#... one day- i know i've said that time and time before

[dixonsbugaboo]

𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘺𝘱𝘦.

ꜱᴀᴊᴀ ʙᴏʏꜱ🎵

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 5 - 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯

Summary: Reincarnated in the body of a demon from the last film you saw before you died, you have decided to change the script of the story in your favour. But you didn't count on your presence in the story changing everything.

Warnings: slow burn, swearing, men, kind of a description of fainting, ooc (probably), cringe (surely), no proofread (oopsie)

Word count: 3200+

A/N: hey there! long time no see! I'm sorry, I got kinda busy and from now on it will take me some extra time to post :( (I have to look like a responsible adult, and as I started a new job I've got less free time to write). BUT I will definitely keep updating, don't worry about that! So, for my lovely and hungry readers, here you go, chapter 5!!

And again thank you for your comments, likes, reblogs and specially for those few who hit me in the directs, I love you guys! Let me know what do you think about how the story is going so far :)

ALSO: as some of you asked for, here is a reminder of the Saja Boys Korean names!

(Baby: Byeol / Abby: Sang / Romance: Dasom / Mystery: Minjun)

Ch. 4

︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿

Every day you learn something new, right?

Well, that day you learned that the only way to keep the boys quiet, entertained, and pretending to be good people was to take them to a beauty salon. Which wasn't part of your plan, because you had never offered to take them to one before.

But since you were planning on going, and Romance had found out (and was apparently incapable of keeping a secret), now you were all going together as a happy family.

At first, the idea horrified you. It was exactly what you wanted to avoid. All you needed was a little time alone, relaxed, ALONE… but apparently that was impossible.

Your plan was to get your nails, maybe have a treatment to soften your skin… A gift from you to you.

Out of all the Saja Boys, the only one who hadn't insisted on accompanying you, and who had even argued that you deserved to make plans on your own, was Minjun. But, as the rest decided to turn a deaf ear, you decided that Minjun was the one who deserved to go the most (and the only one you would pay for whatever he wanted to do).

On the way there, you explained the possible treatments and services they could choose from. Abby had heard the term ‘laser hair removal’ and couldn't think of anything else (probably because of the word ‘laser’, because you knew he had no idea what 'hair removal' really involved), while Romance wanted a moisturising treatment on his face and hands to, according to him, rejuvenate himself by 200 years. Baby wasn't very interested in any of it, but he wouldn't say no to a massage, and neither would Jinu. Minjun, on the other hand, had decided that he wanted to do whatever you were going to do.

… so now you were sitting in a chair with your feet soaking and Minjun sitting silently in the chair next to you doing God knows what on his mobile phone.

At least you were at ease.

Across from Minjun was an elderly lady also getting a pedicure who kept glancing at the boy out of the corner of her eye.

"Excuse me, young man," she said suddenly, getting your attention and making him look up from his mobile phone and turn towards her. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

.... what

WHAT DID YOU SAY, MADAM?

Minjun slowly shook his head and turned his attention back to his mobile phone. You managed to see the screen for a split second and discovered that he was playing Subway Surfers.

"You see," continued the old woman, as if the demon hadn't just turned away and clearly given up on the conversation. "My granddaughter must be about your age and she's single too… and you're so handsome… would you like me to introduce you?"

This time, Minjun turned to you. He tilted his head to one side, and then you understood exactly what was going on: he had no idea how to respond to the gossipy old woman without being rude.

"He's gay," you replied bluntly. "He's my best gay friend. Please leave him alone. Not only is he gay, but he also has social anxiety," you said as you scribbled something in your notebook.

Minjun opened his mouth to complain, but seeing that the woman had turned redder than a strawberry and had decided not to get involved with them any further and to stop talking to them, he decided to let it go. You had already explained to him what little white lies were, and he understood perfectly that this situation must be one of them.

Because you knew he wasn't gay, right?

As soon as you both finished your pedicures, you moved on to the manicure: your favourite part. You chose a pastel shade to match what they would be wearing for their debut, and Minjun opted for a design with pastel pink and lilac nails, without any decorations.

You thought it was adorable how he watched the whole procedure in complete silence, his mouth slightly open. You had learned the hard way that there were no beauty salons in hell, so you were pretty sure Minjun had never seen a place like this before, neither experienced a cute manipedi.

While you were getting your manicures in silence, Baby had decided it was time to confront Jinu… in the massage room.

"I didn't know you and (Y/N) got along so well, Jinu," he began. His voice sounded slightly muffled as he lay face down on a massage table.

"That's because we don't," replied Jinu, lying on the table next to him.

The masseuses had left them to rest and let their skin absorb the oils used during the massage, so they were alone there.

"So, what were you doing with her on the street yesterday?" he asked, clenching his hands tightly. "It's not for nothing, but you looked like a couple."

Byeol didn't quite understand, or didn't want to understand, why it bothered him so much. But when he saw you on the street the previous afternoon, on his way back from shopping… and then he saw Jinu… something inside his chest tightened.

And he didn't like how he felt at all.

When he saw you, happy, listening to music and drinking something that looked like real junk, he had thought about crossing the street with Minjun and saying hello. After all, you were more than just partners, weren't you? You were his personal critic and proofreader.

But then, you bumped into Jinu… and…

Just thinking about it made his hands sweat.

How Jinu grabbed your wrist and pulled you towards him. How he came close to you as if he was going to smash his face into yours. How he drank from your drink…

And how you stood there completely still, maybe even terrified.

If that was Jinu's way of teasing you, Byeol didn't find it funny at all. It wasn't the same when Dasom did it as when he did. It was completely different.

He felt Jinu tense up beside him.

"Nothing. We ran into each other by chance and I wanted to tease her a little. Nothing new, right?"

"Jinu…" Byeol had so many questions. He had so many things he wanted to say, but at the same time, he didn't dare to. "You should stop teasing her like that."

That comment hit Jinu like a bucket of cold water.

Why should he stop teasing her when everyone else did? Besides, it wasn't teasing in a mean way… just jokes. You did it too, back to them. Why was it wrong now?

"Tomorrow we'll become public figures, Jinu. And (Y/N) has explained to us a hundred times that we can't be seen in public with girls in that… way. It could cause a stir and ruin our reputation. I'm not going to let you throw away all the effort we've put in so far."

"But you know she doesn't count. She's our manager."

"No," Baby denied, rising slightly from the table to get a better look at Jinu, whose back was tense. "She's our producer. And rumours are rumours, Jinu. You should know that by now."

He got up from the table, holding the towel that covered him from the waist down tightly, and ruffling his hair in frustration, he left the room and headed for the dressing room.

He didn't want to argue with his friend, but he didn't want him to hurt you. You were his… friend? You were something. Something to him… and he didn't want you to get hurt. You were responsible, strong and independent, but no one is made of stone. And he was aware of how Jinu looked at you when you weren't paying attention… and he didn't like it.

He didn't like that it could change the course of the plan. It was a distraction.

He didn't like that he treated you like a toy, like a joke, even after spending so much time with you. He couldn't deny that teasing you was fun, but… he was starting to see that playing with you like that could end badly.

And he didn't want to lose you.

Abby limped out of the waxing salon. Although he had loved the futuristic glasses he had been given to wear during the laser treatment, from then on it had been a bit of a nightmare. At what point had he decided he wanted to have the damn laser done all over his body? Even the soles of his feet were stinging.

When he got to the reception area, only Baby and Romance were there. Jinu didn't take long to arrive, but instead of waiting for Mystery and you, he paid what he owed and left. He didn't look relaxed at all, if we are being honest.

Shortly after, Myst and you showed up. You were talking to him very animatedly and gesturing a lot to show off your new nails, and he just listened to you and nodded occasionally, his full attention on you.

To him, specially today, you looked extremely cute.

On the way back to the flat, the boys walked ahead, chatting animatedly about their experiences at the salon (and traumas, according to Abby), while you, lagging a little behind, checked the notifications on your mobile phone. You already had the website for the Saja Boys fanbase ready, a lightstick designed… all that was left was for tomorrow to arrive without too many ups and downs.

Which you should have known was asking too much.

"Excuse me," said a voice next to you that you didn't recognise.

When you looked up from your phone, you found yourself face to face with a stranger. He was young and quite handsome, but nothing compared to the five Greek gods you unfortunately lived with and who tested your patience every day.

"Do you need anything?"

"Yes," he said with a smirk, "your number."

Mentally, you short-circuited. What was this idiot thinking? You couldn't hit him, that was wrong… (even if it was the solution you had come up with for your problems with the Saja Boys).

"I'm sorry, I'm not interested right now…"

"Are you sure? I think we could… get along really well." He finished his remark with a wink and stood in front of you, abruptly blocking your way.

The boys realised something was going on when they saw you weren't walking behind them anymore, and their suspicions were confirmed when they saw the look of disgust on your face as some unknown guy was talking to you. Was he… hitting on you?

"Look…" you began, searching for a valid excuse. The two best ones were always that you were interested in women or that you already had a boyfriend. "I have a boyfriend… and…"

"And…?" asked the boy as he raised his hand towards your face.

Shit. You should have chosen the lesbian option.

Baby and Romance tensed up, ready to jump at his throat in your defence (he was clearly breaking the first rule), and Abby stepped forward with his fists clenched, ready to land a right hook on his jaw… but before the stranger could lay a hand on you, Mystery appeared at your side, quick as a flash, and stepped between you and the stranger, wrapping an arm protectively around your shoulders.

"Sorry, mate. But I AM her boyfriend, and I'd appreciate it if you left her alone."

The stalker's eyes widened when he saw him so close to you, hugging you without you doing anything to stop him.

"Oh," was all he said, slowly taking his hand away.

"I do not share, sorry" said Myst, hugging you a little harder.

Your heart was racing. Without using violence, defending yourself wasn't that easy as you thought… You were grateful to Myst for helping you, but standing there, so close to him, with his arm around you, holding you steady and safe (making you feel safe and sound even though you knew perfectly that he was indeed a DEMON)… you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, and you felt an overwhelming urge to hug him back.

He had never been so close to you, and he had done it to defend you from a jerk… (although you could have quickly settled the matter with a right hook to the jaw, Abby style). You were grateful.

Seeing that the stranger was still standing there, looking back and forth between the two of you, Mystery… barked at him. Like an angry dog.

Startled, the stranger turned and ran down the street, embarrassed and frightened, away from you.

You couldn't help but laugh as you patted him on the back.

"It's over, it's over," you said, "the bad guy's gone, shhh," you stroked his head to stop him from barking, growling and wriggling "good boy, good boy. You deserve a treat."

"Hey, I want some love on my hair too!" Abby shouted with her arms crossed. "And I want a treat too!"

You gave them a smile. A sincere one.

Even though they drove you crazy… even though they were ruthless little devils… they were all you had in this new life. And you were grateful for that.

"You know what? Let's finish relaxing in the best place in the world, the bathhouse! A treat for all of us!"

You had to explain what a bathhouse was and why they were so amazing… and you also had to make it very clear that you would have to bathe separately, and that they had to behave while you weren't watching them. You made them swear that under no circumstances would they enter the women's bathhouse. Not to snoop around, not to steal souls, not to look for potential fans, not for any excuse they could come up with.

You left Baby in charge, because you trusted him to be the one who could most easily keep the rest under control.

"By the way, guys, where's Jinu?"

Baby shrugged, briefly recalling their conversation.

"He took off, who knows where," said Romance.

"But… can we go to the bathhouse without him? We don't even know if he'll be back," added Abby playing with his fingers.

You nodded with a smile.

"Sure, let's go."

As you entered the women's bathhouse, your hair tied up and wrapped in a towel, your torso covered by another, you instantly relaxed. The warmth, the scent of essential oils… That was probably one of the things you missed most about the human world.

You cleansed yourself, washing away the sweat of the day, and then proceeded to step into a bath when…

…why did those two girls sound so familiar?

Your heart sank and your head began to spin as you tried to understand where you had gone wrong.

This couldn't be happening.

Mira and Zoey were up to their necks in one of the bathtubs, talking in low voices about how disastrous Golden's presentation had been because Rumi had left. They were worried about her, they didn't know where she had gone… but what were they doing there?

Then you understood.

Since Rumi was the main character, you never knew what Zoey and Mira had been doing since Rumi disappeared until she returned to the HUNTR/X tower. And how lucky you were to discover that they had decided to go relax in the baths… the same ones you had decided to go to.

You looked down at your arms, where some of your patterns glistened from time to time. It was imposible to hide them.

Right there, with them, you were like a walking target. It wouldn't be difficult for them to recognise you as a demon (because technically you were one), you wouldn't have time to explain yourself (and you didn't really know how to), and as much as you liked to solve things with violence, you weren't the one to defend them. They were too strong for you. You turned away discreetly, trying to avoid them at all costs. You didn't know when they would come out, so running to the changing room was out of the question…

If only your demonic power was as strong as the boys' and you could teleport…

Suddenly, you had a revolutionary idea. A good way to hide was to use steam. And what better place for that than the sauna? Even if they came in, it would be difficult for them to make out your patterns in all the steam… so you decided to get into the sauna, even if it was just to stall for time until they left the bathhouse.

You were dying to talk to them, but it wasn't the right time or place. And you didn't want to end up dead (again) because of something as silly as making new friends.

So you opened the sauna door and decided that, even if you had to wait for them to leave before you could take a bath, at least you could relax in the humid heat…

The minutes passed, and you couldn't tell if they were still in the bathhouse or had already left. The temperature in the room rose, and you sweated more and more. A couple of stray strands of hair that had escaped from your towel now stuck to your face, the back of your neck and your back. You tried to take a deep breath, to calm down and think.

You were afraid to go out and run into them.

You were afraid of screwing up in such a stupid way after all your effort… besides, you weren't ready to abandon the Saja Boys like this. You hadn't solved anything yet, damn it. You hadn't changed anything yet. You needed time.

You just had to hold on a little longer. You tried to control your breathing and your heartbeat, which was slowing down. Dangerously.

A little longer… just a little longer…

Your head was starting to hurt from the heat and dehydration. Black spots swirled around the edges of your vision, clouding your sight slightly.

Just a little longer…

When you get out, you'd dive into the bath, drink two litres of water… Cold, cold water...

But if you held on a little longer… would you be able to stand up? To walk to the exit?

You threw your head back, trying to find the air that was missing from your lungs. Everything was burning. You were very hot, thirsty, tired… your vision began to blur. Your head was spinning…

You couldn't faint. If you fainted and HUNTR/X was still there, you'd be finished. And it would all have been for nothing.

You tried to rub your eyes with your hands, but you were starting to lose the strength to lift them.

You had to get out of there.

Right now.

If you didn't, the result would be the same as if Zoey or Mira saw your patterns.

How long had you been in there?

You had been there too long… too long…

Your head was spinning round and round and round…

Everything became blurry… and slowly your vision darkened.

You tried to get up, but your body tilted to one side, falling onto the bench, as you lost consciousness.

That had clearly been a terrible idea.

︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿

Ch. 6

A/N: SO! WHAT DO YOU THINK? HOW IS READER GOING TO GET OUT? IS SHE GOING TO GET FOUND OUT? We'll find out in the next chapter!! (already working on it btw). Is she going to save herself or... is somebody... going to help her? 👀 What do you think is going to happen? hehehehe

Hope you like it as much as the previous chapters! Can't wait to read you back my dear readers <3

Thank you for reading, for all your support and kind words. Remember that those comments, likes and reblogs help me a lot as motivation! :)

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[polyfirefly]

A Lesson In Cinema

When Evan asks Tommy for movie recommendations for pride month it turns into a lesson on 90s to 2000 gay movies and TV (And In Tommy Kinard) Content Warning: There is mention of a character's past sexual experience as a minor (age 17) that involves dubious consent. It is not described in detail, however I've placed a line of ** asterisks at the start and end of that portion of the story so you can skip it if you wish.

