt your heart start to hammer in your chest. Panic rose unbidden, and you shifted in your seat. Sevika noticed.

Her sharp eyes bore into you as she leaned forward, her voice laced with suspicion. “Why are you asking all this? What’s your deal?”

“I just moved here,” you said quickly, fumbling for the words.

“Moved here?” she repeated, leaning back with a laugh that had no humor in it. “Who moves to Zaun? You know there are better places out there, right?”

“It’s… complicated,” you murmured. “My friend is from here, so I decided to move after…” You trailed off, realizing the less you said, the better.

“Who’s your friend?” she pressed, her voice turning sharp again, demanding answers.

“Vi.”

It slipped out. You didn’t mean to say it. It was a stupid move, and the moment it left your mouth, you regretted it. Sevika’s expression twisted into something unreadable, a mix of disbelief and anger.

“If that’s true, why don’t you just ask her how her sister looked, huh? Why come here, of all places, bothering me with your sketchy little investigation?”

She was angry now, and you knew you’d worn out your welcome. Rising from the chair, you headed toward the door, your pulse pounding. You’d blown it.

“It’s hard for her to talk about it,” you mumbled, fumbling for an excuse. “Didn’t want to bring up old wounds.”

It was weak, unconvincing, but it was all you could muster as you reached for the handle. Before you could leave, her voice stopped you cold.

“She had blue flame tattoos all over her body.”

You froze, hand still on the doorknob, not daring to turn around.

“Thanks, Sevika,” you said softly, glancing over your shoulder before slipping out the door. Her eyes followed you until you disappeared down the hall. Blue hair. Blue flame tattoos. Your chest tightened, and your mind raced. Faye had blue hair. Faye had blue flame tattoos. Faye lost her parents. Faye had a sister.The parallels were too sharp, too specific to be coincidence. Vi thought her sister was gone—dead for good. Everyone thought Jinx was gone. But she wasn’t.

And now, you were the only one who knew.

Pacing through the dark streets of Zaun, your thoughts were eating you alive. The silence felt loud, your footsteps echoing as you walked in circles. You couldn’t think straight, couldn’t gather a single clear idea of what to do. Every time you tried to make sense of it, the weight of your choice crushed you all over again. It was impossible—completely impossible—to choose. Faye made it clear. She was alive, but she didn’t want anyone to know. Especially not Vi—the one person she used to love most. Faye had looked you dead in the eyes when she said it: “Promise me.” It wasn’t a request. It was a demand, and you’d sworn to keep her secret, no matter what. You made that promise. You gave her your word.

And yet… Vi.

Vi, who had lost everyone. Vi, who carried the weight of every loss on her shoulders, burying her grief so deep you were surprised she could even walk upright. Her parents were gone. Her sister was gone. Her home, her life, everything had been taken from her, piece by piece, until all she had left was herself—and whatever scraps of hope she could hold onto. Vi never said it out loud, but you knew. You saw it. You could see how she still carried Jinx with her, like a ghost chained to her heart. How could you do this to her? How could you look her in the eyes knowing what you knew and not tell her? Keeping this secret was a betrayal in itself, wasn’t it? How could you watch her mourn someone who wasn’t dead? How could you let her suffer for no reason?

But on the other hand—

Faye trusted you. She was alive, but the only thing she wanted to do was walk away. To disappear completely. If you told Vi, everything would fall apart. Vi would go after her, of course she would. It didn’t matter what she wanted. Vi would never stop looking if she found out the truth, and God only knew what would happen when she found her sister again. Because Faye wasn’t the same person anymore. You knew that much. And you couldn’t predict what a reunion would look like—if it would heal them or shatter everything into even smaller pieces. Faye would see it as a betrayal. She’d hate you forever. Each step you took felt heavier than the last, like the streets of Zaun themselves were pulling you down, feeding off the storm of guilt inside you. Your heart raced; your mind screamed. You were in too deep. There was no clean way out. No matter what you did, someone would get hurt.

By not telling Vi, you were betraying her.

By telling Vi, you were betraying Faye—Jinx—your best friend. There was no winning here.

Somehow, while lost in your own thoughts, you realized you’d stopped moving. You were standing in front of your apartment door, blinking at it like you didn’t remember how you got there. Your hands shook as you reached into your pocket, your fingers fumbling against the keys. You just needed to get inside. To shut yourself in. To sit down and—

“Hello there, stranger.”

The voice hit you like a punch to the gut. Not now.

Your heart stopped in your chest. Slowly, you turned, and there she was—Vi—leaning lazily against the wall in the faint glow of the streetlight. Her crimson hair caught the dim light like fire, and that crooked smirk played on her lips, like she had just caught you sneaking out past curfew.

“Vi…” you barely managed to say.

She pushed off the wall, taking a step closer. “Out late, huh?” she said casually, but her voice lingered just a little too long. Her eyes—those sharp, piercing eyes—studied you carefully, probably noticing the way your shoulders tensed up or the way your hand shook just slightly against the keys.Your heart dropped like a stone, heavy and unrelenting. You could barely breathe. You couldn’t deal with this. Not now. Her standing here, looking at you like that, made everything feel so much worse.

“Could say the same for you,” you muttered quickly, trying to sound normal.

She tilted her head, her brows furrowing slightly. That was the thing about Vi—she always knew when something was off. “You good?” she asked, a hint of concern slipping into her voice.

The question nearly broke you. Were you good? No. Not even close. The world felt like it was closing in on you, squeezing every ounce of air from your lungs.

“Yeah. Just tired,” you said. It was a lie, but it was all you could give her without falling apart.

Vi didn’t look convinced. She stayed there, watching you too carefully, too silently, like she could peel you open just by staring long enough. You couldn’t take it—you couldn’t take the way she looked at you like she trusted you. You turned back to the door, shaking the keys in your hand until they finally slid into the lock. Your pulse thundered in your ears as you turned the knob, every movement heavy with guilt.

“Night, Vi,” you mumbled, pushing through the door.

“Wait, what?” Vi mumbled, confused, as her hand shot out to catch the door before you could close it. There was a crack in her voice, frustration creeping in. “You can’t be serious.”

“Vi, I’m tired,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. You swallowed hard, trying to choke back the tears building in your throat. “We can talk tomorrow, okay?”

Her jaw tightened. “That’s bullshit,” she said sharply. Her voice cracked just enough to make it clear how much this hurt her. “We both know that.”

Your chest ached as her words hit you like a blow. You couldn’t look her in the eye. You couldn’t even speak. “Vi…” you mumbled weakly, taking a step inside the apartment, your hand still on the door. You couldn’t shut her out, but you couldn’t let her in either. All you could do was stand there, torn apart, staring at her like the words you needed were caught somewhere unreachable.

Her brows furrowed, her frustration sharpening as her voice grew louder. “I’m not stupid, you know that, right?” she snapped. “Since that night. Since I told you about my past, you’ve been—” She exhaled sharply, cutting herself off. “You’ve been different. Like a completely different person.”

She was stepping closer now, and for the first time in a long time, you saw the Vi you’d met at first—the Vi who was angry at the world because the world had taken everything from her. But there was something else now. Beneath the edge, there was a raw sadness that hurt even more to hear.

“Everything was going great,” she continued, her voice breaking slightly, “and then suddenly, you pull away. You go cold. Distant. Ignoring me.”

She paused, searching your face, desperate for something—anything. It wasn’t just anger anymore. It was hurt. And that was what cut the deepest. Your silence only fueled her emotions, swirling wild and untamed. She took another step closer, and this time her words weren’t sharp; they were pleading.

“What the hell happened?” she asked again, softer this time, her voice trembling as she tried to hold back whatever storm was threatening to break. “Is it me? Did I say something wrong?”

You bit your lip so hard it nearly bled. Your head screamed at you to say something—anything—but you were frozen, unable to move, unable to speak. Every part of you was screaming to reach out to her, to close the distance, to show her somehow that you still cared, that this wasn’t her fault. That none of this was because of her. But how could you? How could you explain something she wasn’t ready to know? That she couldn’t know?

Her voice wavered, sadness bleeding into every word. “Is it something from my past? Is that it?” she pressed. “Does knowing what I’ve done make you think different of me now?”

The air felt heavy—too heavy to breathe. She was breaking right in front of you, and still, you couldn’t say a damn thing.

Her frustration boiled over again, her voice rising, desperate now. “Just tell me!” she shouted, her fists clenching at her sides before her shoulders dropped, exhaustion taking over. “Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me that you don’t want me anymore and—” She cut herself off, her breathing uneven as she wiped at her face. Then, quietly, heartbreakingly, she whispered, “And I’ll be gone. You won’t have to deal with me anymore. You’ll never see me again. Just… say it.”

And then it happened.

You saw it.

The tear you’d been so afraid to see, sliding down her cheek, clinging there for just a second before falling. The Vi who never let her guard down, who carried herself with strength and stubborn pride no matter what life threw at her—she was standing in front of you, breaking.

And you’d done it.

You’d broken her.

That single tear felt like it had taken a piece of your soul with it. Your chest constricted painfully, like every breath you took now was something you didn’t deserve. Your silence wasn’t protecting her. It wasn’t sparing her pain. It was tearing her apart. YOU were tearing her apart. Vi wasn’t just angry. She wasn’t just sad. She was devastated. And somehow, in all the mess of trying to protect her, you had done the exact thing you’d been terrified of from the start.

You were hurting her.

Your hands shook as they clung to the doorframe, your throat closing up tighter with every passing second. You were doing exactly what you feared most—letting her get too close only to rip her apart in the end.

But as much as you wanted to give in, to tell her the truth, there was still something holding you back. You couldn’t let her go now. Not ever.

Instead of speaking, instead of giving her the answers she so desperately wanted, you acted-your body moving before your mind could catch up. You crashed into her, pressing your lips against hers with a fire that had been bottled up for too long. The kiss was deep, desperate, and hungry, every bit of unspoken emotion spilling into it like a wave breaking over a cliff. Your hands flew to her face, holding her as if you were terrified she might slip away, as if this kiss was the only way to tell her that she mattered, that you couldn't let her go.

Vi didn't hesitate. She didn't hold back.

Her lips pressed into yours just as hard, just as greedy, as her rough hands roamed across your back and over your waist, clutching at you like you were the last thing keeping her tethered to this world. You melted into her, letting her take you, kiss you, own you in a way only she could. You broke apart for air, breathless and dizzy, but before you could blink, her lips moved lower, trailing their way across your jawline and then down to your neck. Each kiss she placed was slow but burning, leaving soft marks as if to claim every inch of you.

You shivered as her hands gripped you tighter, holding you close as if afraid you might slip through her fingers. She pressed her body closer to yours, and in an instant, her leg shifted between your thighs, pressing her knee into you just enough to send shocks of pleasure racing through you.

A small moan escaped your lips before you could stop it, and you felt her smirk against your skin. Her lips trailed back to your mouth, and this time, when she kissed you, her tongue slipped past your lips, exploring, tasting you, and making you all the more breathless. She was relentless-hungry-and you matched her, pulling her even closer as if trying to mold yourself into her. Before you could register what was happening, Vi's strong arms lifted you effortlessly, pulling you up against her as she began moving toward the bedroom. Your legs wrapped

instinctively around her waist, her neck becoming your next target as you kissed her with the same hungry desperation she gave you. Your lips nipped at her skin, leaving marks-a trail of red marks along her neck and collarbone.

"Fuck," she groaned softly, the word dripping with lust as she stumbled into the bedroom, her control breaking piece by piece. She threw you onto the bed with a mix of strength and tenderness, her body hovering over yours, her chest rising and falling as she stared down at you.

For a second, there was a pause-Vi's gaze burning into yours. Her expression softened as she took you in. In that moment, it was painfully clear how much she missed you, how much this moment meant. The corner of her mouth twitched into the faintest smile before she got to work, her fingers trailing to the hem of your pants.

Without breaking eye contact, she started unbuttoning them, taking her time, teasing you, making every second feel like torture. You couldn't wait. Your fingers went to the bottom of your top, tugging it off and throwing it somewhere forgotten. The cool air made you shiver y ther eyes on you set your skin atlame. Her gaze lingered on your chest for just a moment before she smirked, pulling your pants off with ease, leaving you exposed before her. Without missing a beat, you grabbed the her top, lifting it up and over her head. Vi grinned, clearly enjoying this just as much as you were, before stepping back just enough to slip off her own pants.

The moment fabric was no longer between you, the world seemed to fall away. Skin to skin, inch to inch, you could feel everything. Her warmth, her breath, her strength-it consumed you completely. She wasted no time, her lips pressing back to your neck, kissing, biting softly as she trailed down toward your chest. Vi cupped one of your breasts, her fingers rough but her touch tender. When her tongue met your nipple, you gasped, arching into her. She teased you-circling, flicking, sucking-sending sparks of pleasure through every nerve in your body. You moaned, unable to stop yourself as she grinned against your skin.

You wanted her just as much, and you didn't plan to let her take control of everything. Shifting slightly, you moved your knee up between her legs, feeling just how wet she was for you. The sound that left her lips-a deep groan, filled with need-made your stomach tighten.

"Fuck," she breathed out, pressing herself harder against your leg as her hand slipped between your thighs.

"You're making me crazy."

Her fingers traced up your folds slowly, teasing you, spreading your wetness everywhere. A low whine escaped your throat, your hips tilting into her touch instinctively. She pressed down on your clit, circling it with care, her pace slow at first, almost tormenting. You moaned louder as pleasure coiled in your stomach, tilting your head back. Vi noticed, and that playful glint flashed in her eyes. Her fingers trailed lower, slipping inside you, cool against your heat. The way she moved was both gentle and rough, curling her fingers with precision, hitting every spot that made you gasp and squirm beneath her. Your body burned as she worked you up, her pace growing faster and rougher with each passing second. You could't take it anymore, digging your nails in her shoulders, desperate to hold on to something as you lost yourself completely to her touch. She suddenly pulled away, sitting back on her knees as she stared down at you-naked, flushed, and completely hers.

Her gaze was smoldering, and before you could move, she slipped her two fingers into her mouth, sucking them clean, tasting you. "You taste so fucking good," she muttered, voice heavy with want.

You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Vi held out her hand, guiding you gently until you understood what she wanted. Seconds later, you were on top of her, her hands gripping your thighs, pulling you upward, and settling you over her mouth. The strength in her hands-the sheer need in her grip-made you dizzy. You didn't hesitate, spreading your legs and letting yourself settle against her lips. Her mouth was hot, her tongue pressing into you slowly at first, teasing you. You tilted your head back, gasping as she buried herself deeper, her tongue working fast and rough as her nose pressed perfectly against your clit.

"Vi," you whimpered, your voice barely more than a breath. She groaned against you, holding you in place as you began to move, grinding slowly against her mouth. Your pace grew frantic as her tongue slipped deeper, her hands pulling you down harder, her groans vibrating against you.

It was too much.

"Fuck, fuck," you nearly screamed, your fingers tangling into her hair as your body tensed, pleasure hitting you so hard you nearly fell apart. You collapsed onto the bed beside her, your body spent, the room spinning around you. Neither of you said a word, breathing heavy and hearts racing as she wrapped her strong arms around you, pulling you close. She smiled, a mischievous glint dancing in her eyes, but there was something more there. It wasn’t just playful teasing or a flirtatious look—it was deeper, raw, and real. Her smile, though teasing, didn’t quite reach the heaviness in her gaze, like there were unspoken words lingering between you two, words you both knew but hadn’t said aloud yet. You knew exactly what it was. You’d felt it too, though you hadn’t dared to admit it until now. The unspoken bond between you two wasn’t just desire—it was something deeper, something more complicated. It was connection, raw and undeniable.

Author's note : okaaaay this is a long chapter. What do you think about it? I have been thinking about this chapter for so long, it has been a hard one to write. Do you like how's everything turning out? Please let me know! Don't hesitate to dm me if you have something to say, I would love to listen to you. I love torturing lesbians lol

[buttercandy16]

Hollow Flames

PAIRING(s): Rio Vidal x Reader

SUMMARY: Loving Rio Vidal means enduring the fire—but how much can a heart take before it burns away completely?

WARNING(s): Heavy Angst, Manipulation, and other Dark Themes.

A/N: I need to post this so bad before continuing "Asylum".

The sky was gray the day you decided to leave.

Not the kind of ominous storm gray that brings thunder and lightning, just a dull, heavy shade, weighted with the knowledge that nothing good was coming. Nothing could ever be good where Rio Vidal was concerned. You learned that the hard way—bit by agonizing bit.

You stood by the window of your shared apartment, watching distant shapes move outside. The world was bustling, alive—unlike the air inside. It had been suffocating for a while now, a thick fog of tension and sharp-edged words that lingered in every corner of your small home. And yet, she was still your sun. Blinding, scorching, and too painful to look at directly.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

Her voice cut through the silence like a blade. Low, almost a growl, just like always—Rio didn’t speak softly even when she wanted to. Her words carried weight and warning. They always had.

You didn’t turn. You couldn’t look at her, not yet. “And what is it you think I’m thinking, Rio?”

She snorted, a bitter, humorless sound. “You’re running again. That’s all you ever do, isn’t it?”

“Run?” The word lodged in your throat like glass, and before you knew it, you’d spun around, your glare meeting hers. She was there on the edge of the couch, leaning back like she owned not only the room but the world itself. Her dark curls fell carelessly around her face, a cruel contrast to the sharpness in her gaze. The look that used to set your heart on fire now left nothing but ash.

“I stayed,” you spat, voice trembling. “I stayed, Rio, while you tore everything apart. I stayed through your moods, your lies, your games. And now I’m running?”

Something flickered in her eyes—a flash of guilt maybe—but it burned out as quickly as it appeared, swallowed by the inferno of her pride. She stood slowly, with that predator-like grace that once made you feel so safe.

She didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she crossed the distance between you until she was so close you could smell her—smoke, whiskey, and faint perfume that clung to her like a memory. Her hands found your arms, gripping just enough for you to feel the strength she so carefully controlled.

“Don’t act like you didn’t love every second of it.” Her voice was quiet now, almost tender, but it carried poison underneath. “You loved the chaos. You loved me. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

“I did love you.” The confession slipped out so quietly it made you wince. “I loved you so much it destroyed me.”

That hit her harder than anything else ever could. Rio’s grip slackened, her eyes softening with something undefinable—regret, maybe, or pain. You never knew with her. Emotions crossed her face like shadows; they came and went too quickly to catch.

“You don’t walk out on someone you love,” she said finally, voice raw. “Not ever. Love isn’t supposed to be—”

“This isn’t love, Rio!”

Your voice shattered the silence, loud enough to make her flinch. Tears welled in your eyes, unbidden and unwanted. You hated crying in front of her; you hated giving her the satisfaction of seeing you this broken. But it was too late to stop now.

“It’s not love if you have to destroy me just to keep me,” you whispered. “I was good for you—I tried to be everything you needed. I gave you everything I had, and you—you left nothing of me behind.”

The silence after your words stretched between you like a chasm, deep and endless. Rio just stared at you, her expression unreadable for the first time in a long time. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely a whisper.

“So, what? You’re done?”

A painful, empty laugh broke free from your chest. “I’ve been done for a long time, Rio. I just didn’t want to admit it.”

She took a step back then, dropping her hands away like your skin burned her. You saw something unfamiliar flicker across her face this time—something closer to panic—but you didn’t stay to watch it unfold.

You turned before she could stop you and moved toward the door, every step feeling heavier than the last. For a moment, you thought she’d let you go, thought you’d walk out of that apartment with nothing more than your memories weighing you down.

But you should have known better.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me.”

Her voice came low and cold, freezing you in place. When you turned around, she was closer than before, breathing hard like she’d been the one running all this time.

“Don’t do this,” Rio muttered, and this time, there was no mistaking the desperation in her tone. “You leave now, you don’t come back. You hear me? You don’t come back.”

And yet, even as she said the words, it was clear she was begging you to stay.

You looked at her—really looked at her—and for the first time, all you saw was a woman trapped in her own brokenness, clawing at everything she loved until it turned to dust in her hands. You wanted to save her; maybe you always would. But saving her meant losing yourself, and you couldn’t afford to make that sacrifice again.

So, you turned away.

Without another word, you opened the door, stepped out into the hallway, and didn’t look back.

But even as you walked away, the ghost of Rio’s voice followed you, echoing like a curse—soft and dangerous all at once.

“You don’t come back. But you’ll wish you had.”

And God, a part of you already did.

The apartment door slammed behind you, the sound reverberating like a gunshot in your chest. You didn’t turn back—you couldn’t. But as you stepped onto the street, the weight of Rio’s voice lingered like smoke, curling into every shadow of your mind.

You don’t come back. But you’ll wish you had.

Days passed in a blur. You went back to somewhere—anywhere—that felt like safety, somewhere Rio’s shadows couldn’t reach. Friends welcomed you, but their pity was obvious. They didn’t say it, but they didn’t have to: You let it go too far. You let her ruin you.

But how could they understand? Rio wasn’t just a chapter you could close. She wasn’t a cut that would scar over and heal. She was the kind of wound that bled you dry. A part of you wanted to hate her, and yet the longing ached far worse than anything else.

At night, when sleep refused to come, you’d lie still, remembering every look, every word, every touch. Love shouldn’t feel like drowning, but she made you want to stay under the water.

And then she found you.

It was two weeks after you’d left. Two short weeks of rebuilding yourself piece by fragile piece before the foundation cracked again.

You were walking back to your friend’s apartment late one evening when you felt it—eyes watching you from the shadows. You didn’t need to see her to know it was her. Your body recognized her presence like it was burned into you.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find you?”

Her voice was calm, too calm, but there was an edge beneath it, sharp and dangerous. When you turned, Rio was leaning against the streetlight just behind you, half her face shadowed. She looked the same, as untouchably beautiful as ever—except her eyes burned with something darker.

Your heart leapt into your throat. “Rio—what are you doing here?”

“I told you, didn’t I?” she said, her voice low as she pushed off the streetlight and stepped toward you. “You don’t come back. But you still belong to me.”

“You don’t own me,” you shot back, fists trembling at your sides. But your voice wavered, and you knew she could hear it.

Rio smiled at that. A cruel, knowing smile. “Then why are you shaking?”

She wasn’t here to hurt you. Not really. But Rio had her ways of making you question everything you knew. Every time you thought you’d pulled yourself free of her grip, she was there, whispering promises that sounded like threats and threats that sounded like love.

“I let you leave,” Rio murmured as she brushed a strand of hair from your face. “But don’t think for one second that I don’t still own a part of you. You gave that to me, remember?”

Your breath hitched, a tremor running through you at her touch. “You need to let me go.”

Her hand stilled, fingers lingering at your jaw. For the first time, there was something unreadable in her eyes—a glimmer of vulnerability.

“You want me to let you go?” she whispered. “Fine. Tell me you don’t love me anymore. Look me in the eyes and say it.”

The words were there, on the tip of your tongue, but they refused to come. Because as much as you wanted to let Rio go—as much as you needed to—you still loved her. And you hated yourself for it.

She saw your hesitation and smiled softly, a victorious and heartbroken look all at once.

“That’s what I thought,” she whispered.

The days after that became a slow, suffocating push-and-pull. Rio didn’t take you back to the life you once shared—not yet—but she lingered at the edges of your world, close enough to remind you she could pull you back in anytime she wanted.

You should have blocked her, disappeared completely. But a part of you missed her—the way she looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered, the way her chaos made you forget everything else.

“You keep running,” she said the last time you saw her, eyes burning into yours. “But you’ll come back. You always do.”

You didn’t answer her.

But as you watched her disappear into the night again, you knew deep down she was right. No matter how far you ran, you’d never be free of her.

The days turned into weeks, weeks into months, but Rio’s presence never truly left you. She was a shadow lingering in the corners of your mind, a scent caught unexpectedly in passing—a phantom that refused to let go. You tried to rebuild your life, stitching yourself back together in a way that felt somewhat whole. You smiled again. You laughed. But under it all, her ghost haunted you.

It was a late winter evening when she came back—this time, not waiting for you to stumble into her world.

You returned home, to your quiet apartment, only to find her already inside. She was sitting on the windowsill, silhouetted against the cold glow of city lights. Like always, Rio looked like she belonged there—dangerous, beautiful, untouchable.

Your heart stopped. “How did you—?”

She turned, a sly smile curling at the edge of her lips, like she’d never been gone. “It’s me, baby. Locks never stopped me before, did they?”

The anger you thought had burned out reignited, a desperate flame. “You can’t keep doing this, Rio! You can’t—”

“Can’t what?” she interrupted sharply, standing now, closing the space between you in only a few strides. “Keep wanting you? Keep loving you? Because if you think I’m capable of stopping... you’re lying to yourself.”

Her words made your chest ache. “This isn’t love, Rio. It’s obsession.”

She paused at that, jaw tight, eyes flickering with something deeper—an emotion you couldn’t quite place.

“Maybe,” she said softly, her voice dropping low. “Maybe it is. But don’t you get it yet? You did this to me. You made me want you in a way I can’t turn off.”

Her hands found your face, cradling it with a gentleness you didn’t expect—but her grip was firm, inescapable. You tried to push her away, but your body betrayed you, still remembering how her touch could soothe even while it burned.

“Let me go,” you whispered, though the words lacked strength.

She shook her head slowly, her dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs.

“I can’t,” she whispered back. “You belong to me. And maybe that’s selfish, maybe it’s twisted... but tell me you don’t still feel it too.”

Her words carved through you like a knife because part of you did still feel it—that magnetic pull that had drawn you to her in the first place. It was intoxicating, ruinous, and completely impossible to ignore.

And Rio could see it—the truth you couldn’t speak.

Her lips brushed against your forehead as she murmured, “You’re mine. You always will be.”

And for the first time, you didn’t fight her. The tragedy wasn’t that you were trapped—it was that you never really wanted to escape.

Rio’s confession—you’re mine, you always will be—lodged itself in your chest like a splinter. For a moment, the air was too thick to breathe, your own heart betraying you as it hammered loudly in your ears. You hated her for saying it, and you hated yourself more for how much you wanted to believe her.

Her hands trailed down to your shoulders, holding you steady in that calm but possessive way she always did. “There’s no one else who understands you like I do,” she murmured. “No one else will ever want you the way I want you.”

You squeezed your eyes shut as if that might block out the truth. “This isn’t right,” you breathed, more to yourself than her.

Rio let out a soft, knowing hum. “No?” Her voice was low, teasing, like she was unraveling you thread by thread. “You can keep saying that, but it doesn’t make it true. You’re just scared.”

And you were scared—terrified, even. Of her, of yourself, of the way her presence was starting to feel like home again. She saw through you too easily. Rio always knew which wounds to touch, which words to say, like your soul was just another lock for her to pick.

“I came back tonight because I’m done playing these games,” Rio said suddenly, stepping back. Her gaze was locked onto yours, still burning with that quiet intensity. “No more running, no more pretending. You and I both know you don’t want me to leave.”

“Rio…” Your voice broke around her name.

“No.” She cut you off sharply, shaking her head. “You don’t get to push me away and keep hoping I’ll come back. I’m here now. You’re here. So tell me the truth, baby. What’s it gonna be?”

You didn’t answer, because you didn’t know how. Because every time you thought you’d freed yourself, she pulled you back in—and you let her. Whether it was because of love, obsession, or simply the emptiness she filled, you couldn’t tell anymore.

Rio sighed then, though there was something softer to it this time. Like she could see just how torn you were. “It’s okay,” she whispered, brushing her knuckles gently across your cheek. “I already know your answer. You don’t have to say anything.”

Her touch lingered longer than it should’ve, but you didn’t move to stop her. Instead, you stood frozen, your body betraying you all over again. Because she was right—there was a part of you that wanted her to stay, to piece you back together even if she’d been the one to tear you apart.

And Rio, the master of reading you, smiled softly at your silence.

“Good,” she said, as if this had already been settled. “Now stop pretending, baby. You and I—we’re not done yet. We’ll never be done.”

Her words wrapped around you like a noose, suffocating and warm all at once. You knew it was a warning just as much as a promise. And as she pulled you into her arms—kissing you softly, possessively, like she was sealing your fate—you felt the last threads of resistance slip through your fingers.

Because when it came to Rio Vidal, escape had never really been an option.

Aftermath: Fractured Chains

The days following Rio’s return were as volatile as they were intoxicating. You tried convincing yourself it was different this time—that she was different. That her words, her touch, her promises weren’t laced with the same obsession that had swallowed you before.

For a while, it worked.

Rio was gentler—softer, even. She smiled more, her rough edges smoothing just enough to keep you under her spell. The chaos in her voice became less biting, her anger less frequent, as if she was trying to convince both of you that she could change. That the fire within her could ever be anything but destructive.

“I told you I’d take care of you,” she whispered one night, her head resting against your lap, eyes half-lidded as you played absentmindedly with her hair. “And I meant it. You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

You wanted to believe her so desperately that it hurt. And for a brief, fleeting moment, you thought you could.

But shadows like Rio’s don’t disappear—they just learn to hide.

One evening, you overheard the call.

The unmistakable sound of Rio’s voice, low and furious, echoed through the walls of your apartment. You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but something in her tone set your teeth on edge. You stepped closer, pausing just outside the door.

“I don’t give a damn what they think!” she snapped, her voice sharp as glass. A silence followed before she spoke again—softer, yet far colder. “She’s mine. That’s all you need to know. No one’s taking her away from me.”

Your blood ran cold. The words shouldn’t have surprised you, and yet they still knocked the air from your chest. After all this time—after all the whispered assurances that she was changing—Rio was still the same. The obsession still simmered just beneath the surface, waiting to erupt.

You backed away from the door as quietly as you could, trying to collect your thoughts, your pulse thrumming wildly in your ears. Was this your life now? Had you truly let yourself fall so far back into her arms that you couldn’t escape again?

You’d wanted to fix her once. You’d told yourself that maybe your love—your devotion—could soften her edges and heal her wounds. But the truth settled in your chest like lead. Rio Vidal didn’t change. She adapted, she manipulated, she controlled.

And you? You were still caught in her web.

That night, Rio curled up beside you in bed, her arm draped protectively over your waist. She buried her face into your neck, pressing soft, lingering kisses into your skin as if to stake her claim.

“Where were you tonight?” she murmured, her voice low and affectionate in a way that made your stomach churn. “You seemed distant.”

You forced yourself to sound calm. “I was just… tired.”

She pulled back slightly, her dark eyes studying you for a moment—too sharp, too calculating. It was as though she could see straight through the lie. But instead of pressing further, she smiled softly.

“Don’t overthink things, baby.” Her lips brushed against your temple. “I’ve got you. You don’t need to worry about anything anymore. Just trust me.”

But trust was the last thing you felt.

The days became heavier after that. You couldn’t look at her the same way. Everything—the touches, the kisses, her promises—felt like chains tightening around you.

And Rio noticed. She always noticed.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked one evening, slamming a glass onto the kitchen counter when your silence stretched on too long. “You’ve been pulling away.”

You flinched at the sharpness in her tone, carefully keeping your expression neutral. “I just… I need space, Rio.”

Her laughter came bitter and harsh, a sharp contrast to her earlier softness. “Space? Don’t give me that.” She stalked toward you, her presence overwhelming as she leaned in close. “You’re mine, remember? There’s no space between us. There never was.”

Her words made something in you snap.

“No, Rio!” you shouted back, stepping out of her reach. “I’m not yours. I can’t keep pretending this is love when it’s tearing me apart.”

For the first time, Rio froze. Her dark eyes widened, and in the silence that followed, the tension between you cracked like thunder.

Her lips parted, as if to say something, but no words came. For a second, she looked lost, like a flame starved of air.

“You don’t mean that,” she whispered finally, her voice fragile—like it hadn’t been her hands that broke you in the first place. “Tell me you don’t mean that.”

But you held your ground, even as tears blurred your vision. “I can’t do this anymore, Rio.”

She stared at you for a long moment, searching your face for any sign of surrender. Finding none, the softness in her expression hardened once more, like armor slipping back into place.

“Fine,” she said coldly, though her voice shook. “Leave, then. Run, like you always do. But don’t you forget—I gave you everything. I loved you more than anyone ever could.”

She turned sharply, storming into the other room without another word, leaving you standing there, shaking and broken.