Read On AO3

Tommy's mid-shift on a slow day when his phone buzzes in his pocket. The notification says it's from Evan. They haven't talked in over a month, not since the funeral.

He hesitates, but only for a moment, because he knows that whatever it is, whether it's another impossible favor or a horny post-shift text, he's not going to be able to say no. He unlocks his phone and opens the text, his brows furrowing as he reads:

Evan: Did you ever watch Glee?

He certainly isn't expecting that. He types back a response.

Tommy: No, not really. Why?

There's a beat where he's watching bubbles dance on his screen, wondering where this is going.

Evan: Josh said you would have watched Glee.

What?

Tommy: What? Josh from dispatch?

Evan: Yes. He said Glee was important.

Tommy: Evan, what is this about?

He waits and then a wall of text pops up.

Evan: I was browsing Amazon Prime and I saw this show called Overcompensating and I started watching it (it's good. you should watch it) and it made me realize that pride month is about to start and I haven't watched a lot of queer media, not intentionally at least.

Evan: And that made me remember this thing that Josh said months ago. He said that Glee was important. Something about a pre-Glee and post-Glee world and how it changed things, made things easier for acceptance. I didn't really know what he meant at the time, and to be honest, I still don't, not really, anyways, I was thinking about that and now we're here.

Tommy blinks. He's not sure how to respond to this spiraling stream of thought. He has no idea what a "pre" or "post" Glee world is either. He knows that Glee was important to a lot of people when it came out. He's seen a few episodes back when it aired but it isn't really his thing.

Tommy: I was a little too old for Glee when it came out. It wasn't really formative for me

Buck: if you didn't watch Glee, what did you watch?

That's a loaded question. In the years since he's come out and started living as an openly gay man, Tommy has done a lot of work to educate himself on the media he'd missed out on while he was in the closet.

But, that was as an adult. His memories of formative media from his younger years, especially ones from his childhood, were limited. A lot of it was buried under layers of denial and shame that had taken years to dig himself out from under.

Tommy: When I was maybe 12 or 13 there was this show, My So Called Life. It played on MTV constantly, but my parents didn't want me watching it so I would stay up until 2 A.M. to sneak into the living room and watch reruns on the TV. while my parents were asleep. There was this character named Ricky, a teenager who’d come out as gay on the show. The way he felt like he didn’t belong anywhere, I felt that way, too.

Tommy also remembered how the show had ended. Ricky's family kicks him out, he bounces around for a while before going to live with his drama teacher, an older gay man, and his partner. 12 year old Tommy viewed that ending as a cautionary tale, but now, 40 year old Tommy thinks of it as a story about a kid surviving through community. He still thinks it deserved a better ending.

There's no response from Evan after that, and Tommy has to go when the alarm starts to go off. He pockets his phone and gets into gear, forgetting about being 12 years old and the lonely glow of the TV in the dark at 2 A.M.

Two days later, Tommy's on his day off, about to get to work harvesting his tomato garden with his sun hat and his gardening gloves on, when he gets another text from Evan.

Evan: I binged it. I can't believe it's only 19 episodes. I cried a few times. Also, I can't believe she picked Jordan Catalano!

Tommy chuckles a little at that last bit.

Tommy: If I'm being honest, I probably would have picked Jordan at 15 years old, too.

Evan: Jared Leto is a creep.

Tommy: He wasn't at the time.

He waits for the bubbles to pop up but they don’t. So Tommy puts his phone away and goes back to his tomatoes. A few hours later, Tommy's cutting up one of those tomatoes, intent on using it for a salad with his dinner that night, when his phone buzzes again.

Evan: U have any more recommendations?

Tommy chews on his bottom lip. Where is this going? He's not sure but he decides to play along anyway.

Tommy: How about movies?

Evan: I'm open to it.

Tommy runs through a mental list, thinking back through all of the gay TV shows and movies that he'd sneak watched as a teen and 20-something or binged in his early 30's when he was trying to play catch-up. He suspects that's what Evan is doing, trying to catch up on a whole new-to-him world that he's been missing out on.

Tommy types out a list of some of his favorite and not so favorite but essential material. Some things were just essential for the culture.

Evan: Jesus, I asked for recommendations, not a syllabus.

Tommy: U not up to the challenge?

Evan: I didn't say that. Challenge Accepted 🫡

Almost every day from that point on, Tommy gets what he comes to think of as progress reports from Evan. Most of them are off the cuff judgments of Evan's latest watch, but a few are quite insightful.

Evan: Why are so many of these sad? I just finished crying my eyes out after Brokeback Mountain.

Tommy: Google 'Bury your gays'

A few hours later.

Evan: I assumed you didn't mean the Chuck Tingle novel... That's...wow.

Tommy: Yup.

Evan: That sucks.

Tommy: Yup.

The next weekend he gets a text while grocery shopping.

Evan: Shelter was a breath of fresh air!

Tommy smiles down at his phone in the middle of the frozen foods section.

Tommy: That one's an understated favorite.

Another day, he's just finished a pickup game when he gets another text.

Evan: The mom from Latter Days was a little too close to home.

The next day, he wakes up at 1 A.M. to a text from Evan.

Evan: It burns! ☠️

Tommy snorts a laugh.

Tommy: Glad you’re enjoying Trick.

He rolls over, falling back to sleep.

The next night he gets a voice recording of Evan singing “Wig in a Box" from Hedwig and The Angry Inch. He sounds drunk and–is that Diaz singing along with him?

************************************************************************

The following weekend, Tommy’s just gotten out of the shower when his phone buzzes on the edge of his bed. His body's still a little sore from Muay Thai practice, but the hot water has loosened up his muscles and he’s relaxed. He lies down in bed, still in a towel, and swipes on his phone.

Evan: I tried watching Queer as Folk. Not continuing that. Justin was 17!

He doesn’t remember adding the TV show to the list, although he has seen it.

Tommy: Doing some extra credit?

Evan: It came up in my recommendations. I don’t think it’s for me.

Tommy: Fair. Although, I'd argue that unfortunately, while definitely dramatized for the show, it's not an uncommon experience for a lot of us when we were younger.

There's a noticeable lack of bubbling and Tommy thinks the conversation is over when Evan finally responds with a question.

Evan: How old were you? For your first time?

The question catches Tommy off guard. It's not the fact that Evan is asking it. It’s not an unusual question to ask someone that you've been intimate with. It's the realization that it had taken them this long to have this conversation in the first place.

Tommy: I was 16 my first time with a girl. A high school girlfriend. She was a cheerleader, I was a jock. I was trying to full a certain image at the time.

Julia was a beautiful, strawberry blonde. She was sweet, very understanding when he’d wanted to take things slow at first. Last he saw her on Facebook she was married with kids.

Tommy: My first time with a man was in basic, at 18. It's not exactly difficult to get laid when you're gay in basic. He was my Drill Sergeant. There was a little imbalance of power there. It wasn’t a great choice.

Sgt. Keys was older than Tommy at the time. He was in his early thirties and had dark hair, tan skin, and deep brown eyes that seemed to square Tommy out immediately. He remembers feeling incredibly overwhelmed but wanting it so bad all of the risk seemed worth it. His brain shut off and his body took over, propelled by the desire to finally put into action something he'd been dreaming about for years. It was quick and dirty, not at all as romantic as he'd wanted it to be. That, too, is common, he’s learned.

In the end, it’s the guilt and the fear of being found out that came afterwards that partly sours the memory for him. His phone buzzes again.

Evan: I was 17. I snuck into a college party with some friends. I got drunk and an older girl dared me to try and jump from the balcony into the pool. I did. I don’t know how I survived, honestly. Anyway, we hooked up afterwards. I don’t remember a lot of it. I was pretty drunk.

Tommy reads over the message twice. It's a Wednesday and he remembers Evan's schedule well enough to know that he's probably home alone right now, and Tommy wishes he was there with him.

Tommy: Thank you for trusting me with that, Evan.

20 minutes pass, which is enough time to make Tommy's thoughts start to wonder with ideas of what Evan could be doing. Then his phone buzzes.

Evan: Thank you, for giving me another first to remember.

************************************************************************

He’s in the middle of a terrible 48 hour shift, several of those hours have been spent up in the air assisting in the search and retrieval for a pair of lost hikers in Griffith Park. He’s sitting down to eat for the first time that day when the latest progress report from Evan comes in.

Evan: I’m watching Maurice in-between calls.

Tommy: Slow day?

Evan: Yeah, nothing too crazy. Mostly routine medical calls.

Evan: You?

Tommy: Had a close call. Lost hikers in Griffith. 1 with a broken ankle and another critically low on insulin. Wasn't sure if the diabetic was going to make it.

Evan: Oh Shit. Anything I can do to cheer you up?

Tommy: You can distract me. Tell me what you thought of the movie.

Evan: Okay, well, it’s kind of sad actually? I don’t know, I just realized how easy it’s been for me.

Tommy: That’s a good thing, Evan. It should be easy.

Evan: I know, but I guess I haven’t taken the time to think about it. I’ve been pretty lucky so far.

Evan: I haven’t told anyone outside of friends and family. The thought’s kind of scary. Does it stop being scary?

Tommy: It does over time. And then sometimes it’s worse. That’s just part of it.

Evan: What was it like for you, when you first came out?

Tommy thinks about his attempt at a clean slate by transferring over to the 217. It took him a month to come out at work and he’d felt dread with each passing day. Not particularly because he thought it would go badly, but at the idea that he’d failed himself. That he was stuck.

He finally came out during one of Captain Shaw's bi-weekly poker nights. They were talking about childhood crushed and he’d mentioned that he's always liked Brendan Fraser in George of The Jungle. Lucy commented on his excellent taste and the conversation carried on.

Tommy: Terrifying, but was mostly in my head. I didn’t know if anyone at Harbor would accept me. I didn't know if Captain Shaw was going to be another Gerard or not. He ended up being all right. He’s no Bobby, though.

Evan: I miss him.

Tommy: Did I ever tell you I was there when he met Athena for the first time?

Evan: I think you may have mentioned it?

Tommy: We had to apprehend a rampaging rooster, and you’ll never guess what the rooster’s name was!

Later that week, Tommy finally gets home from his shift and there's a package sitting on his porch, wrapped in cellophane and sealed in a plastic container. There’s a sticky note on top. He peels it off and reads it.

Watched Big Eden. Made me want to bake something again, and I thought you should get to taste it this time. It’s not spumoni, but I hope you like it anyway.

He doesn't know what Evan means by “again” or “this time.” He doesn't remember Evan being as much into baking as he was into cooking.

Inside the container is a slice of multi-layered cake with chocolate buttercream frosting and a sprinkle of nuts on top. It takes the walk from the front door to the kitchen for Tommy to decide that it’s okay if he breaks his diet, just this once. He makes a delighted hmmm noise as he tastes the first bite. The cake is rich and dense but not overpowering. It’s fucking delicious. He takes out his phone, snaps a picture of the half eaten slice of cake and sends it.

Tommy: You made this?

Evan: I did. I hope this means you like it?

Tommy: Evan, this is incredible! Since when do you bake?

Evan: Since last year. It’s a good distraction, keeps my hands and my thoughts busy. So I don’t have to think about things.

Tommy knows that “things” could mean a lot of, well, things, for Evan. Especially lately with Eddie moving away to El Paso then suddenly losing Bobby and Eddie moving back from El Paso, leaving Evan without a place of his own to call home until a little while ago. He’d heard about that last bit through the grapevine, i.e. a Facebook post from Eddie who, for some reason, still hadn’t unfriended him. If Tommy's honest, he thinks he knows what Evan means by “last year.”

He’s not sure what he has to say to that. He remembers the first few months, resisting the urge to reach out to Evan. A few nights in the beginning spent staring at their last conversation, typing something out and then quickly deleting it before getting the courage to press send. He’s even admitted to Evan’s face that he used to drive by Evan’s old loft more than once, hoping for…for something. He doesn’t know what exactly.

He stares at the open messages app. His mind flashes back to that disastrous morning after, to the last time he’d actually attempted to reach out. He's hit by a familiar wave of rejection, but at the same time he feels trapped, a kind of emotional paralysis. He closes the app, packs up the remains of the cake, puts it away in the fridge, and goes to bed still hungry.

He doesn’t expect to get any more texts but a few days later his phone buzzes in his pocket while he’s in his garage changing his truck’s engine oil. Once he’s finished, using a rag to wipe his hands clean, he pulls out his phone expecting anything else than what’s on the screen.

Evan: Some of this stuff is literally porn.

He doesn’t remember exactly what Evan could be referring to. There were a lot of movies on that list that could, to the uncultured eye, be considered porn.

Tommy: Can you elaborate?

Evan: Voodoo Academy. I thought it was an actual horror movie. A little warning would have been appreciated. I watched it with Chimney! Sat through a 5 minute naked massage scene before we realized what was going on.

Tommy’s holding in a belly laugh as he types.

Tommy: It’s not porn. Well, kind of. David DeCoteau is a rite of passage.

Evan: Just saying, I wish I’d been alone while watching that and not in the middle of Maddie and Chimney’s living room.

This time he does laugh. He’s glad he hadn’t included Dante’s Cove on that list. He doesn’t think he did at least.

Tommy: In that case, you should watch Eating Out alone if you haven’t already.

Evan: Noted. Thanks.

Then the next weekend, while he's running through a pre-flight inspection, he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He's been trained not to be distracted once he's started an inspection, so he ignores it and finishes the inspection. When he's done he takes a quick look at his phone and reads the notification.

Evan: I’ve noticed something. There’s like, barely any bisexual characters in these.

There’s not enough time to respond so he puts his phone away, intent to come back to it later. Hours later, when he finally has some downtime, he looks at his phone again and is greeted by a string of texts.

Evan: Seriously, there’s like maybe 3 that I’ve seen, so far.

Evan: And some of those feel ambiguous at best.

Evan: Is it that hard to say ‘I’m bi.’?

Evan: I’m bi.

Evan: I just realized I’ve never actually said it before. I know you already knew. I just wanted to say it. I’m bisexual.

Evan: And oh, God, don't get me started on Moreen from RENT!

It’s dark in the bunk room and Tommy can’t sleep when his phone vibrates. He’s surprised to see a text from Evan because it’s Friday and if he remembers correctly, Friday is where their shifts would usually overlap.

He swipes the screen on his phone and turns down the brightness so he doesn’t disturb anyone who is actually trying to sleep and reads.

Evan: Dennis was wrong. He and Kevin could have stayed together.

Tommy blinks at his phone in confusion. He runs through the list of movies in his head then it clicks.

The Broken Hearts Club.

Tommy: Kevin had a lot of catching up to do.

Evan: That doesn't mean he has to do it alone, and It makes all of Kevin’s growth until then seem insignificant, like he can’t be trusted to know who is, or what he wants. People change and grow constantly, there's no rule that says you can’t do that with someone. They could have grown together.

The night of their break up echoes in Tommy’s head as he reads Evan’s words.

I’m your first, not your last.

Those can be the same thing

They usually aren’t.

Tommy: It wouldn’t have worked. They would have both gotten hurt. That’s just how it works.

Evan: Like how I hurt you after the hookup?

Tommy flinches inwardly at the memory of that morning after they’d hooked up.

Bubbles pop up, letting him know that Evan is typing.

Evan: I did, didn’t I? Made it seem like I’d used you for sex.

He knows it's not as simple as that.

Tommy: I hurt you first.

Evan: You did.