And in that moment, you knew this was the beginning of the end.

Rio’s love burned everything it touched—but this time, you wouldn’t let her flames consume you.

Not again.

The silence that followed Rio’s storm was unbearable. You stood in that empty kitchen, the weight of her final words hanging in the air like smoke. I loved you more than anyone ever could. But love, you realized, shouldn’t feel like suffocation.

That night, you didn’t sleep. Every creak of the apartment made you wonder if Rio would burst back into the room, filled with apologies or anger—or something darker. But she didn’t. The apartment felt cold without her presence, and yet the absence felt like the first breath of clean air you’d had in months.

By sunrise, you knew you couldn’t stay. You gathered what little you had and slipped out quietly, without a note, without a goodbye.

Days passed. You found sanctuary miles away, in a small, forgettable town where Rio’s shadow couldn’t reach you—at least not immediately. But her voice echoed in your mind, reminders of all the promises, the threats, the way she knew how to make you feel like you needed her as much as she needed you.

You began to rebuild yourself slowly, piece by fragile piece. Life returned in small, painful doses—a sunrise that made you feel hopeful, the laughter of strangers in a café that reminded you of what freedom once tasted like. It hurt, at first. Healing always does.

But you were getting better. Stronger. For once, you felt like yourself.

And then Rio found you.

It wasn’t a knock at your door or her waiting in the shadows. No, it started with a letter—a single envelope slipped under the door to your rented room.

You stared at it for an eternity before picking it up. There was no address. Only your name, scrawled in familiar, looping handwriting.

Rio’s handwriting.

Your hands trembled as you opened it, finding only a small note inside:

“You really thought I’d let you go? I’m always watching. You’re still mine.”

Your heart froze.

From that moment on, the paranoia crept back in, like poison flooding your veins. Every time a stranger glanced your way, you wondered if Rio had sent them. Every shadow felt heavier, every closed door no longer safe. She wasn’t here, not yet, but her presence had wormed its way into your world once again.

You thought about leaving—running again, maybe somewhere farther, somewhere Rio could never trace. But deep down, you knew the truth. You could run to the ends of the earth, and Rio Vidal would always find you.

The final time came two months later, on a night not unlike the others. You were walking back to your place after a long shift, the streets empty and drenched in quiet. It wasn’t until you reached the building’s entrance that you saw her.

Rio leaned against the railing by the stairs, shrouded in her usual dark coat. Her hair fell over her face slightly, but even in the dim glow of the streetlight, you could see it—the look. The look that pinned you in place like prey, like she already knew you wouldn’t fight.

You froze. “Rio...”

She pushed off the railing, slowly stepping closer, and as she did, her calm facade melted into something haunted—something almost tender.

“I tried to give you time,” she murmured softly, voice barely audible. “Tried to let you go. But you knew it wouldn’t last, didn’t you?”

“You don’t own me,” you whispered back, though your voice cracked.

She stopped just in front of you, her dark eyes studying your face with something unreadable—a mixture of obsession and sadness. “No,” she said quietly. “I don’t. You’re not mine because I own you. You’re mine because you’re the only thing that makes me feel alive.”

For the briefest of moments, you saw something raw—something broken—beneath her bravado.

“I can’t fix you, Rio,” you replied, tears stinging your eyes. “I can’t be what you need.”

She gave you a small, heartbreaking smile. “You don’t have to fix me.”

Rio stepped forward, pressing her forehead to yours with a gentleness that broke you apart inside.

“But if I can’t have you,” she murmured, her breath warm against your face, “then no one can.”

Your heart stopped. “Rio—”

It happened fast—faster than you could react. You felt her hands slip around you, holding you too tightly, her voice murmuring softly as you fought to break free.

“No more running. I’m keeping you, one way or another.”

In the distance, you thought you heard the faint echoes of sirens—the ones that you’d called for, just in case. But it didn’t matter anymore. Rio’s world had consumed you completely.

And as you sank into the dark, the last thing you felt was Rio’s lips pressing softly against your temple, her voice like a whisper of a prayer.

“You’ll always be mine.”

_-_-_

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[a-ikuoliver]

w/c: 1.8k tw: blood, bloody makeout, don't look at me notes: this is my first time writing toga i want her so bad tagging ml @papersirens <3

too much. too much. too much. too much. too much. too much.

friends, teachers, parents, that's all they'd ever say — every school report, every play date, every fight some variation, always too something.

"himiko," her friends would sniffle, pouting at the edge of the playgrounds, rubbing palms into their watery eyes, tossing himiko's doll at her feet, "mama says you play too rough."

too rough. too rough. too rough. too rough. too rough.

"himiko. let go." older know, she knows to obey, to loosen her grip on her best friends hand, not to argue, not to pout. "you're hurting me."

a painful pang hits her heart as miu's hand slips from her grasp, her hand flopping uselessly to her side; why didn't miu want to hold her hand? keep her close? hold her so hard she won't slip between the gaps?

too hard. too hard. too hard. too hard. too hard.

"himiko," miu's voice is soft, like feathers, like cotton, like her lips.

"please, himiko? i need to practice, yumiko said naruhito is going to ask me out friday." her voice is sweet, like sugar, like peaches, like her tongue.

practice. that's all it was. her first kiss already not really her own, it belonged to naruhito. like miu did.

"toga!" her shout is sharp, like a knife, like a razor, like glass, shattered into tiny shards at her feet.

"why would you do that!" the back of her hand comes away red when she glares at the blonde, himiko's pointed canines grazing against her bottom lip, she just wanted her, wanted her love, wanted all of her.

"you're too rough, boys don't want to kiss like that."

too much. too hard. too rough. too overwhelming. too suffocating. too much.

miu was right. no one wanted to kiss her. no one wanted to walk hand in hand. no one wanted to love her. no one wanted her affection.

"himiko," your voice is soft, like cotton, like feathers. "please, angel."

your voice is different than miu's. lower. hungrier. your grip is bruising, clutching her hips like your life depended on holding her in your hands, painted nails raking over her burning skin beneath the knitted dress.

you're breathless when you say her name, like being in her gravity sucks the oxygen from your lungs, like miu sounded talking about naruhito before she kissed toga.

your lips are less than an inch away from hers, glittering, citrine eyes staring into yours, finding nothing but the same insatiable desperation mirrored from her own; nothing like the eyes that came before you, no apprehension, none of the disappointment, the fear.

you slot between two plush thighs, pushing her dress higher on her hips with your movement, one hand sliding down past her belly button, ghosting over her hips to move to the back of her thighs, squeezing the pillowy fat there hard in your hands, gripping her like you're worried she'll disappear, slipping through your grasp.

"kiss me, please, kiss me."

himiko wants to speak, to wield a sharp tongue before you can cut her with yours, to tell you your affection meant nothing, that she was indifferent, nonchalant, unaffected, just like miu had been. another swift squeeze to her ass has her head falling back onto plush pillows instead, a low, drawn out sigh from her parted lips.

your bed is squishy, like miu's, the scent of clean cotton and your perfume filling her nose, muskier than miu's had been, the scent clouding her mind the more she sunk into the comfortable cushions.

soft.

aren't you worried she'll slice and stab and rip the softness apart? claw and cut and tear through the sweet-smelling fabric until she was surrounded by fragile feathers, floating down around her as she lies in the centre of her destruction?

you can feel her heart pounding in her chest, practically hear it in the silent room (save for your panting as you kiss her cheek and jaw) when her thighs slip apart absentmindedly, the short woven dress sliding higher on her hips at the movement, exposing just a sliver of cotton panties, already wet at the centre.

"you want me to say it again, angel? i'll say it as many times as you want to hear it." you're panting against her skin, smiling lips planting another kiss beneath her jaw, hot breath tickling the hair at the nape of her neck the more you begged. she's certain you can taste her erratic heartbeat when you lick at her pulse point, smell her desperation, her fear. like a fawn cowering beneath a wolf, your canines bearing with every word you spoke, "please, please, please."

sliding one hand up her chest, you rest it on her pulsing ribcage, just beneath her tits, your other travelling lower, easing between her thighs, feeling her heart race the closer you inched up her thigh, closing in towards her cunt.

her pupils have almost swallowed her entire amber iris, full and dark with an insatiable need, thick eyelashes fluttering when the tip of your finger ghosts over the crease of her thigh, only a breath away from her pussy. she jumps, the muscles in her thigh twitching beneath your fingers.

"i-i can't," it's the murmur of a church mouse, of tiny, wild prey, trapped beneath a murderous predator. her voice soft, like your pillows, like your hands.

"can't kiss me?" your voice is light, teasing, drawing another blissed sigh from her when you kiss the column of her throat with a grin, "or don't want to kiss me?"

god, if you knew how much she wants you. if you knew how all-consuming her appetite was. himiko sinks her claws into you, sharp plum nails digging into the meat of your upper arm, tugging you closer, closer, closer, your hips pressed to hers so hard she jerks again, hungrily searching for you. you let her, allow her to pull you where she wants you, to tug you above her, to bruise you. to mark you. have you as her own.

she waits for your yelp, your cry, 'himiko, stop, too much. too hard. too rough.'

she aches for more as she stares up at you, for your touch, your tongue, your lips, your teeth, your fingers. she can't let go of you, sinking her claws deeper into your skin, even as a bruise begins to bloom beneath painted fingertips. she feels her heart might explode beneath your hand, that your fingers will be stained with her desperation for more, her ache to make you hers.

you don't wince. you don't pull away. you don't pout. you don't tell her she's too much. you don't say anything. you only grin, biting your bottom lip before you finally dip your head to meet her lips.

your kiss is nothing like miu's, apprehension replaced with a hunger, a desperation no one's ever felt for himiko before, your tongue searching for hers, not avoiding her kiss. sighing into your lips, her spine arches into you, chest pressing to yours, rib cage to rib cage, your heart pressing to her heart. there's not an atom keeping you apart.

her hand travels down your arm, over your waist, resting on your hip where she pulls you closer again, her hips jumping to meet yours, desperate for any stimulation, for your body heat.

she thinks she hears you mumble again, a breathless plea from your mouth into hers, your sigh breathing life directly into her lungs.

pressing your hips into hers, you take advantage of her soft moan, sliding your tongue into her mouth, tasting her lips, her teeth, sucking her tongue into your own mouth. himiko all but whimpers against you, the sound high, needy.

she is needy, needs your touch, needs you to need her.

too much. too much. too much. too much.

like a mantra, she reminds herself, glass heart fracturing at the idea of your kiss laced with trepidation, of your mind racing with excuses to leave her, of you sniffling when soft skin tears beneath her razor-sharp touch.

a needle-sharp incisor catches on the plump of your bottom lip, blood already pooling to the surface, spilling into her mouth. glimmering golden eyes roll back, you taste so good, breath taking, so fucking addictive. she wants to savour your taste before you pull away, before you tell her she's too much for you, before you storm out and leave her barren of your heat, of your adoration.

"fuck, himiko," you sound… different than miu did. she spoke sharply, angry. you were… hungry, needy, desperate.

your hand slips out from beneath her dress, flying to her jaw to slam your lips into hers again, spreading blood and saliva over your lips and chin as you sloppily kissed her, your metallic tongue tracing over hers. himiko's hands follow, one forming a bruise on your ass, the other tangling at the back of your neck. she can't get close enough to you. tugging you closer, closer, closer, kissing you deeper, deeper, deeper.

her moans sound angelic, even more so when her head falls back, unabashedly loud in her pleasure when you suck on her throat, bringing blood to the surface with your tongue until you sink your teeth into her neck, at the join of her shoulder, her chest, leaving deep, purpling indents in your wake, a memory of you cemented in her epidermis for the days to come.

crimson runs down the centre of your chest, a deep vermillion trail travelling down between your tits, her tongue relentlessly chasing the taste until her face is pressed to your sternum, licking and sucking hungrily at your skin, neither of you caring about the mess of blood and saliva between you. not when her tongue was swirling between your tits, when your fingers are twitching against her plush cunt.

"himiko, himiko, himi-ko," her cat-like eyes are fogged over with lust, staring up at you, no thought in her mind other than the taste of your skin, of your blood, of your lips, teeth, tongue, of you.

blood rushes in her ears, pumping through her arteries and gathering at the base of her throat, spilling from the shallow wound on her chest, smearing between your bodies. himiko's dizzy, her head swimming when you lick at her tongue again, the taste of coppery blood spreading between your mouths; she doesn't know what's yours anymore, your saliva and blood mixing with hers between your mouths, you both becoming one.

her hand settles at your jaw, pulling your gory lips back to hers hungrily, eagerly parting your lips with her tongue, licking at the wound in your lip, your blood-stained teeth. dark red spreads between you both, from your veins to her tongue, from her tongue to your mouth, from your mouth back to hers, a terribly erotic mix of blood and saliva that had her heart racing like it wanted to jump from her rib cage into your hold, for you to hold and kiss like it was her.

"fuck, himiko," you pant, breaking the kiss to press your forehead to hers, planting kisses between every word,, between every breath, leaving pretty red marks along her jaw, "you're perfect."

she's perfect. perfect. perfect. perfect.

© all works belong to @a-ikuoliver, @gwen0m, and dlirious on archive of our own, do not plagiarise, translate, repost, feed my works into ai or recommend my work on other platforms, or bind my fanworks for sale.

[plussizefantasia]

Don't Cry over Spilled Lemonade pt.2

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x f!reader

Word Count: ~2k

Warnings: A little bit of dread on the reader's part but mostly it's fluff and yearning, just the way I like it.

A/N: hahaha I finally finished it!!!! Thanks for all the love on part one it really made me so happy to see so many people liking the little story that I wrote half asleep <3

Anthony wrestled with his thoughts for the rest of the evening. He hated himself deeply for hurting you and even more for not remembering it. Knowing himself though, he knew that his actions were probably fueled by a desire to leave the gathering and visit Siena, she had been his refuge in the years before and during Daphne’s debut. 

He would never forgive himself if the reason you would not ever stand to be in the same room with him was his naive infatuation with the opera singer. Especially given the fact that as soon as he met you all thoughts of her flew from his eyes and he never thought of her in that way again. Deep down he knew that his heart now belonged to you although that thought was much too terrifying to dwell on for more than a minute.

You on the other hand were reeling with the new information. You had vowed to hate Anthony Bridgerton until your dying day but his pleas for forgiveness had shaken your will. You still held a deep anger towards him, one that you didn’t think would go away any time soon. But it was becoming harder and harder for you to find the detestation in yours that had once been bubbling at the surface.

You didn't know what to expect from the Viscount anymore, you had always had a pretty clear picture of the man in your mind, and in one fell swoop he had shattered it like glass. Seeing him playing with his younger siblings in the park the day after your conversation in the hallway certainly didn’t help settle your mind.

If there was one thing you knew about Anthony Bridgerton it was that he loved his family. Sometimes he goes about it in the wrong way but you could tell that he does everything he does for them, even getting grass stains on his trousers because Hyancithy and Gregory are insistent that he plays tag with them in the great park.

It is their laughter that draws your attention first followed shortly by a sharp shout and even more giggles. You are fortunate enough to catch sight of the Viscount tripping and landing on his backside, his hands falling to the side of him and right into what looks to be some freshly planted flower beds. His head hangs and he takes a heaving sigh before pushing himself back up. You can’t help but laugh at the sight.

Anthony would be able to recognize your laugh anywhere, he hears it flowing through the halls of his home enough that it’s become ingrained in his mind. His head turns to where you are and your eyes meet. He is taken aback by the warmth he finds in them. How long has it been since you’ve looked at home with anything but detached coldness?

It is Hyancinth who bridged the gap between the two of you, with a shout of your name she comes bounding across the green and practically leaps into your open arms. 

“Hello sweet girl, having fun are we?” Your hand runs down the back of her head and you smile down at her.

“We were playing a game of tag, would you like to join us.” Sometimes you forget how innocent the young girl is. Her smile is contagious as it spreads across your own face.

“On any other day my darling but I’ve only cut through the park on my way to visit with Lady Danbury and you know how she is about punctuality.”

“Oh.” Her face falls and your heart follows.

“How about this? Once I am done calling upon her ladyship I shall stop by and you can finally show me the new dresses you got for dolly Molly okay?”

Her smile returns full force and she squeezes you a little tighter before conjuring up a mask of faux indifference.