And there it is, confirmation. But he deserves it, doesn't he? He’d hurt Evan, too. He hurts anyone who gets close.

Tommy: I’m sorry.

Evan: I’m sorry, too, but you’re still wrong.

He doesn’t know what else to say. He puts his phone back in his pocket, content to just lie down in the dark, pretending to sleep.

His phone buzzes. He can’t imagine what else Evan has to say but he can’t help himself and pulls out his phone, still lying on his side.

Evan: I miss you.

Evan: There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t miss you. I wish you could see me, all of me. I wish you could trust me, to see all of you, too.

He's suddenly aware of the rapid swishing sound of the blood running through his ears, of the drumming of his heartbeat. He doesn’t know how to respond, he’s too afraid of saying the wrong thing, of reaching out again and getting hurt, of hurting Evan even more than he already has.

So he shuts off his phone, puts it on the side table beside his bed, shuts his eyes and waits for the dark to overtake him.

There are no more texts from Evan. Tommy doesn’t respond to Evan’s last message either. June nears its end and they start the last week of pride month in the same place they’ve been for a year, not talking. He’s surprised at how much it hurts this time. Every time his phone vibrates his heart jumps. Every email, app notification, or text that's not from Evan has the sting of disappointment, of want, but there's nothing he can do except wait for those feelings to pass. He’s done it before, he can do it again.

Tending to his garden, going to the grocery store, going to the gym, and working on his truck, all of those things just remind him of Evan now.

Friday night he opens his fridge and sees the piece of cake still in the plastic container. It’s been a few weeks now and it’s probably stale, the frosting hard as a rock. He has the flicker of a thought, that he should eat it as some strange bit of punishment, that it would probably still taste good anyway because Evan was the one who made it.

He’s about to take it out of the fridge, either to toss it in the trash or shove it into his mouth to torture himself, he’s not sure which, when his phone vibrates on the kitchen counter.

He leaves the cake in the fridge and goes for his phone, a less messy form of penance. It’s a text from Lucy.

Lucy: “Bunch of us are going to the last night of Pride event at The Pink Pistol Parlor. U coming?”

He hasn’t been out to a bar since the night of his hookup with Evan. After that the idea of meaningless fun with someone hasn’t felt appealing. It still isn't appealing now, but it could be exactly what he needs.

So he showers, changes, puts on his favorite citrus and vanilla cologne, and he gets in his truck.

The bar is crowded, which he expected for the last Friday night of pride. He finds Lucy, her girlfriend Mira, and some others that he recognizes from other firehouses in the surrounding area.

“Kinard, you actually made it out,” Lucy says.

“You’re surprised?” He asks.

“You’ve kind of been in your own little bubble lately. I was starting to get a little worried.��

She’s noticed that? He supposes he’s been pretty shit at hiding it.

Conversation picks up and they start to swap work stories but he can't think of anything he wants to share that he hasn't already told a hundred times before. So he nurses his beer and listens, laughs when he's supposed to laugh, and smiles when he's supposed to smile. After a while most of the others leave the table to go dance or find someone to take home for the night.

Then it's just Tommy, Lucy, and Mira. They talk for a while. They tell him about their new apartment. The noisy neighbors and the broken AC that the landlord has been promising to get repaired for a month now, but they're all smiles and laughs throughout the whole thing. They’ve been together for almost a year now, which as far as Tommy is aware, is the longest relationship Lucy’s been in since he’s known her.

She’s different. Mira’s presence grounds Lucy in a way that’s visibly noticeable. They're in the honeymoon phase, Tommy tells himself. It'll end, it always does. The conversation hits a lull and Mira excuses herself to go the restroom. As soon as she’s out of earshot, Lucy rounds in on him.

“You’ve been out of it since you got here, Kinard,” she says. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing. I’ve just–it’s been rough ever since the funeral.” It’s not a total lie but it’s not the whole truth, not the root of what’s occupying his thoughts. Lucy squints at him like she can see underneath his bullshit.

“This is about Buckley, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not.” he says, but she’s not having it.

“Jesus, Tommy, did he ask you to steal a helicopter, again?”

“No, he did not, and I didn’t steal the helicopter, technically I borrowed it.”

“Did you, you know?” She makes a lewd gesture with her hands and Tommy rolls his eyes.

“No, we did not hookup again,”

“So?”

“So–” he gives up on trying to pretend, “We were talking again and now we’re not, again.”

The look she gives him is sympathetic but there’s a chastising edge to her tone when she speaks.

“Which one of you blew it this time?”

We both did. I did, he thinks.

“Neither of us did anything. It just doesn’t work between us and I have to let it go.” He knows it’s the truth but just saying it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, or was that the cheap beer he’d been nursing for the last hour?

Why does she care? He’s never known Lucy to put much stock into relationships before, much less caring about other people’s. The having-a-girlfriend of it all must have changed things. He can feel the unsolicited advice coming when Mira returns. Tommy uses the shuffle as an excuse to leave the table, letting them know that he’s hitting the bar for something stronger than beer.

There's a crowd of people all vying for the bartender's attention, so he waits for the crowd to thin out.

The entire time he’s been here it feels like his phone has been burning a hole in his pocket. Now, surrounded by people, the overstimulating music and clamoring voices, and with no other person demanding his direct attention, it’s almost like the crowd could swallow him up whole if he lets it. That he’d cease to exist altogether.

He's brought back into his body by the sudden presence of someone beside him, tapping on his shoulder to get his attention. It’s one of the guys from the 128, Ramos, he remembers.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you.” He smiles and for the first time that night Tommy realizes he’s in a room full of handsome, available men all looking to have fun, and there’s one standing right in front of him.

“Oh, no, it’s my fault. I zoned out for a second there.”

“I was wondering if you maybe wanted to–” he gestures to the dance floor. Ramos is classically handsome, like an old movie star. He’s got dark hair, light blue eyes, and a square jaw with a devilish smile to match. He’s maybe even a little older than Tommy. He’s perfect, Tommy thinks. Just what he needs right now.

So Tommy forgets the bar and the two hit the dance floor. Ramos pulls him in close and Tommy smells cedarwood and clean sweat on Ramos’ skin. His hands are on Tommy’s hips, they’re rough from years of being on the job, from experience.

On any other night it would be perfect. On any other night Ramos’ blue eyes wouldn’t remind him of someone else’s. He wouldn’t be wishing for the smell of someone else’ cologne. He wouldn’t be thinking of how he’d wished he’d taken Evan to a place like this on a night like this and how it’s probably his fault for never offering in the first place. Ramos’s mouth is on his neck and Tommy’s thinking about heated kisses in someone else’s bed in someone else’s place.

“Do you maybe want to go somewhere? Back to my place?” Ramos's breath is hot against Tommy’s ear. ‘

“Yes,” he says, because it’s what he’s supposed to say. He lets it happen, lets Ramos lead him through the crowd and towards the exit, but once they reach the outside something in his gut flinches. He pulls away, out of Ramos’ hold. “I–” he stammers, “I don’t think I’m ready for this,” he says, because it’s the truth. He’s not ready for this, because he doesn’t want to be ready for it at all. “I’m sorry.” He leaves Ramos standing stunned in the parking lot.

He starts walking. He has no idea where to, only that he’s too out of it to drive right now and his car is back in the direction of where he left Ramos and he doesn’t want to have that interaction if he can avoid it. He makes it about a block when he finds a bench and sits. For a moment all he does is bury his face in his hands, hunched forward wishing the situation was anything than what it undeniably is.

He reaches for his phone in his pocket, moving against every impulse telling him it’s a bad idea, that he’ll get hurt, and he opens the texts app.

Tommy: I miss you, too. I miss you all the fucking time.

He hits send and doesn’t expect a response.

Then he watches as bubbles start to pop up on the screen. He waits, his heart in his throat. Then the bubbles stop abruptly and his phone starts to vibrate with an incoming call.

Evan is calling him. For a hot second he’s frozen in disbelief then he’s fumbling with his phone, swiping up to accept the call.

“Hi,” he says, surprised by the raspiness of his own voice. His throat suddenly feels like sandpaper.

“Hi,” Evans' tone lacks its usual playfulness. Instead there’s caution.

For a moment neither of them says anything, until Evan clears his throat and continues, because Tommy can’t. “Can we talk?”

Tommy actually manages to chuckle.

“I thought that was what we were doing?” He can practically hear Evan’s grin in response.

“I mean in person. Face to face.”

“Yeah, I’d like that.” He’s about to suggest a day that he knows they most likely have off, maybe have lunch somewhere nice and public, but then Evan responds.

“Okay, how about right now?”

“I’m not at home right now. I could come to you or–”

“Turn around.” Tommy stills for a second then turns his head and makes eye contact with Evan who is walking towards him, phone to his ear. Evan smiles and waves at him and it makes Tommy’s chest feel warm and glowy as Evan closes the distance between them.

He’s close enough to reach out and touch, for Tommy to pull close and kiss if he wanted. But that’s not what Tommy needs, it’s not what either of them needs.

“How?” Tommy says, not displeased, just a bit confused. “Lucy didn’t tell you to come, did she?” The idea that Lucy would call Evan makes him wonder just deeply she’d been concerned for him.

“No, I heard about a Last Night of Pride event in the newsletter and I came to check it out. There was no onsite parking left by the time I got here, so I had to go a little ways out.”

“Newsletter?”

“The LAFD Pride Alliance newsletter.”

“Oh,” something about that feels a little ironic, because Tommy hasn’t even signed up for that newsletter. He pushes the thought aside and tries to speak but then Evan does as well and suddenly they’re talking over each other until Evan holds up his hand in a time out gesture. They both go quiet. Tommy nods, signaling for Evan to go first.

“I want to try again,”

“So do I.”

“But I think we need to clear the air first. Maybe come up with some ground rules?”

“I’m listening.”

“We have to talk more.”

“Like we’re doing now?”

“Like sharing things. I want to know more about you. This past month I feel like I got to know more about you through movies than I did the whole time we were together.” Tommy’s not sure what he means but, okay, he’ll bite.

“What did you learn about me, exactly?”

“I learned that you like terrible movies with eye candy.” He smirks, “and cheesy romance movies with subtle romantic gestures.” His expression softens, his gaze gentle as he continues his assessment.

“I learned Tommy Kinard was a lonely kid who felt he had to hide a big part of himself because he thought it was the only way to stay safe.” There’s no pity or judgement in Even’s voice, only kindness, but it doesn't stop Tommy from feeling like the air’s been knocked out of his lungs.

He’s not wrong.

“Those are some very astute observations, Evan.” His voice nearly wavers. “Anything else?”

“That I want to be a person that that kid can trust. Tell him that he can be safe with me, to be himself with me. If that’s something he wants?”

Tommy’s fighting back tears, rocking slightly on the heels of his feet to displace how exposed he feels right now.

“Okay,” he says, forcing himself to meet Evan’s eyes. “And I promise to listen. No more deflecting.” He diverts his eyes for a second because this one’s hard to admit, but he has to say it because he knows it’s true. “I’m sorry if I ever made you feel small, like your experiences weren’t enough.”

“You don't need–”

“I do–I did. It’s important. You’re important to me.” He holds out his hand and Evan takes it. Evan’s are warm and when their fingers interlace it makes something inside Tommy settle.

“Thank you.”

They start to walk back toward the Pink Pistol Parlor.

“I think,” Evan says, "Once we actually start to get to know each other you’ll realize how much we actually have in common. It’s kinda scary, to be honest.”

“Oh yeah? Do you have any movie recommendations for me, so I can get a crash course in Evan Buckley.”

“Oh, I can think of a few,” That familiar playfulness is back in full force. “But in the meantime, I’ve started on a list that Hen gave me. Today I watched–” He makes a face, trying to remember, “The Incredibly True Adventure of Two Girls In Love. It’s a lot different from Another Gay Movie, that’s for sure.”

“Is that a dig at my recommendations? I’ll admit my list has some blindspots.”

“Oh yeah, it does.” They both laugh. “Don’t worry, we can catch up together.”

[idkyetxoxo]

Twelve | Ignite | Shadow and Flame

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 2.4k

Warnings - Sexual content (mild mostly just implied)

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"You're absolutely the worst."

Cassian looked up from where he crouched in the garden, Malric clambering gleefully across his back like he was scaling a mountain.

"What did I do now?" he asked innocently, even as one of Malric's tiny wings smacked him square in the face.

I crossed my arms and narrowed my eyes at him. "You taught him to growl."

Cassian blinked. "No I didn't."

"You absolutely did," I hissed. "He growls when I try to change him. He growls when he wants more food. And now he's growling at flowers, Cass."

Malric chose that moment to prove my point, gripping a fistful of grass, baring his tiny milk teeth, and letting out a very serious, very tiny, "Rrrrr!"

Cassian grinned like the bastard he was. "He's expressing dominance. It's important in Illyrian culture."

"He's eleven months old."

"Exactly the right age to start training for command."

"Rhys," I called into the open window where the High Lord was lazily reading on the couch, "your General is corrupting my child."

Rhysand didn't even look up. "I've been saying that for a while now. I'm not getting in the middle of this."

Cassian put a hand to his heart, utterly unrepentant. "One day he'll be a mighty warrior and you'll thank me."

Malric crowed triumphantly, throwing a handful of grass into the air like victory confetti.

"You've created a menace," I muttered, but I couldn't help the smile tugging at my mouth. 

Even with grass in his curls, even with dirt smudged on his cheeks, Malric was perfect. He was so full of life, of fierce joy, and Cassian might be a terrible influence, but the sound of their shared laughter was perfect.

I felt him before I heard him.

Azriel's presence slid in like a shadow brushing over silk, a quiet hush behind me. His arms came around my waist, warm and solid. I leaned back into him without a thought.

There was a time I never imagined I'd let him this close. Not truly. A time when touching him had been about control, a way to prove I could take without being taken. 

But this—this was something else. 

A trust so complete it felt like falling into flame and finding peace.

"He tried to fly again today," I murmured. "Got about two feet off the ground before crashing down."

Azriel chuckled softly, mouth brushing my temple. "That's twice this week. He's getting stronger."

We stood like that for a moment, watching Cassian start some elaborate game where he pretended to be a bear while Malric shrieked in delight. I felt Azriel's chest rise and fall slowly behind me, his hand resting on the small of my back.

"You know," I said after a pause, "Eris wrote again. Another letter. Wants us to visit soon."

Azriel was quiet, but not tense. "Will you go?"

"I might." I looked up at him. "Will you come with me?"

He didn't hesitate. "Always."

I nodded once, then tipped my head back down. "Also, Malric bit Cass yesterday."

Azriel's chest shook with silent laughter. "That explains the bandage."

"He claims he was betrayed. I told him it builds character."

"I'll him it was probably deserved."

We stayed like that until the sun began to dip lower, the garden wrapped in golden light. Cassian eventually tired, collapsing back onto the grass with Malric sprawled across his chest like a baby-sized conqueror. The wind was soft, stirring the leaves. 

No fire. No war. Just us.

Cassian sighed dramatically, propping himself up on his elbows as Malric tugged at his hair with conviction. "Tell me again how I'm not this child's favourite."

"Because he bit you yesterday?" I offered, smirking.

"He bit me because he loves me too fiercely," Cassian corrected, utterly serious. "It's how baby warriors bond."

"Or," came Rhysand's voice from the window, "he bit you because he found you annoying."

Cassian waved a dismissive hand in the air.

Rhysand leaned casually on the sill, gaze warm as it tracked Malric's every wobbly step. "If we're talking favourites, I'd like to remind everyone that I introduced him to flying—"

"You dangled him by his ankles," I cut in.

"He laughed," Rhysand said innocently. "Clearly he loved it."

Cassian scoffed. "Please. When Malric sees me, he laughs, growls, and immediately initiates a wrestling match. That's a bond forged in the fires of war."

"Fires of war?" Rhysand echoed, incredulous. "You tripped over a watering can and fell face-first into a bush while he watched."

"And he laughed! A true warrior appreciates humour."

I turned to Azriel, who had been silent but not unaffected, his eyes followed Malric with that quiet protectiveness that never quite eased. "Maybe we should start assigning visitation hours. Rhys and Cass are getting possessive."

Azriel's hand tightened slightly at my waist, his shadows curling at his feet like smoke. "Let them fight over him. I already won."

Cassian groaned. "Do you have to be so smug all the time?"

"Only when I'm right," Azriel said coolly.

Cassian stretched one large arm behind his head and gave me a lazy grin, the kind that meant trouble. "You know, if you ever want to teach Malric a real battle cry, I'm available for private lessons."

I rolled my eyes. "What, like yelling bloody murder every time he wants a snack?"

He nodded solemnly. "Exactly. Builds discipline."

"I'm more inclined to teach him to growl at you specifically," I said sweetly. "Every time you get within a ten-foot radius."

Cassian sat up slightly, feigning offence. "Now, why would you do that? After all the fun we've had? You wound me."

"You deserve worse," I shot back, grinning. "You taught my child to snarl at flowers."

"Technically, he growled at one flower," Cassian said. "And honestly, it was looking at him funny."

I didn't dignify that with a response, but the twitch at the corner of my mouth gave me away.

Cassian winked. "You know, if Az ever gets tired of your scowling, dangerous charm, I'm still accepting applications. You already know I'm good with kids."

I snorted. "Cass, if I wanted chaos in my bed, I'd just let Malric bring in his teething ring."

Azriel's voice, dry as winter air, cut through from behind me. "Eyes to yourself, General."

Cassian just grinned wider undisturbed. "Hard not to, when she's birthed the cutest little menace in all of Pyrthian."

Azriel stepped forward, his shadows curling lazily at his heels. "I should remind you that menace is half me."

Cassian held up his hands in mock surrender. "And there it is—the mood killer."

Malric chose that moment to roll off Cassian's chest and attempt to crawl toward a butterfly, making a high-pitched noise that definitely sounded like another attempt at "Rrrah!"

Cassian pointed at him proudly. "See? He gets it."

Azriel sighed, but I could feel the quiet laughter vibrating through his chest. I leaned into him again, watching Malric's stubby little wings flutter as he chased nothing and everything across the grass.

He was wild. He was joy. He was ours.

Later that night, after the house had quieted and Cassian had been dramatically banished from bath time for telling Malric the bubbles were a "training simulation," Azriel and I lay in bed knowing our son was safe in the arms of the High Lord across the hall.

The bedroom was dim, lit only by the golden glow of a low flame in the fireplace. 

The sheets were cool against my skin, the night breeze slipping through the open balcony doors and trailing across the room like a sigh.

Azriel lay beside me, one arm draped loosely across his stomach, the other brushing the edge of the sheet where it tangled between us. 

Shadows coiled lazily around his bare chest, flickering like the remnants of a dream. He looked peaceful—almost. But the way his fingers kept twitching toward me gave him away.

I turned on my side, tracing the line of his ribs with a fingertip. "You're quiet."

He looked at me then—really looked and the softness in his gaze unravelled something low in my belly.

"I missed this," he said quietly. Not just the words, but the way he said them was rough and honest. "The stillness. The quiet. You."

I smiled faintly. "Same. Though I wouldn't call anything involving Cass quiet."

Azriel chuckled, that low, gravelly sound I felt more than heard. "Still. It's different now. Better."

"Is that your way of saying you like watching me fall asleep with a baby drooling in my hair?"

His lips curved. "Yes. And no."

I raised a brow. "Meaning?"

He rolled onto his side, eyes locked with mine, voice dropping. "I like that I get to see you like this. Tired. Real. Glowing in ways you don't even notice. You're more than I ever let myself want."

I swallowed hard, heat creeping up my spine at the look in his eyes. "That's dangerously close to romantic, Shadowsinger."

He smirked. "Don't get used to it."

"I might." My hand drifted down his chest, slow, testing. "You might like it."

His fingers found my bare hip beneath the sheets, warm and firm. "I already do."

Silence fell again, but it pulsed now—taut with something unspoken. I saw it in the shift of his jaw, the way his shadows curled a little tighter around his shoulders. 

The restraint in him was always razor-thin, and gods, I loved pressing against it.

He brushed a thumb along the curve of my hip. "I missed the spark. The way you used to look at me like you were seconds from starting a fight or dragging me into bed. Sometimes both."

A slow sultry smile curved my lips. "That's because I was."

Azriel grinned, but there was something quiet behind it, nostalgia and fondness. "You were always relentless."

"You liked it," I murmured, trailing my hand up and down. "Don't pretend you didn't spend weeks trying to out-brood me just so I'd come back for more."

He caught my wrist gently, turned my hand, and pressed a kiss to my palm. "I did like it. I liked how you didn't give a damn about my silence or my shadows. You just—lit the whole damned place up. And I didn't know how to handle it."

"You handle it fine now," I teased, nudging his thigh with my knee.

His smirk turned wicked. "Don't tempt me."

I laughed softly, brushing my fingers along the scar beneath his collarbone. "Things are different now."

"Yeah," he said, quieter this time. "We built something. We made something real. But I still think about those early days. The fire. The way you challenged everything I thought I deserved."

I leaned in, pressed a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth. "You deserved more than you ever let yourself believe. You still do."

He let out a breath like a laugh, pulling me closer until we were flush together. "But gods, I did miss that mouth of yours."

I raised a brow. "That so?"

Azriel's shadows curled tighter around us, like they knew what was coming. His voice dropped to a whisper, brushing my skin like a secret.

"Say something wicked, just for old times' sake."

And I did.

A slow smile curved my mouth, and I leaned in, close enough for my breath to brush his lips.

"I missed touching you," I whispered, slow, deliberate and sinful.

Something shifted in his eyes. A flicker of heat, of hunger, of memory. The shadowed, feral edge I remembered from the beginning. From the nights we'd stolen from the world and called them ours.

His lips hovered near mine, so close it was almost a kiss. Almost cruel.

"Then touch me."

The words landed like a challenge. Like a promise.

And something inside me broke—no, bloomed. That part of me that had waited patiently while I became mother, survivor, healer. 

The part that still remembered how to set fire to the world with nothing more than a kiss.

Our mouths met, hungry, hot, a collision of want and memory and everything we'd been aching to remember. There was nothing soft in it. Nothing timid. 

Just the taste of him and the feel of his hands sliding to my back, dragging me closer as the sheets tangled between our legs like they wanted in on the chaos. 

His fingers spread wide, possessive, trailing fire as they moved, skimming the curve of my spine, dipping lower like he needed to feel skin, needed proof I was real.

I gasped into his mouth as his teeth grazed my bottom lip. He swallowed the sound, kissed me deeper, like he could drink every version of me—the female I was, the girl who'd once demanded nothing but pleasure, the mother of his child, all of it.

His hand slid under my thigh, hitching it up over his hip until I could feel him, hard and hot, pressed exactly where I ached.

There was no space between us, just friction and memory and heat. His mouth trailed down my jaw, to my throat, teeth scraping skin he used to worship like it was holy. And maybe it still was.

His voice, when he broke the kiss, was ragged. "Tell me you're okay."

"I'm okay," I murmured, brushing my nose along his. "I'm better than okay."

He ran a hand through my hair, fingertips tracing the shell of my ear, down my neck, lingering like he was memorising me all over again. "I don't want to hurt you—"

"You won't," I promised, voice thick. "You never have."

We stayed like that for a moment longer, breath to breath, heart to heart, our bodies curled together beneath the weight of everything we'd survived.

Then, with a look like a promise, Azriel kissed me again.

My fingers skimmed over his shoulders, down the rippling lines of his back, until they reached the place I'd only ever touched with reverence—the base of his wings.

I let my fingertips trace the membrane, featherlight, a single brush over the sensitive joint where wing met spine.

He shuddered—actually shuddered and broke the kiss with a growl so low it vibrated through my chest.

"Don't," he breathed, voice wrecked and raw. "Not unless you want me to lose every last thread of restraint I'm holding on to."

I didn't move my hand. "Maybe I do."

He looked at me like I'd just broken him open and put him back together in the same breath. "I intend to please you before I even think of myself. But if you touch my wings again, love—" His voice dropped, dangerous, reverent. "I'll be past words. Past patience."

I held his gaze, daring. "Then stop talking."

And the rest of the night belonged only to us.

We were once Autumn and Night—flame and shadow, dangerous, forbidden, impossible, yet here we are, wrapped in warmth and quiet, having turned the chaos into home.

And I wouldn't trade the blaze we were for the quiet we've made. 

No matter what.

A/n - This part started because I didn't want to end the series on an odd number but I think it might be my favourite!!

Malric, of course, will continue to terrorise his uncles, honestly? They deserve it ;)

But this ending feels right because everything circles back. The bond and the teasing fire between Reader and Azriel that never really faded.

I truly, truly hope this did the whole story justice because I quite like it.

My next Azriel series is called "Little Shadow." It’s kind of like a sequel—a baby series featuring Reader and Azriel as new parents. The masterlist is already posted!

Thank you for reading and for all the support, it means the world <33

Shadow and Flame tag list - @coffeebooksrain18 @jaybbygrl @slut4acotar @justtryingtosurvive02 @mortqlprojections @sheblogs @moonlitlavenders @windblownwinston @queenoffeysand @tothestarsandwhateverend @saamanthaag3 @metaphysicaldoom @natalijassav @bookishbishhh @yourenothingbutnottome @holb32 @etsukomoonbeam @fxckmiup @i-am-infinite @megwan @cuethedepession @rinalsworld @whoreforfictionalmen18 @asahinasstuff @lilah-asteria @smol-grandpa @shinyghosteclipse @rachelnicolee @shellsarepretty @jugodeshadowsinger @landofpetrichor @sunnyspycat @pit-and-the-pen @obscure-beauty @quiettuba @thiswildandpreciouslife @paintedbyshadows @casiiopea2 @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @dragonridersandhighlords @scatteredstardustt

[0scarp1astr1]

˖ 𐔌 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠࿐.۫

જ⁀➴ Desc: || Franco flirts with everyone, so when he vocalizes his attraction to you and his feelings, you brush him under the rug. But the Argentine isn't stopping to prove he's serious about wanting you, and breaking down your walls is a challenge he's accepting. ||

ᯓ★ Franco Colapinto x Fem! (Piastri) Reader

ᯓ★ 3x Genre: Humor, Fluff, Angst

ᯓ★ Warning: None

ᯓ★ Requested? No

Author Note: I'm aware of the request I'm working on right now, and since it is still being worked on, I've given you Franco. Here you all go, I hope you enjoy! MUCH SHORTER THAN USUAL!

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆

It started small. Quiet, almost forgettable.

Just another day in the paddock, one of those weekends where the air buzzed with engines, camera flashes, and the hum of tense conversations. You weren’t there for the glamor; you were simply showing support, a familiar face in the sea of McLaren orange, standing beside your brother, Oscar Piastri, and his ever-cheeky teammate, Lando Norris, whom you’d grown to adore like an older cousin.

And then he appeared—Franco Alejandro Colapinto.

They called him the flirt around the paddock. You heard it whispered between engineers, muttered by drivers, even giggled about by PR girls clutching clipboards. And you? You learned to dodge his advances before they could even land.

You remembered the first time your eyes met—more by accident than fate—when one of Oscar’s mechanics introduced him casually.

“Franco, this is Oscar’s sister,” the guy had said with a smirk, like tossing meat into a lion’s den.

Franco’s dark eyes lit up instantly, a mischievous grin curving his lips. “Ah, the mysterious Piastri sister,” he said, his accent soft but curling around his words like silk. “I see the beauty runs in the family.”

You gave a tight-lipped smile, stepping half behind Oscar. Lando just chuckled under his breath, amused by the whole thing.

From that moment, it became a dance.

You dodged. He chased.

When he complimented you—"Nice dress," "You have amazing eyes," "That color suits you"—you’d mumble a polite thanks and rush away before he could flash you that boyish grin.

He wasn’t ugly. No, not even close. Franco Colapinto was painfully handsome, with tousled dark hair, a chiseled jaw, and eyes that held mischief like secrets. And yet, that was the problem. He flirted with everyone. You’d seen it with your own eyes—his gaze trailing after female reporters, his charming laugh during interviews, the way he leaned just a bit too close.

You weren’t about to become someone’s placeholder. Some temporary fling until he found the girl he really wanted.

But Franco was persistent.

It began with small gestures—harmless, almost sweet. He started showing up near McLaren hospitality, holding out your favorite coffee order.

“Latte, two sugars, oat milk, right?” he’d say with a wink.

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “How do you know that?”

“Let’s just say... I pay attention,” he’d reply, walking off before you could protest.

Then came the gifts. A tiny keychain shaped like a race car. A lucky charm he claimed he picked up in Argentina. A carefully wrapped croissant on a rainy morning.

One time, he approached with a traditional mate gourd and thermos, offering it with a grin. “Come on, try it. I’ll teach you how to drink it properly.”

Oscar wasn’t blind to any of this. He never intervened outright, but you caught him watching from a distance, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed in that typical older-brother glare.

“He flirts with interviewers all the time,” Oscar told you one evening, as you sat beside him on the pit wall after practice. “I’ve seen it.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not an idiot, Oscar.”

“I know you’re not. That’s why I don’t get why you’re still talking to him.”

“I’m not talking to him,” you huffed. “He just keeps showing up.”

Oscar snorted under his breath, muttering, “Yeah, that’s exactly the problem.”

Still, Franco didn’t stop.

One evening during a team dinner, after a bit too much wine had loosened tongues and tempers, he leaned over the table—eyes hazy but locked on yours—and murmured, “You know I’m in love with you, right?”

Fork halfway to your mouth, you froze.

You stared at him.

Thumbs up. That’s all you could manage, awkwardly raising your hand in the air.

Franco laughed softly, resting his cheek in his palm, clearly too far gone to remember it in the morning.

And he didn’t.

The next day, he greeted you like nothing had happened, casually asking, “Want to get breakfast?” while you just blinked at him in disbelief.

But that wasn’t the end of it.

Small compliments became routine.

“I like your hair today.”

“Oh, you changed your nail color—nice choice.”

“You look good, really. The way you did your makeup? Stunning.”

“Honestly, you don’t even need lashes. I like your natural ones better.”

“Your voice… I don’t know, it’s calming. I like it.”

“I could teach you Spanish,” he added one afternoon, flashing you a knowing smile after overhearing you struggle to pronounce a phrase. “You’d be good at it. You’re smart.”

Each word rolled off his tongue like sugar—smooth, sweet, and dangerous. He’d brush hair from your face sometimes, his fingers warm against your skin, and you’d just freeze, every instinct screaming to cringe away.

And every time, Oscar’s words echoed in your mind.

“He flirts with everyone.”

You knew it was true. You’d seen it yourself.

One weekend, while scrolling through Instagram, you stumbled on an interview clip of Franco being asked a lighthearted question.

“So, Franco,” the reporter teased, “who’s your celebrity crush?”

Franco’s lips curled in that familiar grin, eyes glinting as he leaned into the mic. “She’s not really famous,” he replied, gaze flicking toward the McLaren motorhome in the background. “But one of the Piastri sisters… yeah. That’s my answer.”

Your jaw dropped.

The comment exploded online, fans flooding the comments with speculation and heart emojis.

Lando nearly spat out his drink laughing. “Oh, he’s so dead when Oscar sees that.”