“I suppose I can accept that.” 

“You’re starting to sound like Viscount grumpypants over there.” You tickle at her side.

“I heard that,” Anthony calls from a ways away, Greg held under his arm.

“I was not trying to keep quiet my Lord.” Your eyes meet his once again and Anthony cannot help the little bubbling of hope that builds inside his chest when he sees the lightheartedness contained in your gaze.

“That’s Lord Grumpypants to you.” He shoots back and delights in the way your smile widens. 

“Very well Lord Grumpypants, I must be off but I’ll see you all later.” You say the last words down at the young lady still wrapped up in your arms. You give her one final squeeze before releasing her and bowing your head slightly at her older brother. You try not to dwell too much on how much you enjoy the viscount’s smile.

Anthony takes the day in the park as a sign, one that shows him all hope is not lost. All he needs to do is fix his mistake. He craved you, that much he knew. He craved your smile and your laugh, he yearned for your kind eyes and the way you seemed to float when you walked. He has never considered himself a particularly creative man but the images his mind conjures of the two of you make him second-guess himself.

He did not have time to imagine for very long, however, as Colin was due to return today for the start of the season and Eloise seemed to need constant supervision lest she run away the first chance she got. The Danbury ball could not come soon enough.

The Danbury ball was one of legend, the older woman’s opening ball was not one to be missed as it set the tone for the rest of the season. Young women not lucky enough to gain the Queen’s favor had a second chance at the Danbury ball, a chance to show themselves off to the ton once more in the hopes of catching the eye of an eligible young man. 

You were no different than those young ladies, primping and preening all day long with the hopes that you would be able to secure a match this season before you become too old to do so. Your mother was adamant that this season had to be spectacular, you had to look and act your best always. She was weary and weeping, moaning about how you’d be letting down the family if you were unable to secure a match.

It was interesting you thought, how quickly she changed her tune. During your debut season, she had spoken dreamingly about a love match and finding happiness and now you were sure that she would shove you off to whoever if it meant that you would be married. It seemed your Mama’s greatest fear was you becoming a spinster. 

You obliged her whims, after all, you did wish to find a match. You had always dreamed of a love match. With every year that passed by the candle of hope held within your heart flickered, it was small now, but you had to admit that it still burned. You still soothed your restless nights with dreams of a husband and children, a loving home full of laughter and joy. That is the future you want, that is the future you will fight for.

Tonight you aim to make an entrance, any attention at this point is better than being snubbed. You wore a gown of deep red, with golden lace around the bodice and black and gold beading around the waistline and down the back. Your maid pulled and twisted your hair, piling it upon your head and creating a bold and dramatic look. You were going to pull attention, you had to.

And pull attention you did, from the moment you entered the ballroom all eyes were on you. Ladies whispered and hid behind their fans. Men stood in circles with their peers but you caught the glance of more than one bachelor. And yet, nobody had approached you. You were beginning to feel the flash in your cheeks. Perhaps this was too much, such boldness was offputting and you should have stuck to the known. Dressed in soft pinks and whites, proclaiming purity and softness. 

Anthony was beside himself. You were the most ethereal creature he had ever had the privilege of laying his gaze on and he wished to spend the whole night by your side; catching up on all the lost time. He knew though, that you would never allow that, and he would rather die than hurt you again. 

So he watched and watched and watched. As time ticked on those cowards kept you waiting. Dances began and ended, people arrived and left and all the while you were stood, bathed in candlelight and alone. 

The sun had long since set and you were done. No longer would you endure this embarrassment. You had followed your gut and put yourself out there and it had failed. You were destined to be alone you suppose.

Just as you were getting ready to turn away and retreat back to the safety of your family home a hand entered your sight. Palm up and inviting, your eyes traced slowly up the arm and towards the face of the gentleman who had finally put you out of your misery.

Anthony Bridgerton stood before you, arm outstretched and a small smile on his face. “A lady as beautiful as yourself does not deserve to spend the whole night without a single dance.” 

“Are you offering?” You looked him in the eye and raised a brow. This was the first time since your conversation in the hallways that Anthony had approached you without one of his siblings present to be a buffer.

“I’m giving you an opportunity.”

“And what might that be?” You tilted your head to the side and watched as a smirk slowly spread across his face.

“You have a choice, right here and right now. Either grasp my hand and we dance the rest of the night away, opinions be damned. Or you snub me, snub me like I snubbed you that night, and get your revenge.”

You exhale a laugh and look at him. His face held a smile but also a certain seriousness that belayed his intention. This was him making it up to you. He would accept rejection if that is what you wanted. 

Here he was, the man who had hurt you and who you still held a flame for offering himself up to like a lamb to slaughter. 

You must’ve been taking a long time to answer because the Viscount began shifting on his feet. He looked around the room at the other couples who began to take to the dancefloor.

“I do not mean to rush you my lady, but the dance will be starting soon.”

“Anthony you must promise me.”

“Anything, name it and it’s yours.” 

“Promise me that you will never hurt me again, I don’t think my heart could take it.” You took his hand. And let your lips curve into a gentle smile.

He pulled your hand wrapped within his own close to his heart, and vowed, “I will do everything in my power to protect you for the rest of my days, even if the one I am protecting you from is myself.”

“I don’t need protection Anthony,” you looked deeply into his eyes, “I just need your love, honest and true.”

“Then you shall have it.” 

Anthony pulled you to the dancefloor and led you in far too many dances to be appropriate that night. And every night for the rest of the season. And neither of you cared about what the rest of the ton had to say. You had each other, finally, and neither of you was letting go anytime soon. 

taglist: @ilikestuffs-stuff @cat-lockwood @wolf-phoenix-lover

@tenshis-cake @bridkesby @divergentalwaysandforever-blog @lillysfrogsandbogs @unholyhuntress

[elixirina]

WELCOME & GOODBYE — natasha romanoff x gn!avenger!reader

in which... you thought you and natasha had something special. did you do something wrong?

warnings... angst (are you even surprised?), regular avengers mission stuff, tony yelling at the reader :(, and natasha being lwk mean, hurt/no comfort, lwk unrequited love, lwk not proofread

note... "Hey! If your requests are still open: Reader, who has been an avenger and known Natasha for over a year. Who has stayed up late at night talking about random shit and comforting each other for a good portion of that. Who, then, during what seems like a normal late night conversation turns into Natasha saying, "We're not close" after reader expressed they'd feel devastated if something happened to her. Reader then shutting down and basically becoming an empty husk. Maybe becoming reckless during missions. Thanks for considering! I enjoy your stories!" - i really liked this request because yall know i love angst, so enjoy this!! maybe part two if you guys like it.

from where you stand, the avengers tower feels impossibly tall, it's gleaming facade of steel and glass catching the fading sunlight. the large 'A' at the top glows faintly, its light cutting through the hazy sky. it's meant to be a symbol of hope, but up close, it feels colder than you imagined. more fortress than home.

as you step inside, the hum of technology greets you, soft and unrelenting, like the tower itself is alive. the blue-tinted lights along the walls seem to strip the warmth from the space, casting everything in shades of gray.

the corridors stretch endlessly, polished floors reflecting your rather hesitant footsteps. there's a quiet here that always feels unnatural, like the kind of silence you expect from the aftermath of an argument or just before something breaks. when you pause to glance out of a window, the view is so breathtaking.

new york city sprawls beneath you, glittering and alive. but it feels distant today, like you're watching a movie on mute. the labs you pass are buzzing with soft whirs and beeps, glowing screens filed with data you can't even begin to understand.

it's impressive, but also intimidating, a constant reminder of just how much responsibility rests on the shoulders of the people who walk these halls.

you were on your way to your own quarters. why did you feel so lost? it felt like all the walls were closing in on you.

the halls are quiet, too quiet. every one of your footsteps echoes, too loud against the polished floors. the air feels heavy, as if it carries the weight of every mission, every mistake, every sacrifice, every one of your faults. you pass by the living quarters, sleek and sterile, designed for convenience rather than comfort.

the common areas are empty, filled with untouched furniture and the faint scent of coffee long gone cold.

it's as though the building itself is holding its breath, waiting for something to shatter the silence.

and yet, it's not the tower that makes your lifestyle bearable. it isn't always the satisfaction of helping people. it's her.

natasha.

she has a way of grounding you, of cutting through the weight of it all with a single glance. it's not just her presence, though that alone feels like enough to keep the walls from closing in; it's the way she sees you. really sees you, even when you don't want to be seen. in a place that feels so impossibly vast and yet so claustrophobic, she's the one thing that feels solid, real.

it's in the way she moves, effortless but deliberate, as if she belongs here in a way no one else does. her voice, calm and steady, has a way of softening the sharp edges of the tower. when she's around, the cold steel walls feel a little less harsh, the silence a little less suffocating.

she doesn't need to say much--she never does--but somehow, she always knows what you need to hear.

the tower is still the same--tall, unyielding, and distant. but when she's near, it feels a little less like a cage. when she looks at you, it's like the weight of everything doesn't matter as much. it's not that the burden disappears; it's just that, with her, it feels a little lights. a little easier to carry.

it's been like that since day one. being a shield agent was all you thought your life was worth. you helped out, sure, but the credit wasn't always given to you. when you were offered a spot as an avenger, you found it impossible to believe.

they could've chosen anyone, yet you made the cut.

you accepted, of course, and the moment you started, everything was amazing. maybe it was the adrenaline rush. but after a couple months in, you were drained. suffocating. the whole experience felt alienating.

you and natasha hit it off immediately, just casually finding different times to talk. those conversations would go on for hours, the two of you never finding somewhere to stop. and if you did, it's due to the fact that you've fallen asleep together.

those moments with her were something you cherished ever so deeply. you couldn't see your day go on without them.

the conversations ranged from lighthearted banter about clint's terrible taste in music to heavier topics--the kind of raw truths that only surfaced when the world fell asleep, and your walls could come down.

natasha's walls had always been higher, sturdier, but even she had let a few cracks show over the months. she'd told you about her childhood, her regrets, and her fears, her voice steady even when her words were not. in turn, you'd shared your own burdens, feeling safe in the quiet connection you thought you had with her.

being able to come back to the tower after a rough mission and being comforted immediately after made your heart want to explode. after a while, you just couldn't be casual about it.

you'd been an avenger for almost two years now, and apart from the undeniable satisfaction of saving people, she was what you looked forward to at the end of the day.

after one particularly rough mission, you found yourself scanning the tower for your red-headed beauty best friend.

natasha's sprawled out on the rough couch in the living quarters and it doesn't take you long to find her. as you settled yourself on one of the plush chairs, you muttered out a "hey" and she lets out a soft hum.

she's obviously exhausted, and you know she didn't handle herself okay when this was the case. so you ask a rather stupid question, "you okay?" you almost planted yourself on the ground for pulling the stupidest question out of your ass.

the red-head propped herself up with her elbows--a thing she did that you always thought was rather attractive. she gave you a look that practically gave you the answer.

you sighed, hugging one of the fur pillows close to your chest. changing the subject would be the easiest thing to do.

"okay... weirdest thing you've eaten on a mission?" you asked, a soft smile on your face as you leaned back on the chair.

natasha sat up, biting back a smile. "what?"

you blinked, "you heard me."

the woman smirked, tilting her head in though. "a cricket."

your lips fell into a thin line. "a cricket?" you repeated.

she nodded, her expression nonchalant. "deep-fried. crunchy. it was actually quite decent."

"ugh," you groaned, wrinkling your nose. "you're braver than me."

"that's not exactly the word i'd use," natasha teased, her lips twitching into a small smile.

moments like this, where her guard came down even just a little, made you feel like you were glimpsing a side of her that no one else got to see. a side she didn't let many people near.

"well, you win," you said, raising your hands in surrender. "the weirdest thing i've eaten is a half-melted protein bar that i found at the bottom of my bag. that probably doesn't even qualify."

"not even close," natasha quipped, the corner of her mouth lifting in amusement.

a comfortable silence settled between you, the kind of quiet you'd only recently realize you appreciated. with most people, silence felt awkward, like you had to fill it with noise. with natasha, it felt... safe

you glanced over at her, the words on the tip of your tongue before you even realized you were going to say them. "you know, i don't think i've ever had anyone in my life who gets me the way you do."

natasha's gaze flicked to you, her expression unreadable, and for a moment, you wondered if you'd gone too far. but you pressed on, feeling like this was a rare moment to be honest with her.

"i mean it," you said, your voice softer now. "these nights, just talking like this... they've kept me sane. you've kept me sane." you hesitated, swallowing hard before continuing. "and i know i don't say it enough, but... you mean a lot to me, natasha. i mean, if something ever happened to you, i don't think i'd recover."

you hadn't planned to say that last part. the vulnerability of it felt too raw, too much, but it was the truth.

natasha's expression shifted slightly, her mouth opening as if she was about to respond, but then she stopped.

you waited, your heart thudding in the silence. "nat?" you prompted, your voice tentative.

when she finally looked at you, her eyes were distant, her expression carefully neutral. "we're not close," she said, her voice eerily calm but firm.

it felt like the ground had crumbled beneath you. "what?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"we're not close," she repeated, her tone colder this time. "you think you know me, but you don't. you don't know what i've done, or who i really am. these conversations... they don't mean what you think they do."

you stared at her, stunned into silence. "but... i thought--"

"you thought wrong," she interrupted, her words cutting through you like a blade. her expression didn't waver, and that was the worst part--how composed she seemed, like she hadn't just shattered something inside you.

"i see you as a teammate," natasha continued, her voice emotionless. "nothing more."

for a moment, you couldn't breathe. you wanted to say something, to argue, to demand an explanation, but all the words died in your throat.

"i think i'm going to call it a night," natasha said, standing. she didn't look as she spoke. "goodnight."

and just like that, she was gone, leaving you alone in the dimly lit room.

you sat there for what felt like an eternity, staring blankly at the space where she'd been. her words echoed in your mind, over and over again, until they were all you could hear.

"we're not close."

the truth of it stung more than you thought it would.

the mission in paris was supposed to be straightforward. in and out, minimal casualties, quick extraction. but it all went sideways when you made the decision to split up--ignoring steve's orders, ignoring tony's voice crackling through your earpiece telling you to stick to the plan.

there was no reason for it, no logic behind your decision. you just couldn't stand the thought of standing still, of waiting for the inevitable--whatever that may be. natasha’s words had shattered something inside you, and now you were just reacting.

the battle raged on. you fought like a machine, but you were anything but. your moves were reckless, too fast, too eager to prove you could still keep up. you dodged fire and threw yourself into the fray, not caring if you got hit.

when tony’s voice came through your comms, it was sharp, demanding. “y/n, fall back. now. you’re outnumbered.”

but you didn’t listen. you couldn’t.

“y/n, damn it, i’m serious. what the hell is going on with you?” tony’s frustration cut through the static.

“i’m fine,” you muttered, voice hoarse, even though you weren’t.

the mission ended in chaos. by the time you made it to the extraction point, bruised and battered, you couldn’t look anyone in the eye. you had made stupid decisions, and the team had suffered for it. but the worst part? you didn’t care as much as you should have.

back at the compound, you knew the lecture was coming. tony, steve, and clint had all gathered in the debriefing room, waiting for you. you could hear their murmurs as you made your way toward them, but you didn’t feel any relief at being home.

you stepped into the room, your eyes focused on the floor.

“sit down,” tony ordered, his voice clipped.

you took a seat, the weight of his gaze heavy on you.

“we’ve got to talk about what happened,” steve began, but tony cut him off, his tone rising.

“i don’t want to hear any more excuses. y/n, you almost got yourself killed today. you were out there acting like you didn’t give a damn about the mission or anyone else’s safety. what the hell is going on?”

you swallowed hard, fighting the lump in your throat. the words natasha had said to you that night, when you’d bared your soul, suddenly seemed to suffocate you. you had tried to pretend they didn’t hurt, but now, in front of tony’s fiery gaze and steve’s concerned eyes, they were the only thing you could think about.

“i’m fine,” you muttered, your voice too quiet. too weak.

“no, you’re not,” tony retorted, voice low and dangerous now. “stop lying. you’re falling apart, and you’re dragging everyone down with you.”

you didn’t say anything. you didn’t have an explanation. how could you? you were lost in the aftershock of Natasha’s rejection, and no matter how hard you tried to push it down, it always resurfaced. god, it was so stupid.