Oscar, meanwhile, looked ready to strangle him. “I told you.”

But even with the world watching, Franco didn’t back down. If anything, he became bolder.

One rainy qualifying day, you found yourself cornered beneath an umbrella outside the paddock gates, your phone dead and no car in sight. And there he was, pulling up in his rental, passenger door swung open.

“Need a ride, princesa?”

You exhaled, exhausted and drenched.

“Fine,” you muttered, sliding in.

He handed you his hoodie without a word, the fabric warm and smelling faintly of his cologne. He didn’t speak as he drove, but when he finally stopped outside your hotel, he turned to you, quiet for once.

“I know what people say about me,” he said softly. “But I’m not playing with you.”

You didn’t reply.

Instead, you left his hoodie on the seat, climbed out, and shut the door behind you.

Still, somehow, you knew this wasn’t the end of Franco Alejandro Colapinto’s pursuit.

Not by a long shot.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The sun was relentless that afternoon, beating down on the paddock with a heat that shimmered off the asphalt. You navigated your way through the bustling crowd, balancing a tray of drinks and snacks in your hands—two iced coffees, a smoothie, and a small paper bag of pastries. Your sunglasses slid down your nose as you let out a quiet sigh, muttering to yourself as you adjusted your grip.

“Honestly,” you grumbled under your breath, weaving through camera crews and mechanics, “you’d think these two could grab their own food for once.”

You finally spotted the bright orange McLaren hospitality ahead, its entrance buzzing with team members and media staff. You picked up your pace, trying to dodge a photographer who nearly backed into you, narrowly saving the drinks from spilling.

Just as you reached the steps, a familiar voice rang out from behind, laced with amusement and that signature teasing tone.

“Well, well, look at that,” Lando Norris drawled, falling into step beside you with a cocky grin. “Colapinto’s got his girlfriend running errands for him already. Didn’t take long.”

You froze mid-step, your head whipping toward him with a sharp glare that could’ve cut glass.

“Lando,” you warned, shifting the tray higher in your arms, “you are zero help.”

He only laughed, completely unfazed, his curls bouncing as he ruffled your hair with a lazy swipe of his hand, making you stumble a bit under the weight of the tray.

“Calm down, Piastri,” he snickered, watching you struggle to fix your now-messy hair with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I already deal with your brother enough. I don’t need you glaring at me like him, too.”

You gave an exaggerated roll of your eyes, blowing a loose strand of hair away from your face. “I’m not his girlfriend, Lando.”

“Mm-hmm,” he hummed, clearly unconvinced, walking backward in front of you as you continued toward the hospitality doors. “Could’ve fooled me, though. The way he looks at you? Please.”

“Lando,” you muttered through gritted teeth, glancing around to make sure no one else was listening in. The last thing you needed was more gossip swirling around the paddock.

Lando only grinned wider, clearly enjoying himself. “Relax. I’m just saying what everyone’s already thinking.”

As you pushed open the hospitality door with your elbow, still balancing the tray, Lando leaned in with a low whisper, voice dripping with mischief.

“Besides,” he added, “if it were true, you could do worse than Franco. He’s got nice hair.”

You stopped just inside the doorway, giving him a deadpan look as he winked and strolled off toward the lounge area, whistling under his breath.

You shook your head, cheeks flushed with a mix of heat and frustration.

Boys. They were all the same.

But deep down, you couldn’t ignore the faint flutter in your chest… Because even though you hated to admit it—Lando wasn’t entirely wrong.

It wasn’t until later—long after the chaos had settled and the paddock began to empty out—that you saw him again.

The sun had dipped low, casting a warm, golden haze over the paddock as mechanics packed away equipment and crews shuffled around, wrapping cables and locking away gear. The air smelled of rubber, gasoline, and the faint sweetness of lingering espresso from the nearby hospitality tents.

You were gathering your things, finally ready to leave after another long day with McLaren, when he appeared.

“Hola, mi cielito.”

The voice was unmistakable—low, smooth, and laced with that effortless Argentine charm.

You didn’t have to turn around to know it was Franco Colapinto.

You let out a long, exhausted sigh, slinging your bag over your shoulder without sparing him a glance. “I’m going home, Franco.”

But before you could take another step, he moved in front of you, blocking your path with that signature grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Why go home so soon?” he asked, head tilting slightly as his dark eyes roamed your face with quiet amusement. “I’ve got somewhere better we can go.”

He leaned in just enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, his voice lowering into something softer, more dangerous.

“If you’ll let me, of course.”

You frowned, holding his gaze firmly, unwilling to let him drag you into whatever game he was playing.

“Be honest with me,” you said, your voice steady despite your pulse quickening. “Would my brother actually like you?”

Franco’s eyes glimmered with mischief as he gave a lazy shrug, completely unbothered.

“Eh, probably not,” he admitted with a small, lopsided grin. “Or maybe yes? Who knows. But honestly…”—he leaned even closer, his breath brushing against your cheek, the scent of his cologne—warm, woodsy, intoxicating—wrapping around you—“this isn’t about him, mi amor.”

His gaze burned into yours as his words came out like a slow, deliberate tease.

“This is about us—you and me. Your future as…” His grin widened, cocky and shameless. “Mrs. Colapinto.”

He even had the audacity to wink.

You let out a sharp breath, glaring at him despite the sudden heat crawling up the back of your neck. You hated his charm—loathed how easily he wielded it like a weapon—but there was something about the way his eyes softened just slightly, something about the way he looked at you like you were the only person left in the world, that always pulled you right back into his orbit.

“Franco,” you said firmly, though it came out quieter than you intended.

He chuckled softly, the sound warm and unhurried, as if he already knew you wouldn’t walk away.

“Hey, I’m not lying to you,” he said, his tone surprisingly gentle, as his hand lifted—fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear with such careful ease, it made your breath hitch.

“I’m just interested in you,” he murmured, his thumb grazing the edge of your jaw for a second too long before he pulled back slightly, his dark eyes never leaving yours.

“So?” He grinned again, playful but sincere. “What do you say, mi cielito? You and me. One chance.”

His voice hung in the air, daring you to answer.

And though every part of you screamed to shut him down, you couldn’t deny it—your heart was beating just a little too fast.

You rolled your eyes, already turning away from him, but not quickly enough.

“No, I think I’ll just go bother my brother instead,” you muttered, half to yourself, hoping he’d take the hint.

But Franco only hummed, as if your rejection amused him more than it deterred him. “Think about it, honey,” he said, drawing out the pet name like honey on his tongue. “The offer still stands… mi lady.”

Before you could protest, he reached for your hand, lifting it slowly—deliberately—and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles like some 18th-century gentleman with a cocky twist.

You stared down at him blankly.

“Right,” you said flatly, yanking your hand away and promptly wiping the kiss off on your jeans with an exaggerated motion.

Franco smirked, undeterred. If anything, your sass only seemed to thrill him.

“You know,” you added, “you could go flirt with one of the reporters instead. I’m pretty sure I saw her still hanging around near Red Bull’s garage.”

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t glance toward the direction you pointed.

Instead, he looked at you—really looked. Gone was the glint of teasing in his eyes, replaced by something quieter, deeper.

“But why would I do that,” he asked softly, “when I spent the whole damn day searching the paddock for you?”

The air between you thickened, and you hated the way your chest reacted. You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest in a flimsy defense.

“Yeah?” you challenged, raising a brow. “I’m telling my brother to spray you with champagne the next time you come near me.”

Franco let out a sharp laugh, eyes lighting up as he tilted his head. “Please do. At least then I’d smell like victory.”

You couldn’t help the tiny twitch at the corner of your mouth. Damn him.

He stepped a little closer, his voice gentling as he added, “Look, I mean no harm to you. I just want the chance to prove that I’m serious. That I… like you.”

You gave him a flat look. “Right. Like.” You echoed the word with sarcasm heavy in your tone, but your mind had already betrayed you—dragging up that night at the dinner table.

“I’m in love with you,” he’d said, breath warm with wine, words slurring just enough to question their sincerity.

You had laughed it off then, brushed it under the rug like a joke, a misstep.

But it clung to the back of your neck now, itching like a phantom touch. Was it a drunken truth? A moment of bold honesty? Or just another one of his lines?

You swallowed it down and stepped back, but he wasn’t done.

“Y/n Piastri,” he said, chest rising with a slow breath. “I’m a man of my word.”

You arched a brow at him. “A man of your word?” you repeated with a skeptical tilt of your head. “Right… how many words and how many women have heard that one?”

Franco blinked, then laughed—nervous, sheepish, like a kid caught red-handed. He rubbed the back of his neck, his usual confidence slipping for a beat.

“Okay, ouch,” he said with a grin, eyes wide in mock betrayal. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m always serious,” you replied coolly.

He looked at you for a long moment, something unspoken dancing behind his eyes—no smirk, no joke, just a flicker of something rawer.

And that scared you more than anything.

Because if Franco Colapinto was finally being serious… What the hell were you supposed to do about it?

“Well…” you started, your voice trailing off as you glanced at your watch, the late afternoon light casting long shadows across the paddock. “I have to go now.”

You didn’t wait for his reply. Instead, you turned on your heel and began walking away, your footsteps quick but uncertain, the weight of your thoughts heavier than the bag on your shoulder. Your breath came out in a soft sigh, barely audible over the distant hum of packing crews and the distant roar of an engine winding down.

Behind you, Franco watched with that infuriating grin tugging at his lips—equal parts cocky and genuinely amused.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Because he knew this was far from over.

No matter what the media whispered, no matter the sideways glances and the casual rumors, he was going to prove it. Prove that you weren’t just another name in his endless list of admirers, that this wasn’t just another fling.

This—whatever it was between you—was real.

And he was willing to fight for it.

With every charm, every word, every stolen moment, Franco Colapinto was going to show you exactly how serious he was.

Even if it drove you crazy in the process.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The night had settled fully by the time you found yourself seated across the dinner table from your brother and his girlfriend, the soft clink of glasses and the murmur of nearby conversations filling the quiet gaps between your words. The warm glow of the restaurant’s lights cast gentle shadows, making the moment feel intimate, even if the topic was anything but.

Lily chuckled lightly, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she took a slow sip from her glass. Her gaze lingered on you, curious and knowing.

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the table, exhaling in frustration. “It’s not funny,” you said, voice low but sharp. “He keeps making moves.”

Lily raised an eyebrow, tilting her head. “Sounds to me like he likes you,” she said with a teasing smile. “But if you want him to stop, just say so.”

Your cheeks warmed, and you cleared your throat, suddenly aware of the spotlight now on you. “I’m not against it…” you muttered, eyes flicking between the two of them.

Her eyebrow lifted even higher, a slow smirk playing on her lips. “So… you like him back? Or no?”

You winced, caught off guard by the directness of her question. “It’s hard to tell,” you admitted, shaking your head slightly. “Look… no. No. He flirts with everyone—this is just part of his little game! Trying to swoon me into his arms,” you argued, voice rising slightly as if trying to convince yourself more than them.

Oscar sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m personally not surprised he’s been hitting on you,” he muttered, glancing sideways at Lily. “But... I’ve never seen him this dedicated, so… congratulations on bringing that side out of him.”

Lily shot Oscar a brief, amused glance before turning back to you, eyes sharp and searching.

“Sounds to me like you’re into him,” she said softly. “You’re just worried he doesn’t mean anything he says.”

You hummed thoughtfully, biting your lip. Then, testing the waters, you asked, “Okay… so what if I wasn’t into him?”

She raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. “Then you’d be against him?”

“Exactly,” you said firmly.

Her eyes gleamed with playful insight. “You haven’t told him to stop flirting, have you? And I’m guessing you wouldn’t let anyone else tell him to stop either.”

You hesitated, then glanced down at your hands on the table. “Something tells me you’re right,” you admitted quietly.

Lily grinned. “So… you’re okay with this chase, huh? Making him work for it?”

You swallowed, cheeks flushing. “Okay. Guilty as charged,” you mumbled, a small, reluctant smile creeping onto your face.

Oscar chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, just don’t get burned, alright?”

You met his eyes, a spark of determination in your own. “Oh, I plan to keep my guard up,” you replied. “But maybe... just maybe, I’ll let him surprise me.”

You sat quietly, arms folded loosely on the table, listening as Lily and Oscar launched into what had quickly become a spirited debate. You couldn’t help but smile a little—neither of them could seem to decide what to make of Franco’s sudden devotion.

“He’s held doors for you,” Lily pointed out, looking over at you with a smile.

Oscar hummed noncommittally. “Which, honestly, anyone can do.”

Lily shot him a pointed glance, unfazed. “He’s tied her shoes.”

Oscar raised a brow, crossing his arms. “So? I’ve done that too. And she can tie her own shoes.”

Lily folded her arms, now standing her ground as she locked eyes with Oscar. “He brings her coffee and breakfast.”

Oscar shrugged. “Lando’s done that as well.”

Lily huffed, clearly growing more animated. “He tucks her hair behind her ear!”

Oscar tilted his head, amused. “And I know she does that to her own hair, too?"

Leaning in, Lily lowered her voice, her tone earnest and sharp. “He’s flirting with her. Talking sweet. Proving he’s actually into her.”

Oscar raised a brow, skeptical. “And you really think he means it?”

He glanced over at you—silent, watching them bicker with that faint smile of yours barely concealing amusement.

“As your brother,” Oscar continued, voice softening a bit, “and as a guy,” he paused, casting a sidelong glance your way, “I’d say be careful. Guys sometimes think with one thing only.”

You cringed, rubbing the back of your neck.

“Oscar,” you said firmly, “I’m a grown woman, not a child.”

He sighed deeply, shaking his head with that familiar older-brother stubbornness.

“Yeah, well… I’m still your big brother,” he said with a grin, “so I don’t really care."

It felt like the universe—or maybe the gods themselves—were having a little fun at your expense.

Just as you were settling into the warmth of the evening, the restaurant door swung open with a gentle chime. And there he was. Franco. That infuriating, charming, utterly impossible man.

Your breath hitched. “Oh my God… he’s here,” you muttered, sinking lower into your seat like you were trying to disappear entirely.

Oscar hummed knowingly, a slight smirk tugging at his lips, while Lily’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Yes!” she squealed softly, practically bouncing in her chair.

You groaned, half-laughing, half-wincing. “This is a nightmare,” you said, eyes darting between the entrance and your brother’s amused expression.

Franco’s dark eyes locked onto yours immediately, his smile mischievous and warm as he wove through the tables with effortless confidence.

“Oh, trying to hide all your beauty away, mi cielito?” he teased softly in Spanish, sliding into the seat next to you before pressing a quick, tender kiss to your cheek.

Your cheeks flared bright red as a flurry of heat spread through you, and your breath caught.

Oscar’s eyes narrowed sharply, gaze fixed on Franco like a hawk ready to swoop down.

“Hey!” Oscar barked with mock authority, voice low but firm. “Lips to yourself, mate!”

Franco raised his hands in surrender, flashing a grin that was all charm and challenge.

“Ah, her beauty is worth fighting for,” he said with a wink, glancing at you once more, his eyes softer now.

Lily giggled, nudging Oscar teasingly. “You gonna let him steal the show?”

Oscar just shook his head, a reluctant smile creeping onto his face.

“Well… maybe just a little,” he muttered.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. No matter how much you tried, Franco had a way of turning the impossible into something almost… enjoyable.

“You do realize,” you said with a half-smile but sharp edge, “you have other women to bother, right?”

Franco placed a dramatic hand over his chest, as if wounded by the accusation. “Ah, mi cielito,” he said, voice thick with mock hurt. “You’re really hurting my heart now, accusing me like that.”