“you know what? fine. If you’re too stubborn to get your shit together, maybe we’ll have to bench you for a while,” tony snapped.

the words hit you like a punch to the gut. you couldn’t even bring yourself to care.

“tony, that’s too far,” steve interjected, but tony’s expression was cold, his anger boiling over.

“no, it’s not. you’re not invincible, y/n,” tony shot back, his eyes narrowed. “if you can’t focus on the mission, then you’re not helping anyone. and I’m not risking the team because of some personal... whatever this is.”

you sat there in silence, the sting of his words sinking deep, and all you could think about was how everything had been so much simpler before. before natasha made you feel like an afterthought, before you felt like you were just another expendable member of the team.

“i’m fine,” you repeated, though it didn’t feel like the truth anymore.

but the truth didn’t matter, did it? no one cared about your pain.

and you should've known a black widow would never hold back her venom for anyone.

ha no happy ending love ya

[woso-story]

The Weight Of Love And Loss - Part Three

Alexia Putellas x Reader - Part One Two Four Five Six Seven Eight Last Part

Alexia had always been a fortress. Steady, composed, unshakable. But now, sitting alone in the darkened apartment, she felt more like the ruins of one. Her mind replayed the moment she walked into the empty apartment—your words, your tears, the note.

Each memory struck like a dagger, sharp and deep. She hadn’t been able to get out of bed since then. Food went uneaten, water untouched. She didn’t have the energy to face her rehab sessions or answer the concerned calls from her teammates and family. She didn’t even have the energy to hate herself for it.

Instead, Alexia lay in the silence, letting the pain engulf her. The injury had taken so much—her joy, her freedom, her sense of purpose. And now, it had taken you, too.

---

When Alexia didn’t show up to rehab for the third time in a row, the team began to worry. It wasn’t like her to disappear without a word. The staff tried calling, the players sent messages, but nothing.

Mapi had a sinking feeling in her gut. She’d been best friends with Alexia for years, and while Alexia could be stoic, she had never been this unresponsive.

“Something’s wrong,” Mapi said to Patri at training that morning.

Patri nodded solemnly. “You should check on her.”

Mapi didn’t waste any more time. After training, she drove straight to Alexia’s apartment. The streets of Barcelona blurred as her mind ran through worst-case scenarios.

When she arrived, she knocked firmly on the door. “Alexia! It’s me. Open up!”

Silence.

Mapi knocked again, louder this time. “Alexia! Come on, I know you’re in there!”

Still nothing. She sighed, pulling out the emergency key Alexia had given her years ago. Sliding it into the lock, Mapi stepped into the apartment.

The first thing she noticed was the eerie stillness. The curtains were drawn, leaving the space cloaked in shadow. The air felt heavy, oppressive, like it hadn’t been stirred in days.

“Alexia?” Mapi called cautiously as she walked further inside.

Her gaze swept the living room. No sign of Alexia. Then she noticed the shattered glass on the kitchen floor and felt a pang of alarm. She quickened her pace, heading straight for the bedroom.

---

Mapi pushed open the bedroom door and immediately had to adjust to the darkness. It took her a moment to spot Alexia, curled up under the blankets on the bed.

“Alexia?” Mapi called softly, stepping closer.

Alexia didn’t respond. She lay still, her face barely visible in the dim light, but the faint sheen of dried tears on her cheeks was unmistakable.

Mapi walked around the bed and sat down on the edge. She reached out and gently touched Alexia’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s me,” she said. “What’s going on?”

For a moment, Alexia didn’t move, didn’t even blink. Then, in a voice so small it was almost a whisper, she said, “She’s gone.”

Mapi frowned, confused. “What do you mean? Who’s gone?”

Alexia’s breath hitched, and fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. Her voice broke as she said, “She left me, Mapi. I pushed her away, and now she’s gone.”

Mapi’s chest tightened at the sight of her best friend so utterly devastated. She scooted closer, pulling Alexia into a hug. Alexia clung to her, crying so hard her body shook.

“I’m so sorry,” Alexia sobbed. “I messed everything up. I didn’t see it—how unhappy she was. I didn’t listen.”

Mapi held her tighter, her voice firm but soothing. “Shh, it’s okay. You’re going to be okay. You’ll get through this.”

Alexia shook her head against Mapi’s shoulder. “I don’t know if I can. I’ve lost her. I’ve lost everything.”

Mapi’s heart broke at the raw pain in Alexia’s voice. She stayed with her, letting her cry until the sobs quieted and Alexia’s breathing evened out. Eventually, Alexia fell into a restless sleep, her head resting against Mapi’s shoulder.

---

When Alexia woke up later that evening, Mapi was still there, sitting beside her on the bed. She handed Alexia a glass of water, watching as her friend sipped slowly, her eyes red and swollen.

They moved to the kitchen, where Mapi made tea while Alexia sat at the table, staring at her hands.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Mapi asked gently as she set a cup in front of Alexia.

Alexia hesitated, but then the words came spilling out—how you’d left, how she’d neglected you, how she’d been so consumed by her injury and her own frustration that she hadn’t realized what she was losing until it was too late.

“I thought if I could just get better, everything would fix itself,” Alexia admitted, her voice cracking. “I thought she’d understand, that she’d wait for me. But I was so wrong, Mapi. I didn’t even try to meet her halfway.”

Mapi listened intently, her expression soft but serious. When Alexia finished, she reached across the table and took her hand.

“Alexia,” she said firmly, “if she means this much to you, you need to fight for her. You need to talk to her. Explain everything. And if she needs time, you give her time. But you can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

Alexia’s eyes filled with tears again, but she nodded. “What if she doesn’t want to hear it?”

“Then at least you’ll know you tried,” Mapi said. “But I don’t think she’s done with you, Alexia. I think she’s hurt, and she has every right to be. But if you’re honest and show her you’re willing to change, I think she’ll listen.”

Alexia gripped Mapi’s hand tightly, her resolve hardening. “I need to call her.”

---

Meanwhile, you sat in your best friend Luisa’s apartment, curled up on the couch with a blanket draped over your shoulders. The past few days had been a blur of emotions—anger, sadness, regret, and guilt all swirling together.

You couldn’t stop thinking about Alexia. About her laugh, her smile, the way she used to look at you like you were her whole world. And about how that world had shifted, leaving you behind.

The tears came easily, but they were exhausting. You hadn’t been to work, calling in sick because the thought of pretending everything was fine was too much to bear.

Luisa walked into the living room and immediately saw the state you were in. She didn’t say anything, just sat down next to you and pulled you into her arms. She’d been your anchor through all of this, letting you cry when you needed to and distracting you when you couldn’t cry anymore.

Later that evening, you sat together on the couch, watching an episode of Modern Family in an attempt to lighten the mood. It helped, a little. But then your phone rang, and your heart dropped.

Alexia’s ringtone filled the room, and you stared at the screen, your heart breaking all over again at the sight of her name and the picture of the two of you smiling together.

“Are you going to answer?” Luisa asked gently.

You shook your head, declining the call.

The phone rang again. And again.

On the third call, you hesitated, your mind racing. What if it was an emergency? What if she needed you? But then you remembered the last time you’d begged Alexia to talk, and she’d brushed you off.

“It’s not your problem anymore,” you muttered to yourself, trying to convince your heart to listen.

Luisa touched your arm. “Should I answer the phone?,” she asked quietly.

You shook your head, declining the call again. But before you could put the phone down, it dinged with a message:

“Please.”

Another ding. “It’s important, please answer the phone.”

And then the phone started ringing again.

You stood abruptly, muttering an apology to Luisa before stepping onto the balcony and closing the door behind you. The cold air stung your skin, grounding you as you stared at the phone in your hand. With trembling fingers, you answered the call but said nothing.

“Are you there?” Alexia’s voice came through the line, hesitant and soft.

You hummed in acknowledgment, still unsure if you could handle this.

“I need to talk to you,” Alexia said, her voice cracking.

You couldn’t help the bitter laugh that escaped your lips. “Now you want to talk? After months of ignoring me, of shutting me out, now you suddenly have time?”

Her sharp intake of breath told you your words had hit their mark.

“I know,” she said quietly. “I know I don’t deserve this. I know I hurt you. But please, I just need one chance to explain.”

You wanted to say no. You wanted to hang up and block her number. But there was something in her voice—desperation, maybe, or regret—that made you pause.

“One conversation,” you said finally, your voice firm. “That’s it.”

Before Alexia could respond, you hung up, your hands shaking as you gripped the balcony railing.

Inside, Luisa was waiting for you, her expression concerned. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, but the truth was, you didn’t know. All you knew was that this wasn’t over—not yet.

[lilmisssona]

꥟˚｡Love Unexpected ꥟˚｡

꥟˚｡Pairing - Lee Know × Fem Reader

꥟˚｡Plot - Two years after a horrible accident, YN is left paralyzed but secretly finds purpose in a quiet job. The stranger who saved her life reappears unexpectedly at her workplace, stirring emotions and memories she thought were buried. Their fateful encounter raises questions about second chances and unspoken connections.

꥟˚｡Genre - Angst, Trauma, Hurt, Comfort, Fluff

꥟˚｡Warnings - Mention of accident, blood, trauma, paralysis, anxiety, insecurities of yn, mention of the word gore, hurt to comfort, au, non idol au, Strangers to lovers au

꥟˚｡Word Count - 10.8 K ꥟˚｡Screenshot Count - 4

꥟˚｡A/N - Staymas Episode 2 is here! Dive into Y/N’s emotional journey of healing and rediscovery after life-altering events, and witness how Minho’s unwavering love and support become her guiding light. A story of resilience, love, and finding hope again. ( Inspired by Japan's Dawn Robo Cafe for disabled workers ) It's just slightly proofread so apologies for any mistakes 🙂‍↕️

꥟˚｡SKZ Masterlist ꥟˚｡Staymas Masterlist

The neon lights of Tokyo stretched endlessly, their vibrant colors blending together in the misty evening air. As you hurried down the crowded sidewalk, your breath formed small clouds, visible in the crisp chill of early winter. The rain from earlier had left the pavement slick, creating mirrors that reflected the glow of countless shop signs, vending machines, and the steady stream of passing cars. The city felt alive, buzzing with energy, but all you could focus on was the time ticking away. You were late…again.

“They’re going to kill me,” you muttered under your breath, gripping the straps of your bag like a lifeline. You had promised to be on time for the movie night, yet here you were, rushing through the streets twenty minutes after it had already started. The culprit? A last-minute customer at the café, who wanted all of the last stock left for the puddings.

Your phone vibrated incessantly in your pocket, no doubt another flurry of teasing texts from your friends. They loved to give you a hard time for always being late, and this would only add to their ammunition. You didn’t dare check the messages yet; it would only slow you down.

The crosswalk ahead blinked green just as you reached it. A small blessing. Without hesitation, you broke into a jog, your footsteps echoing faintly against the damp asphalt. The weight of guilt pressed heavily on your chest as your mind scrambled to come up with a plan.

"Should I bring snacks to make up for it?" you thought, already considering a detour to the nearest convenience store. "Maybe that’ll soften the blow. But what if they’re already too annoyed to let me in?"

Pulling your phone from your pocket, you quickly typed out a message to your friends, asking if they wanted anything specific. Your thumb hovered over the send button when a sharp, blaring horn shattered your concentration.

The world seemed to freeze.

Your head snapped up, and your eyes locked onto a truck barreling toward you, its headlights glaring like twin suns cutting through the darkness. Time moved in slow motion as panic gripped your entire body. Instinctively, your legs pushed you forward, trying desperately to cross the street, but it was too late.

This can’t be happening.

The impact came like a thunderclap, a brutal force that knocked the air from your lungs. Pain exploded through your body as you were flung backward. The world spun wildly,a chaotic blur of neon lights, muffled screams, and the distant screech of tires. When your body finally hit the ground, the cold, unforgiving pavement sent a jolt through you.

You tried to breathe, but each inhale was shallow and sharp, like your ribs were made of glass. Every part of you ached, your arms, your chest, your head. But what terrified you most was the eerie numbness in your lower body.

Your legs.

You tried to move them, but they wouldn’t respond. Panic clawed at your throat as the realization sank in. Something was horribly wrong.

Before your mind could spiral further, you felt a pair of strong arms scoop you up from the pavement. Warmth flooded over you as your cheek pressed against someone’s chest.

His scent-woodsy, clean, and faintly familiar,calmed you in a way you couldn’t explain.

“Stay with me,” he said, his voice deep and steady, cutting through the haze of pain and confusion.

You squinted, trying to focus on his face, but the pounding in your skull blurred your vision. All you could make out was the faint outline of his jaw and the shadows of his features against the streetlights. It seemed like you've seen him before, but where ?

“Who… who are you?” you managed to whisper, your voice trembling with pain and fear.

“Can you hear me? Are you okay?” he asked, his tone gentle but urgent. He shifted you slightly in his arms, cradling you as if you were made of glass.

“My… my legs,” you stammered, tears spilling over as you struggled to get the words out. “I can’t… feel them.”

His grip on you tightened just slightly, a quiet curse escaping under his breath. “Don’t worry about that right now,” he said, his voice firm yet soothing. “We’re almost there. Just hold on.”

The sound of approaching sirens grew louder, mingling with the distant hum of the city. Each step he took was deliberate and steady, as if he was determined to keep you safe no matter what.

Your vision blurred as the voices of the paramedics grew louder, their words a distant hum against the roaring chaos of your mind. The relentless pain and exhaustion finally overwhelmed you, lulling you into a deep, heavy sleep. The darkness took hold, pulling you further away from reality.

The last sensation you felt before slipping into unconsciousness was his hand,warm, firm, and undeniably reassuring, gently squeezing yours. His voice followed, low and steady, like a lifeline in the storm.

"You're going to be okay."

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

Two years had passed since that fateful evening.

Minho stepped off the bustling train platform in Tokyo, the city’s vibrant energy hitting him like a wave. It was a stark contrast to the quieter streets of Seoul, where he'd spent the last couple of years, working tirelessly to climb the ranks at his job. And now, he was back in Tokyo, taking on a new position. Not even two weeks into the job, and already, he found himself buried in meetings and overwhelmed by tight deadlines, leaving him exhausted.

One evening, with no work to occupy his mind, Minho decided to take a stroll around the city to clear his thoughts. The cold December air hit him sharply as he stepped out of his apartment, but there was something in the atmosphere that urged him to walk. Whistling a soft tune, he wandered through his neighborhood, which, to his surprise, was unusually quiet even in the early evening hues of 6 pm. Of course, people were likely busy, either shopping for the holidays, nestled in the warmth of their homes, or working, just as he had done for most of his days.

After hours of aimless walking, he found himself on a street that seemed strangely familiar. At first, he couldn’t place the memory, but as the traffic light turned green and he crossed the street, it hit him like a truck. This was the same street where the accident had occurred,the one where he had saved that woman….

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

Two years ago, Minho's friends were having a get-together, and he had one simple task: bring dessert. Yet, as always, he had forgotten. Panic set in as he rushed through the streets, desperately searching for any café or restaurant still open that evening. Unfortunately, the city seemed to have shut down after 8 PM. He ran through neighborhood after neighborhood, street after street, but every café he passed was dark and locked up tight.

Finally, in the last neighborhood, feeling defeated, he was about to turn back when a soft glow from an establishment caught the corner of his eye. It looked like a café from a distance. His legs moved automatically in that direction, hoping, praying they still had any desserts left. Huffing and puffing, he pushed through the door, the sudden entrance startling the woman who was packing up some boxes for closing.

"Sorry," Minho said, breathless as he approached the counter.

"We’re about to close, sir," she replied, her voice distant, her attention still on the boxes.

"I’m so sorry for barging in last minute," he blurted out in a rush. "I completely forgot to bring dessert to a get-together with my friends, and every café in the neighborhood seems to be closed. If it’s possible, could you sell me any puddings you have left? I’ll take them all and be on my way."

He spoke so quickly that he almost didn’t pause for a breath, but still, she didn’t look up. The sincerity in his voice, however, seemed to reach her, and she paused her work, glancing up at him. She walked over to the counter, her gaze softening as she met his eyes.

"We’re closing, sir. I don’t think it’s possible," she said gently, though there was a hint of regret in her voice.