With a playful glint in his eyes, he pulled out his phone and unlocked it smoothly. “Go on,” he challenged, holding the screen out. “Scroll through it if you want.”

You hesitated, then shook your head, brushing it off with a hum. “I have no desire for that,” you said, voice firm but measured. “We’re not a couple.”

Franco’s grin faded just a little, replaced by something softer—more genuine. He tucked his phone away and shifted his gaze toward Oscar.

“Why are you bothering her, then?” Oscar asked bluntly, eyebrows drawn together as he locked eyes with Franco.

For a split second, the cocky bravado melted away. Franco’s grin softened, sincerity creeping in as he looked between you and your brother. “I like messing with her,” he admitted with a small shrug. “It’s all in good fun, sure. But when I say I like her, I mean it.”

He gestured toward you with a casual nod. “She’s pretty. She’s my type.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms with a skeptical tilt of his head. “She’s more than just her looks, though,” he said quietly.

Franco met Oscar’s gaze without flinching, respect shining through beneath his usual charm.

“I know,” Franco said simply. “And that’s what makes her worth the chase.”

“There is no chase, Franco,” you said firmly, voice low but steady as you met his gaze. “You flirt with every woman around here. I refuse to be the fool who falls for that.”

Franco hummed thoughtfully, that playful glint never leaving his eyes. Then, with a quiet certainty that made your heart skip, he said, “You are not the fool, mi amor. You’re going to be my girlfriend.”

Your eyes flicked across the table to Lily, who raised her hands in surrender with a small smile.

“Sorry, Adrionna,” Lily said gently, voice calm but matter-of-fact. “I’m in a happy relationship with your brother. I can’t really give you advice on this. Plus, it’s different—I’ve been with him for years.”

You let out a frustrated huff, crossing your arms.

Turning back to Franco, your eyes locked with his, determined and cautious.

“Every attempt you make to steal my heart,” you said slowly, “I’m only going to close the door on it.”

He chuckled, unfazed, and hummed again.

“Sure, sure, whatever you say, princess,” he teased with a grin, that effortless charm still there but tempered with something warmer beneath.

“I’m serious, Franco!” you said, voice firm, every word deliberate as you squared your shoulders and met his eyes head-on. “Franco. Alejandro. Colapinto. You will never make me fall for you. You flirt with everyone—and I refuse to be just another woman you chase.”

Franco hummed softly, a slow, amused smile creeping onto his lips. His dark eyes sparkled with that infuriating confidence only he could pull off.

“I accept the challenge,” he said smoothly, voice low and steady. “I’ll prove I’m serious about you. And if I succeed…”

You raised an eyebrow, leaning in just a fraction. “If you succeed…?”

He grinned wider, full of that boyish charm that made your heart skip despite yourself.

“You go on a date with me.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head with a smirk. “In your dreams, Colapinto. In your dreams.”

He stepped closer, reaching up to press a gentle kiss to your forehead—a fleeting, tender moment that caught you off guard.

“We’ll see about that, mi cielito,” he whispered before turning and walking away.

You watched him go, your eyes narrowing with a mix of frustration and reluctant fascination.

Turning to Oscar, you shook your head. “You did not save me.”

Oscar shrugged nonchalantly, a hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “If I did, you’d have ripped my head off,” he said with a grin. “Or Mom would’ve found out and accused me of cockblocking. So… I figured I’d let you handle this one.”

You rolled your eyes, but inside, you knew Oscar was right. This was your fight to fight—no matter how maddening Franco made it.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

It started innocently enough—well, as innocent as it could get with Franco Alejandro Colapinto.

A notification had popped up on your phone one night as you scrolled mindlessly, a new follower request on social media. Franco Colapinto has requested to follow you.

You stared at it for a good minute, already knowing what he was up to. He wasn’t subtle. He was never subtle.

You didn’t accept it right away—oh no, you let it sit there. Left him hanging, ignored it for hours, then days. But deep down, curiosity gnawed at you, little by little. Eventually, you accepted.

The messages started immediately after that.

They were ridiculous at first—memes, a string of heart emojis, and texts so painfully corny you almost cringed out loud reading them.

But somehow…you kept reading them.

And eventually, against your better judgment, you replied. At first, it was just a short answer here and there, simple and dry.

Yet every time he asked something—your favorite food, your favorite song, what you liked to do when no one was watching—you answered. Slowly, steadily, you were telling him everything he wanted to know.

When Lily asked about it during a quiet evening, you had shrugged it off like it meant nothing.

“We’re just texting,” you said flatly, waving her off as she watched you with that annoyingly knowing grin of hers.

She didn’t buy it. Neither did you.

You glared when she kept smiling. “I don’t care,” you insisted. “It’s not impressive. Any guy can learn your basic information if they’re annoying enough.”

Still…what started as silly messages soon turned into him boldly asking for your number. And somehow, somehow, you gave it to him.

That was his green light.

Soon enough, he was calling you—without hesitation, without warning. He always called first, never waiting for you to make the move. You let his calls ring out a few times, but then, curiosity pulled you in again.

And each time, you’d tell yourself it was nothing serious.

“Focus on your career,” you’d mutter, rolling your eyes as you sat on your couch with the phone pressed to your ear, your tone clipped but your heart beating a little too fast. “Go flirt with your reporters. I’m sure they miss you.”

He’d only laugh, never offended, never backing down.

But then…came the moment that truly cracked your armor.

It had been about a week since you’d started exchanging messages and calls. You were lounging on your bed, scrolling through your phone when an after-race interview popped up on your feed.

The interviewer was laughing, teasing him, as usual. “Fans say you’re always flirting!” the woman chuckled playfully, holding the mic to Franco’s face.

Franco smiled, shaking his head with a laugh, then looked right into the camera, cool and confident as ever.

“No,” he replied smoothly, his voice calm, but his eyes said something else entirely. “I have someone special watching.”

The interviewer let out a surprised hum. “Oh? Someone special? That’s sweet.”

You froze, staring at the screen.

Your heart dropped to your stomach.

Without thinking, you grabbed the nearest pillow and screamed into it, face burning in pure frustration—half anger, half panic.

The second you could breathe again, your fingers flew across your phone.

YOU ARE OUT OF YOUR MIND.

You sent it without thinking, glaring at the screen, waiting for his reply.

It didn’t take long.

Oh? So you were watching. ;)

You groaned, tossing your phone across the bed like it was cursed.

You tried to brush it off, you really did—but he wasn’t done.

Because then came the flowers.

Every day. Without fail.

At first, you tore the tags off immediately, refusing to even read the notes attached. Roses—red and white. Tulips. Sunflowers. Orchids.

You hated it—or maybe you hated the fact you didn’t hate it.

“This is bare minimum,” you muttered one morning, staring at yet another bouquet delivered straight to McLaren’s hospitality.

Lando, passing by, snorted into his coffee. “Bare minimum, huh?” he teased. “You’d be surprised, some girls can’t even get a ‘good morning’ text.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands.

But it didn’t stop.

Flowers turned into everything—breakfast, coffee, flowers. The same routine, every morning. The same persistence. The same smiley little notes you pretended not to read but secretly folded up and kept hidden away.

And you hated yourself for it—but it had grown on you.

It wasn't simple. No. Because the flower situation got deeper.

Your apartment, the McLaren garage, even the front seat of your rental car one morning.

Tulips, sunflowers, white roses, daisies—bouquets showing up out of nowhere, always with those annoyingly charming notes. Every. Single. Time. It never ended.

Para la mujer más bonita del paddock. (For the most beautiful woman in the paddock.)

Or worse:

Your brother can’t protect you from me forever, princesa.

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt. You stuffed the flowers into vases, or—when you were particularly annoyed—dumped them at Lando’s place.

“Franco really thinks he’s got a shot, doesn’t he?” Lando teased one morning, cradling one of the sunflowers like it was a newborn.

“I’m not impressed,” you grumbled, shoving the card in the trash.

But then came the snacks.

He figured out your favorite chocolate, your preferred iced coffee order, the specific brand of crisps you snuck between media days—somehow, he knew it all. And he showed up. Constantly.

One afternoon, you answered the door in sweatpants, hair tied up, and there he was—helmet in one hand, bag of snacks in the other, grin bright as ever.

“Delivery for mi princesa hermosa,” he said, dragging out every syllable with that ridiculous Argentine lilt, holding up the snacks like a proud knight offering treasure.

“I didn’t ask for these,” you deadpanned.

“No, but I know you,” he winked, brushing past you like he owned the place and setting them down. “And I don’t like the idea of you being hungry without me.”

You should have kicked him out.

Instead… you let him stay for a movie.

Worst part? He made himself very comfortable, lounging back, arms stretched across the couch behind you—but never quite touching.

The flirting escalated soon after.

He started sending photos—so many photos.

Some were of his sad, pouty face captioned dramatically: Lonely without you. Dying slowly. Bring flowers to my grave.

Some were outrageously staged.

One was of him sitting in a kart, your name scribbled sloppily on a sticky note taped to the wheel:

Training to drive straight to your heart.

You blocked his number for three hours after that one.

Then came the helmet incident.

You were visiting Alpine for Pierre one day, waiting in the garage, when Franco cornered you.

“Here,” he said suddenly, pulling off his helmet.

“What—Franco, no—”

Too late. He gently shoved it over your head before you could fight back, the weight making you stumble slightly as he laughed.

“Oh, dios mío, you look better in my helmet than I do,” he teased, pulling out his phone immediately. “Wait, wait—don’t take it off! One photo. Por favor.”

“You’re insane,” you grumbled, trying to fight back a laugh as he snapped several photos.

“See?” He wiggled his brows as he showed you the picture. “I told you. Stunning. If you ever want to trade places, I’ll happily sit on the sidelines just to watch you.”

“You’re not right in the head,” you muttered, cheeks burning under the helmet.

He leaned in, whispering near your ear, knowing exactly what he was doing.

“I’m very right in the heart, though,” he said smoothly, the words melting like honey in Spanish as he added, “Estoy muy bien en el corazón, solo por ti.” (I’m very right in the heart, only for you.)

You had to turn away before he saw your face completely flushed.

But no matter how many times you brushed him off, rolled your eyes, or gave him sarcastic one-liners, he never stopped.

And the worst part?

Neither did your blush.

Even weeks later, no matter how much you protested, it followed you.

Franco Colapinto—relentless, shameless, and maddening—had planted himself right in the middle of your life.

And somehow, it was starting to feel like you didn’t really want him to leave.

It became a pattern—no, a routine.

Franco would always find you. No matter where you were—in the garage, in the paddock, walking back from hospitality—he was there. Leaning casually against the wall, arm draped over your shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world, wearing that same cocky grin that always made your heart stutter, no matter how much you pretended otherwise.

And his words—oh, his words—poured from his lips like honey, laced with that teasing charm that somehow softened the sharpness of your walls every time.

“I think you look really nice today.” “Any chance I can see you in my merch sometime? I think it’d suit you.” “You’re beautiful, mi cielito. Always have been.”

It was endless. Day after day, week after week.

What started as two months of playful, harmless flirting had spiraled into something else entirely.

He became your habit—the thing you expected each morning. His voice, his presence, the easy way he touched your shoulder or brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, as if he belonged there. It became harder to brush off, harder to roll your eyes and pretend it didn’t make your pulse quicken.

And though you still pushed back, still scoffed and called him ridiculous, deep down you knew the truth.

You were losing the battle.

Falling—fast and helplessly—in love with Franco Alejandro Colapinto.

And every time that terrifying realization crept up your spine, you'd slap it away, as if you could physically force yourself to stop.

But he kept breaking through, brick by brick, flashing that boyish grin, whispering sweet words, and making it feel so easy to fall for him.

You hated him for it. But you hated yourself more for letting him in.

From the sidelines, Oscar watched it all unfold. He saw the shift in you—how you’d started looking for Franco in every room, how you stopped pretending you weren’t listening when his name came up.

And as your big brother, it didn’t sit right with him.

One afternoon, when you were distracted elsewhere, Oscar caught Franco alone.

Without warning, he grabbed him by the arm, pulling him aside and out of sight from the others.

His voice was calm, but the weight behind his words left no room for argument.

“You hurt her,” Oscar said, eyes narrowed and steady. “You deal with me.”

Franco didn’t even flinch. He simply nodded, his expression unusually serious.

“Fair enough,” Franco replied softly, gaze steady. “But I won’t give you a reason.”

Oscar didn’t look convinced—but he let him go, for now.

Things shifted after that. Tension thickened—between you and Franco, between you and yourself.

You started fighting back harder, even as your defenses crumbled faster.

“You don’t mean that,” you’d snap whenever he said something too sweet, too sincere.

“Shut up, Franco,” you’d mutter, heat rushing to your cheeks as he only smiled wider.

“Right, right,” you’d scoff bitterly, crossing your arms. “So you said that to the last girl too, didn’t you? Or does she know you recycle lines?”

Every time he’d just look at you, that infuriatingly soft gaze breaking right through your words, right through every wall you tried to throw back up.

You hated how much it was working.

You hated that you couldn’t stop thinking about him, couldn’t stop waiting for the next message, the next laugh, the next stolen moment.

And you hated that deep down, a tiny part of you didn’t want to snap out of it at all.

You were certain—absolutely certain—that you could stop this.

Whatever this was, whatever strange, dangerous thing had been growing between you and Franco, you could end it. You could pull away, slam the door, and walk out before it went too far.

You had to.

And yet… there you were, sitting on the back patio of your family’s home, the cool night air curling around you, arms folded as you vented to the one person who always saw right through you.

Your mother, Nicole, sat beside you, listening patiently, a mug of tea in her hands, a small smile tugging at her lips as you went on and on about him.

“I mean, it’s exhausting,” you muttered, staring at the darkened sky, unable to look at her. “He’s everywhere. Always has something to say. Always touching me, always… doing things. He doesn’t stop.”

Nicole chuckled, her gaze calm, far too knowing for your liking.

“So…” she said softly, her voice light, playful. “You’re falling for him.”

Your head snapped toward her, eyes wide in disbelief. “What?” you practically yelped, staring at her like she’d lost her mind.

She just smiled, utterly unfazed.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, regretting every decision that led you to sit out here with her. “I mean…” you mumbled, voice barely above a whisper, “I guess I’m… used to him. That’s all. I expect it now. It’s just habit. He’s made it a habit.”

Nicole let out a soft laugh, shaking her head.

“No, sweetheart,” she said, gently nudging your arm. “You’ve made it a habit. You adjusted to him. You never stopped him. Because deep down, whether you want to admit it or not… you’ve fallen for him.”

You groaned, sinking deeper into your chair, hiding your face in your hands.

“And maybe,” she continued, her voice softer now, “it’s not that deep yet. But you feel something. And that’s okay. You don’t have to be scared of it.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered stubbornly, still hiding from her gaze.

Nicole reached over, rubbing soothing circles on your back the way she always did when you were little and overwhelmed.

“You know,” she said, her voice tinged with warmth, “it’s not a bad thing to let yourself feel.”

You groaned again, lifting your head only to glare half-heartedly at her. “Mom, he flirts with every girl! It’s literally his personality.”

Nicole chuckled, eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Maybe,” she said with a playful smirk, “but maybe you walked into his life and took his air away.”

You gaped at her.

She tilted her head, her grin growing wider. “I think he likes breathing the same air as you, darling.”

“Mom!” you whined, heat rising to your cheeks as she burst into laughter.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” she teased, holding her hands up in surrender, still chuckling. “Lighten up, honey. I like him. And from what I’ve seen and heard… I think he’s already making changes for you.”

She gave you a gentle, knowing smile, her words lingering in the quiet night air.

And for the first time… you weren’t sure if you could keep denying it anymore.

Another race week. Another city. Another paddock buzzing with chaos.

But this time… it was different.

You barely noticed the McLaren crew bustling around you as you brushed past, not even sparing Oscar a glance as you moved with purpose, your heart racing, your mind in knots.

You couldn’t explain it—not even to yourself. Your feet just moved, carrying you straight toward him.

“Franco!” You called out breathlessly, drawing more than a few curious glances from the Alpine garage.

Several crew members glanced over, wide-eyed, as the Piastri sister came storming in like a woman on a mission.

And there he was.

Franco looked up from where he was reviewing data with his engineer, his signature grin stretching slowly across his face the second his eyes landed on you.

You didn’t wait.

You strode up to him, breathless but steady, and jabbed your finger lightly against his chest, ignoring the amused stares around you.

“I—” you started, but he cut in smoothly, leaning down just slightly.

“Careful,” Franco teased, voice low and playful, “don’t get ahead of yourself, mi cielito.”

You narrowed your eyes, cutting him off without hesitation.

“Don’t think this means anything,” you snapped, your voice sharp enough to make even his engineer glance away awkwardly. “We’re not going to be boyfriend and girlfriend after this. But tonight? One date. That’s it. You get one shot with me.”

His grin only widened, but you weren’t finished.

“But there are rules,” you added, folding your arms tightly. “No posting me on your feed like some shiny little trophy. And you will not flirt with other women tonight. Got it?”

Franco blinked, caught somewhere between stunned and completely charmed.

Then, in a bold move that made your breath hitch, he stepped in, closing the space between you, his hands finding your waist with ease, his grip warm and steady.

“You surprise me, fierce little Piastri,” he murmured, his voice rich with amusement and something deeper beneath it.

You glared, even as your pulse quickened.

“Right,” you muttered, holding your ground even with your heart pounding.

You slipped your phone from your pocket, shoving it against his chest.

“Text me,” you said firmly. “Time. Place. Whatever. Pick me up tonight—we’ll go from there.”

Then, before you could lose your nerve, you turned on your heel and walked away, head high, ignoring the way every eye seemed to follow you.

Behind you, Franco watched, an awestruck grin spreading slowly across his face, shaking his head in disbelief as he let out a quiet, amazed laugh.

“Oh, I definitely have her right where I want her,” he muttered under his breath, his eyes never leaving your retreating form.

Turning back to his slightly stunned crew, he clapped his hands together.

“Alright,” he grinned, sharp and energized. “I’ve got a date tonight, boys. Let’s wrap this up—I’m on a schedule.”

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Time had flown by far too quickly.

The sun had dipped below the horizon, and now the evening settled in, quiet but buzzing with unspoken nerves. You stood in the bathroom of your suite, the door shut tight, humming along to the soft song playing from your phone as you carefully brushed through your half-curled hair, your makeup already done and dress hugging your frame perfectly.

Outside the door, there was a dramatic groan followed by a knock.

“I’m feeling sick,” Oscar’s voice called out, dripping in dramatic flair.

You rolled your eyes, a smirk curling your lips as you kept humming.

“Maybe you ate too much,” you replied, not missing a beat.

He sighed loudly, leaning against the other side of the door like some wounded hero. “Like I could vomit any second… You should wanna take care of your dying brother, you know.”

You chuckled under your breath. “Oh, right, because you’re not a twenty-four-year-old man who can survive a stomach ache.”

“I’m dying here, Y/n.”

You couldn’t hold back a laugh as you opened the bathroom door, revealing yourself in full—makeup flawless, your dress fitting just right, heels already on, and your hair half-finished, brush still in hand.

Oscar’s gaze swept over you, and his face twisted immediately as he leaned against the doorframe.

“Oh, yeah,” you said dryly, arching a brow as you looked him up and down. “You definitely look like you’re dying. Or maybe just cockblocking.”

You turned back toward the mirror, continuing to fix your hair as Oscar stepped into the bathroom, leaning casually against the wall now, arms crossed, clearly not ready to drop the subject.

“Let’s be honest,” he muttered, watching your reflection in the mirror. “That guy? He’s going to fool you. He already has, and you don’t even see it.”

You met his eyes in the reflection, unfazed by his warning.

“Mom’s been super supportive,” you said smoothly, applying a bit of gloss to your lips. “So has Lily.”

Oscar’s brows shot up. “Wait—are you having late-night therapy sessions with my girlfriend now?”

You hummed, a smug little smile creeping in as you tilted your head, adjusting your hair.

“She answers her phone,” you said sweetly, giving him a side-eye. “Unlike some people I know.”

Oscar let out a groan, rolling his eyes as he shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Don’t let them pull you into their little fairytale,” he muttered, his tone more serious now. “Franco? He’s got no shame. He’ll waste your time.”

You kept your cool, focusing on your reflection, but your heart was pounding just a little harder.

“He stares at reporters like they’re a buffet,” Oscar went on, his voice rising slightly. “You’ve seen it—he checks them out. On camera. Guy acts like he’s starving.”

“Right,” you muttered, still not looking at him, your tone perfectly flat.

Oscar’s frustration grew as he pushed off the wall, running a hand through his hair.

“I’m serious, Y/n. The man openly admitted to having sex in a car. In an interview!”

You snorted softly, finally meeting his gaze with a teasing glint.

“No reason to judge,” you said casually, setting the brush down as you adjusted your earrings.

Oscar’s jaw dropped.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, throwing his hands up in defeat.

But deep down, under all his huffing and puffing, there was something softer in his eyes.

Something that said he was scared you were going to get hurt.

And even as you brushed him off, you felt it too.

“He texted me!” you blurted out, eyes wide as you glanced at your phone, heart thudding faster than you wanted to admit. “He’s downstairs.”

Oscar’s face twisted into something between a grimace and an exasperated sigh, but before he could even open his mouth to protest, you were already scrambling to finish up. You snatched your purse, fixed your earrings quickly in the mirror, and gave him a quick, distracted hug.

“Be safe!” he called after you, his voice echoing down the hallway as you rushed out.

He stood there, watching as you dashed toward the elevator, his head tilted with a helpless sigh, his arms crossed over his chest like a sulking guard dog who couldn’t stop the inevitable.

The elevator ride was short but nerve-wracking. You could feel your pulse in your throat, your heart hammering as you smoothed your dress and glanced at your reflection in the mirrored walls.

This is fine. It’s just a date. One date.

The doors opened with a soft ding, and you stepped out into the lobby—only to hear a familiar voice teasing from nearby.

“Good luck!” Lando grinned from the corner, raising his brows knowingly as he sipped his drink, clearly enjoying every second of this.

You shot him a half-hearted glare but couldn’t hide your nervous smile as you breezed past him.

Then… there he was.

Franco stood outside, leaning casually against the sleek black car, his posture relaxed but his expression softer than you’d ever seen it. No teasing smirk this time—just a quiet, warm smile that somehow hit deeper than all the flirty lines he’d ever thrown your way.

His eyes swept over you slowly, a glimmer of something fond and sincere in his gaze.

“You look very beautiful tonight,” he said smoothly, his voice low, his accent wrapping around the words like silk. Mi amor.

The simple phrase sent a flush rushing to your cheeks before you could stop it.

Franco didn’t wait—he opened the passenger door with a playful flourish, bowing slightly. “For you,” he said, eyes glimmering.

You couldn’t help but let out a breathless laugh, cheeks still burning as you walked over.

“Working hard to impress tonight,” you teased lightly, your voice softer than you expected.

He grinned, his charm playful but his gaze still unwavering as he replied, “Anything for my future.”

The wink he added made your stomach flutter—no longer in irritation, but something much more dangerous.

You slid into the car, still flustered, adjusting your dress as he closed your door gently. A moment later, he slipped into the driver’s seat, buckling his seatbelt in one smooth motion.

You did the same, fingers fumbling slightly with the buckle as you shot him a shy, uncertain smile—a small thing, but it made his own smile deepen.

Without another word, he pulled the car out of the parking spot, the city lights casting soft shadows across his face as he focused on the road.

But even with his eyes on the street, his voice still held that teasing warmth as he spoke.

“So,” Franco said, the corner of his mouth twitching up, “I take it Oscar didn’t manage to lock you in a closet or chain you to the balcony?”

You let out a soft laugh, your nerves loosening just a bit.

“He tried,” you admitted with a grin. “But I get it… he’s just a big brother. He worries. A lot.”

Franco’s eyes flicked to you for a moment, something unreadable behind the usual playful glint.

“Understandable,” he said simply, his voice quieter now. “He just doesn’t want to see you get hurt.”

You nodded, surprised by the honesty in his tone, and the way your chest tightened slightly at it.

Neither of you spoke for a moment, but somehow, it wasn’t uncomfortable.

And as the city stretched ahead of you, the night felt full of possibilities—dangerous ones, yes—but ones you weren’t sure you wanted to avoid anymore.

The restaurant he chose was stunning—far beyond anything you had expected.

From the moment you stepped inside, you were swept into its atmosphere—the soft glow of crystal chandeliers suspended high above, their light cascading across marble floors and polished wood. It was quiet but not stiff, the low hum of soft jazz filling the air, everything about it designed to feel like you’d walked straight into a dream.

Your gaze drifted upward, following the sparkle of the lights, your breath catching at just how surreal it felt.

Franco, already watching your reaction with a quiet smile, gently reached for your hand.

His touch was soft, no teasing this time—just steady, guiding you as the host led you toward the grand staircase at the back of the room.

You blinked, slightly dazed. “This place… it’s expensive, isn’t it?” you asked under your breath as you walked beside him.

Franco let out a low chuckle, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles as he held your hand with surprising care.

“I have my ways,” he said smoothly, though there was a playful glint in his eyes. “Pulled a few strings. I wanted tonight to be perfect.”

You weren’t sure why that simple line made your chest tighten—but it did.

When you reached the second floor, the host guided you to a quiet table tucked by the window, overlooking the city lights below. The view was breathtaking—like something out of a movie.

Franco pulled your chair out for you, always the gentleman when he wanted to be, before sliding into his own seat across from you.

Before you could even request water, he was already speaking to the waiter in smooth, confident Spanish—ordering a bottle of wine that sounded far too fancy for your taste.

The moment the waiter left, you leaned back in your chair, eyeing him skeptically, though your lips curled into a faint smile.

“You really didn’t have to do all this,” you said, scanning the menu with wide eyes. “I don’t need fine dining or anything extravagant.”

Franco grinned, unfazed, leaning back with an easy air of confidence.

“Of course not,” he said, tilting his head slightly, his eyes lingering on you. “But tonight isn’t about need. It’s about want.”

You let out a soft laugh, trying to hide your growing flustered expression behind the menu.

“And let’s be honest,” he added, wiggling his brows playfully, “maybe if I wow you tonight, you’ll start thinking about a second date.”

That made you laugh under your breath, the tension easing just a little.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, though there was no bite behind it.

He smiled at that, satisfied with the way your walls seemed to soften.

“Still,” you admitted, glancing at him again with a teasing glint, “I have to say… all these strings you pulled? It’s impressive. I’m… maybe a little impressed.”

Franco grinned, resting his chin on his hand as he watched you with quiet amusement.

“Good,” he said simply, his voice lower now, a little more sincere. “I worked hard.”

Hard? You had a sneaking suspicion you knew exactly what that meant.

In truth, it wasn’t just him—he’d shamelessly pestered Pierre and Francisca for advice, dragging them into his elaborate plan, all in an effort to make tonight perfect. But… somehow, knowing that made it even more endearing.

The wine arrived, and you were grateful for the distraction, taking a small sip just to keep your hands busy.

Then, Franco’s voice cut through the soft hum of the restaurant, quiet but steady.

“You know, Y/n…” he began, his gaze dropping for a moment, almost like he was gathering his thoughts.

You looked up at him, surprised by the shift in his tone.

“You make me forget a lot of things.”

Your heart gave a tiny, unexpected stutter.

He wasn’t smiling now—not in that usual cocky way. He looked at you with something gentler, something far more honest than you were prepared for.

“My struggles at Alpine. The pressure. The media breathing down my neck.” His words were slow, deliberate. “All of it feels… lighter when I’m with you.”

You froze, caught off guard by the quiet vulnerability in his voice.

“You’re like an escape,” he admitted, his eyes never leaving yours.

There was a pause—soft, fragile.

You cleared your throat, your cheeks warming despite yourself.

“Right,” you mumbled, but your voice lacked its usual sharpness.

Your gaze dropped to your wine glass, but you couldn’t stop the small, nervous smile from pulling at your lips.

You weren’t sure what startled you more—the fact that he said it… or the fact that you believed him.

Franco sat across from you, impossibly relaxed, fingers idly tracing the edge of his wine glass as his gaze stayed fixed on you—like he could read your every thought.

Time slipped by unnoticed until he finally broke the silence with that familiar, teasing glimmer in his voice.

“So,” he said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table, his grin lazy but deliberate. “I’ve done it, haven’t I?”

You glanced up, your brow arching as you shut the menu, playing along despite the flutter in your chest.

“Done what, exactly?” you asked, though you already knew.

He smirked, eyes locking with yours, his gaze unwavering.

“Made you fall for me.”

You let out a soft chuckle, shaking your head as you picked up your glass again, swirling the liquid inside.

“Wouldn’t you love to know?” you replied, lips curling slightly around the rim of your glass before taking a sip.

He didn’t let up.

Franco’s grin grew as he leaned in even further, closing the space between you just enough to make your breath catch, though you kept your expression cool.

“You’ve fallen for me,” he said confidently, his tone lower now, with that irritating, irresistible certainty. “You wouldn’t be sitting here if you hadn’t.”

His words hung in the air, and despite yourself, you felt your cheeks heat.

Still, you weren’t going to let him have it that easily.

“Oh, right,” you scoffed, leaning back in your seat as you crossed your arms, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “I suppose that makes you serious about me too, huh? As serious as… pigs flying?”

Franco let out a soft laugh, completely unfazed by your jab, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“You still do this thing,” he said, tilting his head slightly, studying you. “Keep trying to pull me in… then push me away.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could, he reached across the table and gently took your hands in his, the sudden contact making your breath hitch.

His hands were warm, steady, his touch firm but soft as he held yours firmly on the table, his thumbs brushing lightly over your knuckles.

“Trust me when I say,” he said quietly, all teasing stripped from his voice now, replaced by something calmer—steadier—“I’m serious about you.”

You felt your heart stutter at the way he said it—no smirk, no playful glint, just quiet honesty.

Still, your pride wouldn’t let you cave that easily.

You raised a brow, your tone sharp but your voice softer, almost breathless.

“Oh? You planned one date,” you said, though it sounded weaker than you wanted. “You think that makes you special? Any man can pull off a dinner reservation and act charming for a night.”

Franco’s grin returned slightly, though there was something almost fond behind it now.

He let out a quiet hum, tilting his head as if carefully considering your words.

Then he leaned in just a bit more, lowering his voice enough that it felt like only you existed in that moment.

“Maybe,” he said, his gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “But no other man’s been this patient with you.”

That made your breath catch in your throat.

He gave your hands a gentle squeeze, his eyes softening even more.

“I put in the time,” he murmured. “Not for the chase… not for the fun. For you.”

For a moment, you couldn’t speak.

You didn’t know if it was the words, the way he said them, or the fact that for the first time… it didn’t feel like a game.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to keep a straight face, though your pulse betrayed you.

“And you’re serious about this?” you asked, your voice quieter now, your walls slowly crumbling under the weight of his sincerity.

Franco’s answer was simple.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

And as you sat there, his hands still holding yours, you weren’t sure who was more terrified—you… or him.