Minho felt a pang of disappointment but couldn’t help but notice how sweet her voice was, like honey. He blushed, and the warmth spread across his cheeks as he looked back at her. "I’m so sorry, I humbly request just a couple. I’ll pay, and I’ll be out of your way, I promise. It won’t take long."

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

From the woman’s perspective:

The man in front of her looked to be about the same age, his face a perfect mix of soft features and a sharp jawline. Even in a basic hoodie, sweat dripping from his face from his rush, there was an undeniable handsomeness about him. She felt a sudden catch in her throat, and for a moment, she was at a loss for words.

"Is that okay?" he asked again, his voice pulling her out of her daze.

"Y... yeah," she stammered, shaking herself from the shock. "We have a couple of puddings left. How many do you need?"

"Thank you," Minho replied, a grateful smile lighting up his face. "Could you pack 20, please?"

She nodded, quickly starting to pack a box full of puddings. Under her breath, she cursed as she glanced at the clock, she was running late.

End of her POV.

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

Half an hour had since passed and Minho was rushing back to his friend's apartment when the scene unfolded in front of him. A truck barreled down the street, and there she was-the same woman from the café-standing frozen in its path. His heart dropped as he realized what was about to happen. Panic set in as he scrambled to help her, dropping the box of puddings he was carrying. But it was already too late. The truck struck her with full force, throwing her into the air. Her body slammed into the cold pavement with a sickening thud, and a pool of blood began to spread from beneath her head.

Minho didn't hesitate. He ran to her side, desperately trying to scoop her up. His phone was in his hand, but when he tried to call an ambulance, no one picked up. The nearest hospital was ten minutes away, and he knew carrying her was the only chance he had to save her. Adrenaline surged through him as he lifted her into his arms and began running, each step feeling like a race against time.

He spoke soothingly to her, trying to keep her awake. " Stay with me! She stirred beneath his touch, murmuring softly, "Who are you?"

Minho felt a rush of relief when he saw that she was still conscious. His voice, though gentle, carried a trace of urgency as he asked, “Are you okay? Can you hear me?” His words, meant to comfort, felt hollow, as if they couldn’t reach the depth of his fear. Panic surged through him once more when she whispered that she couldn’t feel her legs.

“Don’t worry about that right now,” he said, his voice steady but laced with an underlying tension. “We’re almost there. Just hold on.”

Even as fear twisted in his chest, Minho forced himself to believe in the calm he was trying to project. He spoke with more confidence, hoping that the reassurance would reach her, and that it would somehow settle his own racing heart.

When Minho reached the hospital, the building seemed eerily quiet, almost deserted. Panic clung to him like a second skin as he rushed inside. Before he could make it to the emergency room, the paramedics arrived and took over. They moved quickly, whisking her through the double doors, their voices urgent but steady. Minho stood frozen at the entrance, unable to do more than hold her hand one last time. Giving it a soft squeeze, he whispered, “You’re going to be okay,” his voice trembling with determination, even as fear gnawed at him.

As the paramedics disappeared into the depths of the hospital with her, Minho finally released a shaky breath. His hands were still trembling, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he stared at the now-empty hallway. Moments later, the quiet was shattered by the sound of hurried footsteps and frantic voices. A group of people burst through the hospital doors, their faces etched with panic and fear.

“Y/N! Y/N, please wake up! You’re going to be okay! Just stay with us!” a young woman cried, her voice breaking as she rushed toward the direction the stretcher had gone. Her desperation was palpable, raw, and it hit Minho like a wave.

Minho, still standing at the door, desperate to be of any help, quickly picked up on her name. Y/N. It echoed in his mind, anchoring him in the chaos. “Y/N, hang in there,” he whispered softly, as if somehow his words could reach her through the walls.

Turning to the young woman, her sister, he realized.Minho tried to offer what little comfort he could. “I was there,” he said gently, his voice low but steady. “I saw the truck coming. It swerved out of nowhere. I… I got her out of the way just in time.” His voice faltered as the memory replayed in his mind. “But the impact… I’m so sorry.”

Her sister’s tears streamed freely as she listened, clinging to every word. She nodded, her voice trembling as she whispered, “You saved her. You saved my sister.”

When Y/N was finally wheeled into the operating theater, her sister turned to Minho, her face streaked with tears, her eyes glistening with gratitude and heartbreak. “Thank you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re her guardian angel. I don’t even want to imagine what could’ve happened if you hadn’t been there.”

Minho nodded mutely, overwhelmed by the weight of her words. He couldn’t find the right response, couldn’t process the mix of emotions swirling inside him,the relief of knowing he’d done what he could, the fear of what might come next, and the raw ache of seeing a family on the verge of losing someone they loved.

As the night stretched on, Minho stood outside the hospital, his figure silhouetted against the dim glow of the streetlights. A strange mixture of hope and helplessness washed over him. Her name, Y/N, echoed in his mind, repeated like a lifeline, tethering him to the present moment

Even after the chaos subsided and he returned home...

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

Minho's throat ran dry as he recalled the scene unfolding in front of him that day.Her face remained etched in his mind. He often wondered if she had fully recovered, if her life had returned to normal after the tragedy…

"Focus," Minho murmured to himself. The past was just that, the past. He couldn’t change it, and now, his craving for something sweet tugged at him. Even though he had tried to forget her, a persistent voice in his head urged him to seek out the café she once worked at. He never had the chance to taste her desserts after he’d accidentally dropped them to save her. The memory lingered, but he couldn’t quite shake the need to return to that place, to experience what he missed.

As he wandered through the winding backstreets, he found himself standing at the corner where the café had stood two years ago. But instead of the familiar cozy spot, there was only a pharmacy now. The café was gone,nothing more than a distant memory. His heart sank in disappointment, and he sighed, deciding to head home. The chill in the air was becoming sharper by the minute.

Taking a shortcut through a narrow alley, he walked into a quieter street, the contrast to the bustling lanes he had passed earlier striking. It was much calmer here, with the glow of a few lit shops casting soft, warm lights onto the pavement. As he neared the corner, a café sign caught his attention. The bold letters “Open” gleamed back at him, and curiosity bubbled inside him.

He approached and stepped inside, greeted by a rush of warmth. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and pastries filled the air, the soft hum of machinery a backdrop to the quiet atmosphere. A curious name adorned the café’s front: Twilight Robo Café. Minho raised an eyebrow. The name intrigued him.

The interior of the café was unlike any he had seen before. Robots, sleek and small, glided around with surprising grace. They served drinks, delivered snacks, and interacted with customers in a way that blurred the lines between technology and humanity. Their screens displayed animated avatars, mimicking emotions with perfect accuracy. It was futuristic, yet oddly comforting.

Minho chose a seat by the window, gazing out at the winter landscape as snowflakes began to fall, casting a soft veil over the world outside. He could feel the warmth of the café against the chill creeping into his bones. He exhaled, content for the moment.

Moments later, a small robot wheeled up to his table and stopped in front of him.

"Welcome to Twilight Robo Café!" the voice chirped brightly, warm and inviting. "What can I get for you today?"

Minho froze. There was something about the voice, something unnervingly familiar. His mind raced, but he couldn’t place where he had heard it before.

"Sir?" The robot’s voice broke his train of thought.

Minho blinked, shaking himself from his stupor. "Uh, I’ll take a pudding... and a black coffee, please."

“May I know whose name it’s going for?” the robot voice asked.

“Minho,” he replied.

“A pudding and a black coffee for Minho, coming right up!” The screen flashed a wide smile before the robot zipped away.

Minho stared at the empty space where the robot had been, confusion clouding his thoughts. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the voice belonged to someone he knew, or at least someone he had once met.

Minutes passed, and soon enough, the robot returned, carefully placing his coffee and pudding on the table. "There you go! Anything else I can do for you?" it asked, the screen flashing another bright, animated grin.

Minho leaned forward slightly, his curiosity piqued. "Um, this might sound strange, but your voice... do you choose it yourself?”

The robot's head tilted in a quizzical way, that made it seem almost human. Behind the screen, you were controlling it, your fingers hesitating on the joystick as your heart skipped a beat. There he was, he was here. The man who had rushed to your aid that night, the one you had tried to forget, yet never could. The same man who had been by your side when everything had fallen apart. You hadn’t expected to see him again, let alone hear his voice now.

Sitting in your dimly lit apartment, you blinked twice, your eyes wide in disbelief. Was this really happening? It couldn’t be him... but it was. The man from that day. The one you had barely spoken to but had thought about constantly since then. How was it possible that he remembered your voice? That day, your words had been barely audible, lost in the chaos of the accident. Your voice had been raw and broken. You had been a mess…scattered emotions and fear. And after everything, after your accident, your life had changed so drastically.

You had become a shadow of the person you once were, paralyzed from the waist down, the scars marking your body and face a constant reminder of everything you had lost. The woman you once were, vibrant, full of life, running the café you owned, with ease and a warm smile, was no longer. Now, you hid behind the screen of a robot, controlling its every movement, its every expression from the confines of your small apartment. It was the only way you could still interact with the world, without the fear of frightening people with your appearance. The very face that had once greeted customers with warmth now carried the weight of painful memories, and you couldn't bear to see the looks of pity or fear in the eyes of those who might recognize you. So, you stayed behind the safety of the screen, crafting your persona through the robotic avatar, a small semblance of the woman you used to be, but never fully seen.

But there he was, still as handsome as you remembered. His smile hadn’t changed, and it made your heart ache. You hadn’t expected him to recognize your voice, yet here he was, doing just that.

Minho knocked gently on the screen, as though checking if the robot was malfunctioning. The action snapped you back to the present, your palms suddenly clammy. You quickly moved the controls, realizing you’d left the robot on idle for too long.

"I certainly do," you replied, trying to sound nonchalant, keeping your voice light. "It just... your voice sounds oddly familiar. Like I’ve heard it before."

Minho’s brows furrowed as he tried to place the voice. "Maybe I just have one of those voices," you deflected, not wanting to reveal too much.

"Maybe?" Minho murmured, taking a sip of his coffee and watching the world outside with a contemplative look on his face.

For the next several minutes, Minho continued asking questions, trying to get to know the person behind the robot. Each answer you gave was carefully measured, trying your best to keep your emotions in check. You couldn’t risk revealing your identity, not yet.

"So," Minho asked, setting his coffee down and leaning forward, "how does this work? Are you controlling it remotely?"

"Yes," you replied, trying to keep your tone even. "I control it from home. Everything you see, the movements, the voice, the expressions, it’s all me, just through a robot."

"That’s amazing," Minho said, his lips curling into an impressed smile. "Does it feel weird... interacting with customers like this?"

"Not really," you answered. "At first, it was awkward. But after a while, you get used to it. And maybe it’s a nice way to interact with people in ways I couldn’t before."

Minho nodded, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the table. "Do customers ever forget there’s a person behind the robot?"

You laughed softly, a genuine chuckle that escaped without you meaning to.

"Of course! You’d be surprised how many people forget and just say things like, ‘This robot has great customer service.’ Like it’s some kind of AI program," you giggled. "It’s fun, though."

"Yeah, seems like you enjoy your workplace," Minho replied with a grin, taking a bite of the pudding. His eyes lit up as the sweetness of the caramel and the creamy texture hit him. It was the perfect balance of flavors, nothing too overwhelming. He closed his eyes for a moment in pure satisfaction. Behind the screen, you couldn’t help but smile, warmed by his enjoyment.

"Miss, may I know who made this?" he asked eagerly.

You smiled, pride swelling in your chest. "It’s my family’s recipe. I just control the robot to make it perfect here. After a couple of trial and errors, we finally got it just right."

"It’s delicious!" Minho exclaimed, his smile widening.

"Thank you," you said, pleased to see him enjoying it.

The conversation continued to flow naturally, the lighthearted exchanges easing some of the tension you’d felt earlier. But then Minho asked a question that made your heart stutter.

"Did your family own a café?"

Your breath caught in your throat. You had almost said too much. You froze, but then tried to cover up the slip.

"Yes... they did, but I did, too. It was just around the... " You stopped yourself mid-sentence. The words you almost let out were too dangerous.

Minho looked at you, confused. You quickly recovered, the warmth on your face barely hiding the panic you felt. "I mean, yes, it was a family recipe turned into a business... but not anymore," you added awkwardly, forcing a smile.

Minho nodded, his attention returning to the pudding. "That explains the taste."

Minho leaned back in his chair, his eyes still on the robot, as though he were studying it for answers. "So, do you get a lot of people like me? The ones who ask too many questions?"

You laughed more genuinely this time, the sound like music in the quiet café. "You’d be surprised. So many of them treat me like a therapist, venting about their day and asking for advice. Others just make small talk about the weather."

Minho chuckled at one of your stories, the conversation feeling more relaxed. It almost felt like you could breathe again.

But then he asked something that made your heart race once more.

"Do you think we’ve met before? I can’t help but think your voice reminds me of someone."

Your heart skipped a beat. You froze, not sure how to respond.

"Maybe I just have one of those voices?" you said, your voice light and carefully measured.

"Maybe?" Minho replied, though his tone carried a hint of doubt. "But I can't shake the feeling that that's not it... The way you talk, it's just too personal."

Minho tilted his head slightly, studying the robot as though the answer might be hidden there, etched into its smooth surface.

Your grip on the controls tightened, and your pulse raced in your ears. A wave of heat flushed over you, making it feel like you were trapped in a sauna. Every part of you screamed to deny it all, to retreat, but your heart, oh, your heart, yearned for him to remember you.

"Well," you said, forcing a light smile, "It's a small world. Maybe we've crossed paths before?"

Minho’s gaze narrowed, his expression thoughtful. "You think so? Tokyo's a big city. Anything's possible."

Your voice softened as you responded, "Maybe."

Minho’s next question caught you completely off guard. "Do you ever wish you could meet the person you're talking to? In person, I mean?"

You hesitated, fingers trembling slightly as you processed his words. "Sometimes," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. "But it's complicated."

Minho didn’t interrupt. He just kept looking at you with that same, unwavering curiosity, as though he could see beyond the surface, searching for the truth that you had buried deep within.

"I believe it's easier for people to connect when they don’t see the messier parts of someone's life," you said quietly. "The robots, they make things simple. No judgment. No awkwardness. And I'd like to keep it that way."

Minho frowned. "That's not fair, though. Everyone has a messy past. That's what makes us human."

You were left at a loss for words once again. How could he say such things so easily? The very reason you applied for this job was to avoid letting anyone see who you really were. They couldn’t see you like this, not when you were too broke to even afford to hide the scars on your face. Not when going outside felt more like a monumental task. It was exhausting, living without the use of your legs.

A tear slipped down your cheek, but you wiped it away quickly. You had no answer for him. The silence between you felt deafening.

"It’s just..." you finally managed to croak, "Not everyone thinks like you."

Minho tilted his head, his gaze thoughtful. "Maybe they should..."

He smiled gently. "I’d like to meet the wonderful lady behind this voice as well."

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

It was almost 10 p.m., closing time for the café. Minho was disappointed when another robot politely told him it was time to leave. The robot he'd spent so much time talking to was now busy attending to another customer. Maybe it was his questions. Maybe he had overstepped or overwhelmed her.

She had excused herself to tend to others, and Minho was left standing there, contemplating the conversation. As the clock ticked closer to 10, a thought struck him,one that seemed silly but lingered in his mind. He wasn’t sure if anything would come of it, but he wanted to know more. It had felt nice talking to her.

Before he left, he handed the next robot worker a note addressed to the wonderful robo Missy.

‘It was nice talking to you. I’m really sorry if I overstepped. Call or text me if you ever need to vent.”

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

"It was nice talking to you. I'm really sorry if I overstepped. Call or text me if you ever need someone to talk to or vent."

You stared at the note for what seemed like an eternity, the words dancing in front of your eyes but never quite sinking in. Weeks had passed since your last encounter with Minho, yet you couldn’t stop replaying that moment over and over. He had wanted to meet you, to know you, but you had been frozen in place, unable to say a word. You had scrambled for an exit, seizing the first opportunity; A last-minute customer ordering takeout. You had apologized to him, your voice a strained whisper, as you quickly steered your robot towards the new customer. You avoided his gaze, his eyes, still burning into your back, full of something you couldn’t quite read.

And now, you were holding this in your hand, a simple note with his number scrawled across the bottom, an apology for something Minho didn’t even know he had done. He had respected your boundaries, your silence, even when everything in you had screamed for him to see you, to understand you. But you couldn’t bring yourself to speak up, to make it clear that you were not just the voice behind the screen.

Yesterday had been one of those days, the kind that chipped away at you slowly, piece by piece, until you were left wondering how much more you could take. The café was bustling as usual, but the warmth that typically filled the air had been replaced with an unsettling, tense energy.

A group of rude customers had strolled in, their voices cutting through the usual hum of the café like a razor. At first, it was subtle. They made snide remarks about the novelty of the robot café, their laughter sharp and mocking. But soon, their jabs became more pointed, their words carrying an edge that sliced deeper than you wanted to admit.

One of them leaned in close to your screen, his sneer almost palpable. "Oh, how lucky you are to be working from home," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm as if your reality were some kind of twisted privilege.

Another chimed in, her tone laced with venom. "Really? Don’t you think you’re being ungrateful? Life handed you a golden opportunity, and you’re complaining?"

Their words stung far more than they should have. Because they didn’t see you. Not truly. They didn’t know the reality behind the screen. The daily battles you fought, the pain of waking up in a body that no longer obeyed your will. They didn’t know how exhausting it was to perform even the smallest tasks, how something as simple as getting dressed could feel like scaling a mountain. They didn’t know the humiliation of needing help for the most basic functions, or the way the world seemed so much larger, harsher, and more inaccessible now.

They didn’t know about your sister, your fiercely loyal, stubborn sister, who had taken on the role of caregiver without hesitation, even when you begged her not to. You had pleaded with her to chase her dreams, to live her life without the shadow of your limitations hanging over her. But she refused. And every time you saw her push her own happiness aside for your sake, guilt gnawed at you, sharp and unrelenting.

Life before the accident felt like another lifetime, a fleeting memory of who you used to be. Back when you were independent, whole, and full of possibilities. That person felt like a stranger now, someone you’d never quite find your way back to. And days like today only widened the chasm between who you were and who you had become.

Their cruel words echoed long after they had left, bouncing around in your head like a relentless reminder of everything you had lost. You had kept your voice steady, your responses professional, but inside, you were crumbling. The mask you wore was cracking, and you didn’t know how much longer you could hold it together.

Later that night, as the silence of your apartment pressed down on you, your eyes landed on the letter Minho had left at the café. His handwriting was neat and careful, but the words… they were like a lifeline thrown to you in the middle of a storm. An invitation, a chance to connect, to be seen. You had read it over and over, the lines blurring as doubt crept in.

What if he didn’t mean it? What if he had only written it out of politeness or guilt? The idea clawed at you, feeding the insecurities that always lingered just below the surface. But another thought followed, quieter and far more dangerous. What if he truly meant it? What if he actually wanted to know you, not out of pity, but because he cared? Because he saw something in you worth knowing?

That thought scared you more than anything. Because you weren’t the same person he had saved two years ago. That version of you had been whole, bright, and full of potential. Now, you were a patchwork of scars and insecurities, trying desperately to hold yourself together. Would he even recognize you? Would he still care if he knew how much you had changed?

You stared at the letter for what felt like hours, caught between fear and hope. The weight of the day pressed heavily on your chest, and the idea of reaching out felt impossibly daunting. But something in Minho’s words lingered, a warmth, a sincerity that made you want to believe, even just for a moment, that someone might see you for who you were now, not who you used to be.

Finally, you whispered to yourself, your voice barely audible in the stillness of the room,

"What if?”

You wiped a tear from your cheek, your hand trembling as you stared at the number Minho had written at the bottom of the page. It had been days of battling conflicting thoughts, of wondering whether you should even try to reach out.

Part of you wanted to hear his voice again, to feel that connection, but another part of you warned against it. What if you burdened him with your pain? What if he thought you were just being dramatic, that you were too much to handle?

The weight of yesterday pressed down on you, suffocating and relentless. Every word, every sneer from the café replayed in your mind like a broken record. Tonight, the walls of your apartment felt closer than ever, the silence too loud to bear.

With trembling fingers, you found yourself reaching for your phone. You hadn’t planned this, hadn’t even allowed yourself to consider it. But now, your hand moved as if it had a will of its own. You scrolled through your contacts until you found his name. For a moment, your thumb hovered over the call button, doubt creeping in. What if this was a mistake? But before you could overthink it, you pressed down, the ringing filling the void.

It felt endless. Each tone seemed to stretch on for an eternity, echoing in your ears and amplifying the pounding of your heart. With every ring, a fresh wave of nerves rolled over you, making you question what you’d even say if he picked up.

And then…voicemail.

A deep sigh escaped your lips, a mix of disappointment and relief. The automated message played, his voice absent, replaced by a mechanical tone inviting you to leave a message. You hesitated, the silence on the other end daring you to speak. But the words you wanted to say felt caught in your throat, tangled with fear and uncertainty

"Of course," you whispered to yourself. "He’s probably busy. Why would he want to hear from me?"

You set the phone down, shaking your head at your foolishness. He had saved your life that day, yes, but that didn’t mean he wanted to hear about the mess your life had become. Slowly, you changed into your pajamas, ready to crawl into bed and let the darkness of sleep take over.

Just as you settled beneath the covers, your phone buzzed in your hand. The soft vibration startled you, and when you glanced at the screen, your heart skipped a beat. Minho. His name, glowing in the dim light of your room, sent a wave of panic and excitement through you.

For a moment, you froze, staring at the screen as if it might disappear. Should you answer? Could you? What if he didn’t remember you? What if this was just a courtesy call, and he’d forgotten everything? Doubts swirled in your mind, threatening to paralyze you. But before you could overthink any further, your fingers moved on their own, and you pressed the green button.

“H-Hello?” you stammered, your voice shaky with nerves.

There was a pause on the other end, one that felt like an eternity, before a familiar voice filled the line. “Who is this?”

The breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, you couldn’t find the words. “I… I’m the robot voice you talked to the other day,” you finally managed to say.

“Oh, yes, Robo Café Missy!” he said with a soft chuckle, the warmth in his tone instantly melting some of your anxiety. “You really rushed off that day. I barely got a chance to say goodbye.”

“Yeah,” you admitted, a nervous laugh escaping your lips. “My manager was giving me this concerned look for talking to a customer so long.”

“Sorry about that,” Minho said, a note of humor in his voice. “Didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

“It’s alright,” you said quickly, your nerves easing slightly. “I just… I got your letter, and I’m sorry if I’m bothering you, but I was having a bad day, and… I thought I’d call. I didn’t know who else to talk to.”

His tone softened immediately. “You’re not bothering me, Robo Missy,” he said gently. “But before we dive into your day, how about we properly introduce ourselves?”

You hesitated, biting your lip. Sharing more of yourself felt terrifying, like peeling back a layer of armor you’d grown so used to. But there was something about Minho’s voice, its warmth, its sincerity,that made you want to take the leap.

“I’m… Y/N L/N,” you whispered, barely audible.

There was a brief silence on the other end, as if he was processing the name. Then, he let out a soft laugh, tinged with disbelief. “Y/N? That’s a crazy coincidence. Someone I used to know had the same name as you.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the phone.

This was it

“Minho… it’s not a coincidence.”

The silence that followed was heavier this time, charged with anticipation. You could almost feel the shock on the other end of the line.

“I… I’m Y/N,” you said, your voice trembling. “It’s me.”

There was a sharp intake of breath, followed by a stunned, “Wait… what? Y/N? That Y/N?”

“Yes,” you confirmed with a hesitant laugh. “That’s me.”

The line went quiet for a beat, and then Minho exclaimed, “Oh my God, Y/N! It’s you! I can’t believe this!”

You chuckled nervously, the sound more of a release of tension than amusement. “Yeah, it’s me. Thank you for saving me that day, Minho. I never got the chance to properly thank you.”

“I’m just relieved you’re alright,” he said earnestly. “You made a full recovery, right? Everything’s fine now?”

Your smile faltered, and you took a shaky breath. “Umm… about that…”

Minho’s voice softened instantly, his concern palpable. “What do you mean?”

You hesitated, the words caught in your throat. But then, with a deep breath, you began telling him everything. You told him about the accident, the surgeries, the endless therapy, and the long, grueling days of learning to live in a body that no longer worked the way it once did. You told him about the guilt you felt watching your sister sacrifice so much to help you, about the nights spent crying in frustration and pain, and about the fear that you’d never be seen as anything but broken.

Through it all, Minho listened silently, not once interrupting. His quiet attention was steady, grounding, as though every word you said mattered deeply to him.

When you finally finished, your voice cracked, tears threatening to spill. “I… I didn’t want to tell you all this. I didn’t want to bother you or make you feel sorry for me. But today was just….”

“Y/N,” Minho cut in, his voice firm yet impossibly gentle. “You’re not bothering me. And I don’t feel sorry for you. I’m just… I’m glad you called. I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell me.”

Tears welled in your eyes again, but this time, they weren’t from sadness. They were from something warmer, something that felt a lot like hope.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion.

“No, thank you,” Minho said softly. “For calling me. And for being honest. You don’t have to go through this alone, you know.”

You smiled faintly, clutching the phone tightly to your ear. Maybe, just maybe, you didn’t have to.

And thus began your connection with Minho...

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Your fingers hovered over the video call button, trembling slightly. Since that phone call last Christmas eve, Minho had become an undeniable presence in your life. Whether it was his casual phone calls, random texts checking in on you, or the silly messages that always made you laugh, he was there, ensuring you never felt completely alone.

But last week, something changed.

“Why don’t we have a movie night?” he had texted casually. “We can video call while watching.”

You froze at the suggestion, your immediate response a firm, resounding no.

"Come on,” he coaxed gently. “It’ll be fun. I want to see you.”

And that was the problem. You didn’t want him to see you.

The thought of showing your face made your stomach churn. What if he was disappointed? What if he looked at you differently after seeing what the accident had done? You tried every excuse you could think of, but Minho’s quiet persistence was hard to ignore.

“I won’t push you,” he finally said, his tone soft yet resolute. “But I don’t care what you think you look like. You’re Y/N, and nothing will ever change that for me.”

His words lingered all week, pulling at the corners of your mind whenever your insecurities screamed louder than your hope.

And now, here you were, sitting in front of your phone, staring at the glowing call notification. Your heart raced, your palms damp as you adjusted your hair for the fifth time. Every buried doubt clawed its way to the surface.

Don’t do this. He’ll regret staying in touch, your mind hissed.

But another voice, softer yet stronger, whispered, He cares. He won’t leave.

With a shaky breath, you pressed the button. The camera flickered on, and you quickly angled it so only the top of your head was visible.

“Y/N?” Minho’s voice came through, soft and cheerful.

“Y-Yeah, it’s me,” you stammered, still too afraid to tilt the camera lower.

“I can’t see you,” he teased lightly. “What, are you hiding from me?”

You hesitated, your thumb hovering over the "end call" button. But something in his tone....so patient, so warm...nudged you forward. Slowly, you lowered the camera, revealing your face.

“There you are,” Minho said softly, a smile spreading across his face.

You braced yourself for disgust, disappointment, anything that would confirm your worst fears. But his reaction wasn’t what you expected. His expression didn’t falter, his smile didn’t waver, and his eyes held nothing but warmth.

“You look beautiful,” he said simply, as if it were a fact, not a compliment.

Tears stung your eyes as you looked away. “Don’t say that,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“I mean it,” he replied firmly. “I’m not just saying it to make you feel better. You’re Y/N, and you’re beautiful to me. Always have been, always will be.”

His words chipped away at the walls you had built around yourself. He wasn’t looking at you with pity or discomfort, he was just looking at you.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself a small smile. “Thank you, Minho,” you murmured.

“Now,” he said, his tone shifting to playful. “Are we watching this movie, or are you going to keep hiding from me?”

You chuckled softly, wiping a tear from your cheek. “Alright, alright. Let’s watch.”

As the movie began, the tension in your chest slowly eased. Minho’s occasional sarcastic comments or soft laughter warmed you in ways you didn’t fully understand. The awkwardness that had gripped you at the start of the call melted away, replaced by a rhythm that felt natural.

During a quieter part of the movie, Minho spoke, his voice cutting through the momentary silence. “This feels nice.”

“What does?” you asked, glancing at the screen.

“Being able to see you while we talk. It feels... more real.”

His honesty caught you off guard, and you fiddled with the edge of your blanket. “I guess,” you mumbled.

“Don’t downplay it,” he chided gently. “You don’t realize how much I’ve missed this, just spending time with you.”

Your heart thudded at his words. “Minho, you barely knew me before the accident…”

“And yet,” he interrupted, his tone soft but unwavering, “I’ve always felt like I knew you. The way you smiled at the hospital, even through the pain. The way your sister shared pieces of your life with me that day, the struggles you faced, in the hospital. You left an impression, Y/N. And no matter how much time passed, I couldn’t forget you.”

His confession left you speechless. You opened your mouth to respond but couldn’t find the words.

Minho smiled faintly. “You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know.”

The movie ended, but neither of you hung up. The conversation drifted to lighter topics, your favorite foods, places you’d love to visit, funny childhood stories. You found yourself laughing, surprised at how easy it was to talk to him, how intently he listened to every little thing you said.

When the clock struck midnight, you yawned, trying to stifle it.

“Am I keeping you up?” Minho teased.

“No, I’m fine,” you lied, but your sleepy tone betrayed you.

“You need to rest,” he said with a soft laugh. “But… can I call you again tomorrow? Or, you know, whenever you’re free?”

The warmth in his voice made your chest ache in the best way. “I’d like that,” you admitted quietly.

“Good,” he said, his smile evident even through the screen. “Sweet dreams, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Minho,” you replied, ending the call and setting your phone aside.

As you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the events of the night replayed in your mind. For the first time in years, you felt a little lighter. A little less alone.

You didn’t know where this connection with Minho would lead, but tonight, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he saw you, not just your struggles, but you.

And for the first time, that felt like enough.

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

Over the next few months, Minho became your lifeline. What started as casual conversations and video calls grew into something deeper. He was patient, funny, and warm,someone who made you feel seen, heard, and cherished. For the first time in years, you felt like you could breathe again. It wasn’t something you could pinpoint, a singular moment where your feelings for Minho shifted from gratitude to something deeper. It happened slowly, quietly, like the way the first hints of dawn creep into the night sky.

At first, you told yourself it was nothing more than admiration. Minho had saved your life, after all. When you woke up in the hospital, groggy and disoriented, the nurses told you about the stranger who stayed by your side, ensuring you received the care you needed. That alone had been enough to etch his name into your mind.

Months later, when you heard his voice again at the robot café, your heart stumbled. It was almost embarrassing how much his presence, even through the robot’s camera and speakers, stirred something inside you. He spoke to you with such warmth, such genuine interest, that it felt like you were more than just a disembodied voice behind a screen.

But it wasn’t until the letter he left for you that the walls you’d so carefully built around your heart began to crack.

You read it so many times that the edges were worn from your fingertips. His words weren’t overly flowery or poetic, but they were sincere, making you feel seen in a way you hadn’t felt in years. He didn’t just write about how thankful he was bout the customer service, he wrote about you. That you can call or text him anytime you wanted to vent.

From that point on, every phone call, every text, chipped away at the fears you’d held so tightly. At first, you were careful, guarded. You kept your responses light, your conversations surface-level. But Minho had a way of disarming you without even trying. He’d slip in questions about your favorite childhood memories or tease you until you laughed. And before you realized it, you were sharing pieces of yourself you hadn’t shown anyone in years.

And then came the video call.

You almost didn’t do it. The idea of letting him see your face, the scars that made you feel like a stranger every time you looked in the mirror, was too much. But Minho had been gentle in his persistence, assuring you that he just wanted to watch a movie with you, nothing more.

When you finally turned on the camera, your hands were trembling, and you could barely meet his eyes on the screen. You braced yourself for the shift, for the flicker of discomfort or pity that you were so used to seeing.

But it never came.

Instead, Minho smiled, his gaze soft as if he were looking at something beautiful. “Hi,” he said, his tone light and full of warmth, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

And in that moment, something inside you shifted. The fear that had kept you isolated for so long began to loosen its grip, replaced by something warmer, brighter.

He made you feel normal. He made you feel seen. And over time, you realized it wasn’t just gratitude or admiration anymore.

You were falling for him.

You tried to fight it at first, convincing yourself it was foolish. Someone like Minho...a man who could light up a room with just his presence....could have anyone. Why would he choose someone like you, with your scars and limitations?

But then he’d call you late at night, just to ask how your day went. Or he’d send you pictures of stray cats he’d found, knowing how much you loved them, just like he did. Or he’d make you laugh so hard you’d forget, even for a moment, about all the things you thought made you unworthy.

And then, over the course of the next few weeks, something unexpected started to take root inside you. At first, you brushed it off as fleeting, an echo of loneliness mistaken for something else. But it grew, steady and undeniable, a strange, fluttering feeling in your chest every time Minho’s name lit up your phone.

You found yourself lingering on his texts longer than you should, re-reading them late at night when the world was silent. His words, simple and casual, had a way of making your heart race. And those calls? They were becoming the best part of your day. It wasn’t just his voice....it was the way he laughed, the way he said your name, like it held a special place in his vocabulary.

He looked different to you now, too. Or maybe you were just seeing him for the first time. Handsome didn’t even begin to describe it. There was something magnetic about the way he carried himself, a quiet confidence that made him seem untouchable, yet he was so real with you. So patient, so kind.

And that’s when the panic set in.

Because how could you fall for him?

It wasn’t fair. Not to him. Minho was everything you weren’t: free, whole, untethered. He could have anyone he wanted, someone who could walk beside him in the park without needing a wheelchair, someone who could dance with him instead of watching from the sidelines.

You hadn’t left the house in years. The thought of facing the world outside, with its prying eyes and unspoken judgments, made your stomach churn. How could you expect someone like Minho to accept that? To accept you, when even you struggled to accept yourself?

Your scars felt like barriers, visible proof of the life you used to have and the one you were forced to live now. You’d lost the power in your legs, and sometimes it felt like you’d lost the power to dream, to hope for something better.

And yet, Minho made you hope.

It terrified you, this fragile thing blooming in your chest. Because if you allowed yourself to fall for him, truly fall, what would happen if he didn’t catch you? Could you handle the heartbreak? Could you bear to see pity in his eyes where kindness now shone?

You tried to push the feelings down, bury them beneath the weight of your fears. But they wouldn’t stay hidden. Every text, every call, every laugh chipped away at your resolve until you were left raw and vulnerable, clinging to a question you were too afraid to answer. Will Minho even accept you?

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That evening during the video call, Minho dropped a bombshell.

“Y/N, let’s meet,” he said casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

You froze, blinking at the screen. “What?”

“I want to see you,” he repeated, smiling. “In person. How about a café date and a stroll in the park? I know a quiet spot, not too crowded.”

Panic surged through you. You hadn’t left your house in years....not since the accident. The thought of people staring at you, noticing your scars, filled you with dread. You opened your mouth to protest, but Minho’s gentle expression stopped you.

“Take your time,” he said softly. “You don’t have to decide now. But I’d really like to spend time with you, Y/N. No pressure.”

Minho ended the call with a hopeful smile on his end when you told him you'd think about it.

For the next few days, you agonized over his request. Part of you wanted to see him, to feel the sun on your face and experience the world outside your walls again. But the fear of judgment and rejection was overwhelming. Finally, with a shaky breath, you agreed.

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Minho had never been the type to hesitate when it came to the people he cared about. But with Y/N, everything felt different....delicate, like holding something precious in his hands that could shatter if he pushed too hard. The past month of video calls and late-night texts had been like a breath of fresh air for him. He loved how she spoke, how her voice softened when she was relaxed or brightened when she talked about something that brought her joy. But he could also sense the walls she’d built around herself, her hesitations woven into every interaction. It didn’t matter to him, though. He’d seen enough in her to know she was worth the patience. The idea to meet her in person had been bubbling in his mind for weeks. He missed being able to see her face beyond the tiny camera frame, to hear her laugh without the digital lag of a call. And more than anything, he wanted her to know she didn’t have to hide anymore...not from him, not from anyone.

When she’d finally agreed, he’d been careful not to show just how thrilled he was. He knew it wasn’t an easy decision for her, and he didn’t want to add to the weight she was carrying. Instead, he spent the days leading up to their meeting planning every detail, choosing a quiet café and a serene park where she wouldn’t feel overwhelmed.

The day of the date, he arrived early, checking his reflection in the café window to make sure he looked okay. Not that it mattered much to him, he just wanted Y/N to feel comfortable.

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

Whereas you, on the other hand, were on a completely different wavelength altogether.

The days leading up to this moment had been an emotional tug-of-war within yourself. A part of you longed to experience something new, something outside the prison of your four walls. But the other part...the one that whispered cruel reminders of your scars, your limitations, and the judgment of others...fought to hold you back.

The night before the date, you barely slept. You paced your room, questioning everything. Why would Minho even want to be seen with me? He’s kind, patient, and could easily find someone who isn’t a mess like me. What if people stare? What if I embarrass him?

You looked at yourself in the mirror that morning, pulling your favourite hoodie over your head and adjusting it. The scars that stretched across your temple and cheekbone felt like they screamed at the world, a constant reminder of the accident and how different you were now. You sighed deeply, pushing down the lump in your throat. You can’t back out now. He’ll think you don’t trust him.

When your sister wheeled you to the café and you saw Minho waiting, his face lighting up the second he spotted you, something in your chest softened. You weren’t used to people looking at you like that...as if you weren’t just enough, but more than enough.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice full of warmth, “you look beautiful.”

Beautiful? The word echoed in your mind, foreign and almost laughable. You glanced away, unable to accept the compliment, but his sincerity made it impossible to dismiss.

The café was quiet, the conversation light and easy. Yet, no matter how much you tried to relax, the anxiety simmered under your skin. Every time someone walked by or glanced your way, your fingers twitched, wanting to pull your hood further down. They’re staring. They’re judging. They’re wondering why someone like him would bother with someone like me. Minho noticed the anxiety in your face. He squeezed your trembling hand, comforting you. Nodding silently, as if to tell you it’s okay.

You calmed down a little and asked him if you could leave early. He agreed and suggested a walk in the park. You hesitated but eventually agreed. The park was peaceful, the fresh air soothing, but the nagging voice in your head wouldn’t let you rest. You kept your hood pulled tight, your eyes darting to every person who passed. They’re all looking. They can see right through me.

And then, it happened.

A strong gust of wind swept through the park, catching your hood and pulling it back. You gasped, immediately reaching to fix it, but your trembling hands froze as you noticed the stares. Strangers’ eyes lingered, their expressions unreadable, but in your mind, you could hear their judgment loud and clear.

Hide. Cover your face. Run. You don’t belong here.

Your breathing quickened, panic rising in your chest. Your vision blurred as tears welled up, and you wanted nothing more than to disappear.

“I....I can’t do this,” you choked out, barely able to form the words.

Before you could spiral further, Minho was by your side. His hands rested gently on your shoulders, grounding you.

“Y/N,” he said softly, his voice cutting through the noise in your head. “Look at me.”

You hesitated, but his calm, steady presence drew your eyes to his. The world seemed to fade, leaving only his warm gaze and the reassurance in his expression.

“You’re okay,” he said, his voice firm yet soothing. “I’m here. Forget about them. Just focus on me.”

“But they’re staring,” you whispered, tears spilling down your cheeks. “They’re looking at my face… at my scars…”

“Let them stare,” Minho said firmly, his hands squeezing your shoulders gently. “What they think doesn’t matter. What matters is you. And you’re perfect just the way you are.”

His words pierced through the storm in your mind, and for a moment, you could breathe again. He guided you to a nearby bench, sitting beside you and giving you time to calm down.

As your breathing steadied, Minho knelt in front of you, his gaze unwavering.

“Y/N,” he began, taking your hands in his. His touch was warm, steady, and grounding. “I know this is hard for you. I know you’re scared, and I know you think you’re not enough. But you need to hear this.”

His eyes searched yours, filled with an unshakable sincerity that made your chest tighten.

“It’s always been you,” he said softly. “From the moment I met you, I knew you were someone special.”

“Min, what are you...?” you began, your voice trembling with uncertainty.

“Let me finish, Ynnie,” he interrupted, a small smile tugging at his lips. The tenderness in his tone silenced your protest, and your breath hitched as he continued, his voice heavy with emotion.

“Your strength, your kindness, your heart....those are the things that matter to me. Not your scars, not your disability. Just you. And I still can’t believe it… how someone so intelligent, so beautiful, and so powerful came into my life. I can’t believe how lucky I am.”

He paused, his grip on your hands tightening just slightly as if grounding himself.

“You brought color to my mundane life, Ynnie,” he said, his voice trembling now. “And I love you. I love you so much.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks as his words settled into your heart, breaking through every wall you had built. But once again, a part of you wanted to retreat from this. Minho deserved someone better. Not you.

And so, with a heavy heart, you asked, “Why me?” Your voice barely above a whisper. “You could have someone better. Someone who isn’t… disabled or disfigured. Someone who could give you more.”

His grip on your hands tightened as he shook his head. “No one could ever be better than you. No one else is you. And I don’t want anyone else. I want you. Scars, fears, everything. You’ve been through so much, and you’re still here. That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You were at a loss for words, overwhelmed by the sincerity in his voice and the love in his eyes.

“So, Y/N,” he said, his voice softening, “will you let me stay by your side? Will you be my girlfriend?”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, the insecurities tried to creep back in. But then you looked at him...truly looked...and saw nothing but love and acceptance.

With a shaky breath, you nodded. “Yes.”

“I love you too, Min!”

“So much!” Happy tears spilled down your cheeks.

A bright, almost boyish smile spread across his face as he leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with affection. He kissed you softly, a tender, lingering touch that made your heart flutter. The moment was quiet, but it felt like the world had paused, leaving only the two of you in this space of peace and understanding. As he pulled you into a gentle hug, his arms wrapped around you, warm and steady...like a shield that protected you from everything outside of this moment.

For the first time in years, you let go of the fears and doubts that had held you captive. You allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, you were worthy of love. His embrace was a reminder that you didn’t have to hide or be afraid anymore. In Minho’s arms, the weight of the world seemed to lift, leaving only the soft warmth of his love surrounding you, filling you with hope that, no matter what, you were never alone again.

As he held you, you realized that this moment was everything you had been longing for. It wasn’t just the comfort of his touch, but the genuine care in his heart, the way he made you feel beautiful...scars and all. It was a love that didn’t ask for perfection, only for you to be yourself. And in that truth, you found the strength to believe in the future, to believe in the love that was growing between you.

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꥟˚｡ENDNOTE - Everything Here is a work of fiction and my own imagination. This does not represent the real life characteristics of Stray Kids. Make sure to like, reblog comment, and follow me for new updates!

[iamgonnagetyouback]

𝟷𝚔 || 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐍𝐀𝐈𝐕𝐄

♡ ︎ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Jess was not what everyone made him out to be, and you were not too naïve to believe that...right?

♡ ︎ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: None

♡ ︎ꜱʜɪᴘ: Jess Mariano x Reader

Stars Hollow has always had a way of wrapping itself around you. Every corner of the quirky little town, every face that smiled back at yours, it felt like safety. You’d grown up here, where everyone knew your name and the soft way you saw the world. It wasn’t naivety, at least that’s not how you saw it. You just always chose to believe the best in people, even when the town buzzed around you, warning you to be careful, to protect yourself.

But it was always protective of you. The town. They treated you like something fragile, like a porcelain doll that might shatter if handled too roughly. You never saw it that way. You were just… you. Seeing the good in people wasn’t a weakness; it was just how you were wired. But that didn’t stop everyone from fretting.

When Jess Mariano moved to town, all those concerned whispers turned into full-on conversations. “Be careful,” they’d say, watching you like you were made of glass. “He’s trouble.” And sure, you’d seen his rough edges—the sarcastic comments, the lingering smirk, the way he pushed everyone away before they had the chance to get close. But somehow, with you, he wasn’t any of that.

You’d catch him slipping books into your bag when you weren’t looking, ones he knew you’d love. He’d hold the diner door open for you without even thinking, and sometimes, in those quiet moments when you’d both sit by the bridge reading, his arm would brush yours, and instead of pulling away, he’d linger just a little longer.

But Rory didn’t see that. Rory, your best friend, and when you told her—voice soft, words barely above a whisper—that you thought you might like Jess, it felt like the ground beneath you shifted.

"Jess?" Rory’s tone was sharp, her brow furrowed in disbelief. "You can't be serious. He’s just playing with you, you know that, right?"

You blinked, taken aback by the sudden coldness in her voice. “What do you mean?”

Rory sighed, crossing her arms. “Look, you’re… you’re sweet, okay? Too sweet. You always see the good in people, and Jess—he’s just… Jess. He doesn’t care about anyone, especially not you.”

Your heart sank, her words landing like stones. "How can you say that? You don’t see the way he is when it's just us."

Rory laughed, but there was no humor in it. "He's not different with you. You're just… you're the easiest person to fool in this town. Everyone knows that. You’re the nice one. The innocent one. He’s just going to break your heart."

The sting of her words was sharp, like a slap you hadn’t seen coming. "You don’t get to decide that," you murmured, feeling the familiar burn of tears behind your eyes. "You don’t know him like I do."

But Rory was relentless. "There’s no way Jess actually likes you. He’s just bored. He knows he can mess with you because you’ll let him." Her voice was firm, unyielding, and it left no room for argument.

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Not when the hurt clawed its way up your throat, silencing you. Without another word, you turned and left, the tears finally spilling over as you opened the door to leave.

You made it to the porch, when you saw Lorelai already sitting there, a mug in her hand. Her eyes softened when she saw you, the slight quirk of her lips not quite enough to hide the concern etched in her face.

“So,” she said, trying for a lightness that didn’t quite land. “Guessing you had a little chat with Rory, huh?”

You stood there, heart aching, lip trembling, before finally breaking. “I guess you heard.” Your voice was barely a whisper, and it broke halfway through.

Lorelai’s smile faltered, her eyes filling with that knowing kind of sadness she always got when she wanted to fix something but couldn’t. “Well… she’s not exactly quiet. Or subtle. But hey, that’s our Rory.” She tried to laugh, but it only made your chest ache more.

You sat down beside her, your shoulders slumping as the weight of everything pressed down on you. “What if she’s right?” you whispered, staring down at your hands as they twisted together in your lap. “What if… he doesn’t really like me? What if I’m just… the easy one?”

Lorelai sighed, long and deep, before wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “Kid, you’ve always seen the good in people. Sometimes more than they deserve. But that’s part of what makes you… you.” Her voice was softer now, less playful, and it only made the tears come faster.

You wiped at your face, sniffling. “He’s not like that with me, Lore. I know he’s not.”

She stayed quiet for a moment, her thumb tracing gentle circles on your arm. “Tell me what he’s done. What’s he done that makes you think he cares?”

You swallowed hard, trying to hold it together. “He… he gives me books. Ones he knows I’d like. And he… he waits for me after school sometimes. Even when I didn’t ask him to. And when I’m upset, he just… listens. He’s not the guy everyone says he is.”

Lorelai pursed her lips, thinking. “Sounds like he’s a little softer than the town likes to think, huh?”

You nodded, your voice barely a whisper now. “I think he cares about me.”

She sighed again, this time a little less heavily, and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Maybe he does,” she said quietly, reluctantly, like she didn’t want to admit it, but couldn’t deny the possibility. “Maybe he does, kid.”

You sniffled again, leaning into her, the warmth of her arms the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. “I just… I just want to believe in him.”

Lorelai pulled you closer, her arms wrapping tighter around you. “I know you do. And maybe you’re right. Maybe Jess Mariano does like you. And if he doesn’t… well, Luke and I will take care of that. But you… you're not the naive one for believing in him.”

Your lip trembled again, the weight of everything finally catching up to you. “I just don’t want to be wrong about him.”

Lorelai’s voice was soft, soothing as she rocked you gently. “Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

And you stayed there, curled up against her, wondering if maybe, just maybe, Jess Mariano wasn’t the villain everyone said he was. Maybe he was just waiting for someone to believe in him the way you did.