The night felt heavier than it should’ve—but not in a bad way. No, it carried a quiet sort of weight, the kind that settled in your chest when you knew a moment mattered more than you wanted to admit.

Dinner had been nothing short of… effortless.

Somehow, somewhere between the first course and the second glass of wine, Franco stopped feeling like the same man who playfully pestered you around the paddock or winked shamelessly at every reporter within sight.

Tonight, he wasn’t that Franco.

He was softer—his voice low and smooth, laughter quieter, more genuine. He spoke without trying to impress or entertain, his words flowing like calm waves instead of crashing tides.

It surprised you how easy it was to slip into the comfort of it—how quickly the walls you’d spent months building seemed to blur under the glow of dim candlelight and the soft hum of jazz from the speakers.

For once, you weren’t Oscar Piastri’s little sister or the girl Franco Colapinto wouldn’t leave alone.

You were just… you.

And somehow, Franco seemed to like that version of you most.

You let your eyes drift toward the small gold clock mounted above the restaurant’s bar, the hour catching you off guard.

“It’s getting late,” you murmured, almost reluctant to break the moment.

Franco hummed softly, leaning back in his seat, his eyes still warm and calm as he swirled the last sip of wine in his glass.

“It is,” he agreed, but his lips curled into that familiar grin. “And all I ask for… is a second date.”

You raised a brow, crossing your arms as you shot him a skeptical look.

“And why exactly?” you challenged, though your voice had lost most of its edge now.

He chuckled—low, easy, unbothered.

“Oh, come on,” he said, his eyes twinkling in the candlelight. “I completely won you over tonight. Admit it.”

You let out a soft, amused breath, shaking your head.

“You’re dreaming.”

But he wasn’t finished. He leaned in slightly, that playful glint returning to his eyes as he gestured around the table.

“You enjoyed this,” he said confidently. “You enjoyed it so much you forgot the time. You let it pass right by because I made sure this was worth remembering.”

His words struck something in you—but you weren’t ready to show it.

You let out a half-hearted scoff, but your lips betrayed you with the slightest, reluctant smile.

“I’ll think about it, Colapinto,” you muttered, pretending to focus on folding your napkin neatly. “But I’m not going to cave.”

He grinned, leaning back in his chair again, clearly satisfied with even that tiny crack in your armor.

“Fair enough,” he said easily, waving over the waiter. “I won’t stop trying.”

You watched as he paid the bill, smoothly taking care of everything before you could even think of reaching for your wallet. There was something irritatingly charming about it—his confidence, the way he didn’t make a big show of it, just handled it.

You followed him out of the restaurant, the cool night air wrapping around you as soon as the door swung shut behind you.

The streets were quiet, city lights glowing softly above as the world slowed down around you.

Without a word, Franco reached for your hand again.

This time… you let him.

His fingers laced with yours naturally, his grip gentle but secure as you both walked toward the car.

“You enjoyed yourself,” he said after a moment, not as a question—but a statement, sure of himself as always.

You blushed despite yourself, rolling your eyes as you pointed a warning finger at him.

“I guess so,” you muttered, trying to sound indifferent. “But don’t let this go to your head.”

He chuckled, squeezing your hand lightly.

“I won’t,” he said softly.

When you reached the car, he surprised you again—pressing you gently against the passenger door, his body close but not overwhelming, his expression unreadable under the streetlights.

Then, without hesitation, he leaned in and kissed you.

Softly.

Not rough or rushed like you expected—but slow, tender, patient.

It caught you off guard completely, your eyes widening as his lips brushed against yours in the faintest, feather-light touch.

Panic sparked instantly, your hands flying up to press against his chest as you pushed him back, breathless and startled.

“S-sorry!” you stammered, your heart racing out of control. “I—I panicked. I didn’t mean to—”

Franco only smiled, his gaze calm and steady, like he wasn’t offended in the slightest.

“I understand,” he said simply, his voice calm and steady. “I had fun tonight.”

His words lingered in the air between you, and for the first time, you couldn’t bring yourself to deny it.

Because deep down… you knew he wasn’t the only one

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Franco made you feel like you were living on cloud nine—like every moment, every breath around him was laced with something brighter, softer, sweeter.

He wasn’t just a distraction anymore. He was your calm within the storm, your breath of fresh air away from the constant shadows of the paddock lights and your brother’s looming name.

The dates became memories you never wanted to let go of.

Bowling nights where you won—barely—and he demanded his “revenge” in the form of a kiss, laughing as he cornered you by the arcade machines until you gave in, giggling under your breath.

Karting, where he—unsurprisingly—won, but didn’t let you feel bad for a second. Instead, he teased you mercilessly.

“You’ve got Oscar’s stare,” he had said, pulling off his helmet, grinning down at you. “That fire. I wouldn’t be surprised if you end up in McLaren yourself.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the heat rushing to your cheeks.

And in between those playful battles were the smaller, quieter moments—the ones no cameras caught.

The way he’d lace his fingers through yours in the most casual ways, tugging you out of the limelight into some quiet, hidden space just for the two of you. He’d press soft kisses to your forehead there, his lips lingering a second longer than necessary, whispering in your ear.

Sometimes, he made you laugh—other times, he made you blush furiously, swatting at his chest when he whispered something too flirty, too bold.

But there was no malice in his touch—no lust hidden behind it. When Franco touched you, it was grounding. Steady. Safe.

And that’s what scared you most of all.

Because somewhere along the way—through the teasing, the flowers, the dates, and the stolen kisses—you realized…

You were falling in love with him.

Franco Colapinto—the Franco—had swept you up in a way no one else ever had, and you hated how much you loved it.

Worse yet, he hadn’t flaunted you around. No photos. No subtle “hard launches” to show you off like a prize. He kept you private, protected. Just his.

It terrified you how deeply you’d fallen.

One night, tucked into his arms after another date, you whispered it before you could stop yourself, the words slipping from your lips like a secret too heavy to keep inside.

“You’ve shaken my world, you know that?”

He laughed softly, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I know that,” he murmured, his voice filled with quiet pride.

You kissed him then—slowly, fully, without fear—and he hummed against your lips, content. Happy. Everything felt like a dream.

But honeymoons were temporary.

And so was yours.

It happened slowly at first.

A missed reply. A delayed text.

He stopped sending flowers—at first they were just late… then they stopped coming at all. Breakfast deliveries were forgotten. Calls were missed or ignored.

The man who once moved mountains just to hear your laugh became a ghost in your inbox, a shadow slipping further away.

You tried to brush it off—tried to tell yourself it was the stress, the schedule, the racing—but you weren’t blind.

You watched it happen in real time.

On your screen, in the paddock, in front of everyone—he smiled again. That same charming, flirty smile. But this time… it wasn’t for you.

It was the reporters again. The fans. The flashes of cameras capturing his charm.

And the worst part?

He looked happy.

You sat there, invisible, watching the Franco you knew—the old Franco—return right in front of your eyes.

Oscar wanted to intervene. You knew it. He seethed on the sidelines, his fists tight, jaw clenched, ready to storm over and knock Franco out of his seat. Only Lando’s calm voice kept him in place.

“Don’t ruin your career over him,” Lando had muttered. “He’s not worth it.”

Oscar didn’t fight him—but you saw it in his eyes. He wanted to.

But Franco… Franco didn’t even see you.

He passed by you in the paddock like you were a ghost—offering nothing more than a tired half-smile, one that didn’t even reach his eyes.

And you ached.

Ached for the man who once looked at you like you hung the moon.

Ached for the boy who kissed you like you were the only thing holding him together.

You wanted to scream—to demand answers. But every time you tried, your feet wouldn’t move. The words stayed stuck, lodged somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

Because every time you looked at him, he wasn’t looking at you.

Until one night.

Late, after everything had quieted down, you finally cornered him—desperate, angry, heartbroken.

You didn’t even get the words out before he spoke first.

“It’s not you…” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes distant. “Just… give me time.”

No explanation.

No apology.

Just those empty words, laced with uncertainty.

And it was enough to shatter you.

You didn’t fight. You didn’t beg.

You just walked away.

You didn’t look back.

Because deep down… you knew.

He wasn’t coming back to you.

And worse—you feared he was only trying to dig up something lost just to ease his guilt.

And you were done being anyone’s temporary high.

That ache—it lingered.

Longer than you expected, haunting you at night in the quiet of your room.

Sometimes, you buried your face into the pillow, muffling your sobs until your throat ached. Other nights, you’d scream into the darkness, just to release the storm that brewed inside your chest.

You’d call your mom, Nicole—her calm voice always ready, even when all you could do was cry in frustration.

Or you’d lean on your sisters—Hattie, Edie, Mae—each one offering their own shade of comfort, though none of them could quite fill the space Franco left behind.

And, to your own reluctant surprise, it was Lando who became the easiest person to turn to.

You hated that his arms became your safest place. You hated how his cologne, which you’d once mockingly complained about, became oddly comforting. But somehow, in your shattered little world, Lando’s embrace made it easier to breathe.

“It’s gonna be alright, mate,” Lando muttered one evening, his fingers gently running through your hair as he held you, rocking you slightly like you were fragile glass.

“He said he was going to prove something,” Lando scoffed, his voice thick with protectiveness, “and he proved he’s an asshole.”

“Lando,” you groaned, your voice hoarse from crying.

“I’m serious,” he said, his tone softening as he hugged you tighter. “You’re important to me, alright? Even if you are a pain in my ass most of the time, I love you.”

You let out a weak, tearful hum, letting your head rest against his chest.

But no matter how tight Lando held you, nothing eased that emptiness you carried inside.

It was a rainy race day when everything shifted.

The skies poured down in harsh sheets, the kind of storm that mirrored every ache you’d been drowning in.

You sat watching the track, staring at every car that was put into starting position —but one was missing.

Franco.

Your stomach twisted.

Without even thinking, your feet moved on their own. You barely noticed yourself pushing past McLaren personnel, Oscar’s confused glance, or even Lando calling after you.

You didn’t care.

Something told you to go to him.

By the time you reached Alpine’s garage, you were breathless.

“Y/n!” Francisca greeted you with a warm hug, surprised but relieved to see you.

“Where’s Franco?” you asked, your voice trembling more than you intended.

Francisca’s expression softened immediately, her playful teasing fading into something more serious.

“I was wondering when you’d ask,” she said quietly, her words heavy with unspoken meaning. “Is that why you disappeared?”

You swallowed hard, guilt creeping into your chest.

“Oh, Y/n…” she sighed, resting a gentle hand on your arm. “He’s been having a really hard time. The Alpine situation, the hate, the pressure—it’s crushing him.”

Your heart dropped.

“His car won’t start. He’s out of the race,” she whispered.

You felt the floor tilt under you.

That moment—everything shattered.

Franco wasn’t ignoring you. He hadn’t been pulling away because he lost interest or grew tired of you. He was crumbling under the weight of it all—and he hid it from you.

Your breath caught, something sharp twisting in your chest.

Francisca’s gaze shifted toward the back of the garage, giving you a subtle nod.

Without another word, you walked toward where your heart pulled you—each step heavy but determined.

There he was.

Franco sat slumped on a bench, still in his racing suit, his helmet abandoned nearby. His hands were shaking, his eyes red and swollen from tears he clearly hadn’t wanted anyone to see.

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

“Franco…” your voice came out softer than you intended, breaking the air between you.

His head snapped up, startled.

His lips parted, but the words caught.

“I…” he choked out, but before he could say anything else, you dropped to your knees in front of him and pulled him into a tight embrace.

“Shh… no,” you whispered, your arms wrapping around his trembling frame. “It’s okay. You don’t owe me anything.”

His arms slowly, desperately, wound around you—like he’d been drowning and you were the first breath of air he’d had in weeks.

“I told you…” his voice cracked against your shoulder. “You relax me.”

You pulled back slightly, cupping his tear-stained face, your thumbs wiping away the streaks on his cheeks.

“You hid all this from me… why?” you asked, your voice breaking under the weight of it all.

His eyes, still glassy and raw, met yours.

“Because,” he rasped, his voice rough with emotion, “you hate the media. You hate the drama. And with everything happening to me… the last thing I wanted was to drag you down with me.”

You shook your head, your chest aching as he cradled your face.

“I never want the world to disrespect you,” he whispered, his voice fierce despite the pain. “You’re not just Oscar Piastri’s sister—you’re Y/n. My woman. My person to protect. And I’ll take every hit before I let them touch you.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks freely now, the intensity of his words shaking every wall you’d ever built around your heart.

“So… you ignored me to keep me out of the crossfire?” you asked, your voice small.

He nodded, his expression filled with nothing but raw, quiet love.

“My career’s a mess,” he confessed. “Alpine’s a disaster. I’m drowning every day. But you? You’re the last good thing keeping me sane. I couldn’t let them ruin that too.”

You let out a shaky, tearful laugh, your hands still cupping his cheeks.

“You idiot,” you sniffled, smiling through your tears. “You’re making me cry…”

He chuckled too, the tension breaking just enough for him to lean in and kiss you—soft, gentle, like he was afraid you’d break if he wasn’t careful.

But you didn’t push him away.

You melted into him, your hands sliding down to his chest as you kissed him back, tasting the salt of shared tears.

When you finally pulled away, you rested your forehead against his, your breath mingling in the quiet space between you.

“It’s fine,” you whispered. “If they see. Let them hate. They’re going to no matter what.”

You smiled softly, the truth settling in your chest.

“I love you,” you said, your voice sure this time. “And I don’t want to hide that anymore. Let me love you in public.”

Franco’s lips curved into a shaky smile, his eyes still glassy but now filled with something brighter—hope.

“Mi ángel,” he murmured, his voice tender as he brushed a stray tear from your cheek. “You’re going to make me marry you.”

You laughed softly, your heart lighter than it had been in weeks, your love no longer hidden.

“Good,” you whispered back, leaning in for another kiss. “Maybe I’ll say yes.”

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Franco had been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

The endless rumors about Alpine replacing him, the media chatter about his lack of points, the harsh whispers about whether he even deserved his seat—it all piled up, brick by heavy brick. And yet, even in the thick of it, he still fought to prove himself—to prove to you that his words weren’t empty, that he was serious about you, no matter what the paddock or the world thought.

The soft launch of your relationship had caused more waves than you expected.

A quiet, heartfelt post—just a blurred photo of you two sitting together on a balcony, wine glasses in hand, his arm slung over your shoulder, your face hidden in his chest, while the sunset bathed you both in soft gold.

You thought nothing of it when he uploaded it.

But the comments had erupted.

Some were supportive, swooning over how romantic it seemed, others full of shock, wondering aloud how a Piastri had ended up with a Colapinto. There were even a few bitter fans who whined about Franco “abandoning his flirty ways.”

Still, in the center of it all, there was peace.

Between you two—there was calm.

“Hey, mi amor,” you would always remind him when the pressure became too much, when you could see the storm in his eyes during another race week. You’d gently tug his hand, settling him down beside you, thumb tracing slow circles against his skin. “Take it easy, alright? You’re not alone in this.”

Those words became his anchor.

No matter what the world said about his career, his skills, or the uncertainty of his future—he always found himself coming back to you.

And the world started noticing.

Interviews became a source of quiet amusement for you both.

“You’ve stopped flirting in interviews! Fans are a little heartbroken!” the reporter joked during a post-qualifying interview, flashing a playful grin.

Franco’s face turned faintly pink as he chuckled into the mic, his grin soft.

“Well…” he glanced briefly toward where you were standing just out of frame, “I have a girlfriend now. She’s never too far away.”

The sincerity in his voice made your heart flutter, no matter how many times he said it.

And behind closed doors, he was even softer.

“Franco!” you gasped, laughing as his arms suddenly wrapped around your waist from behind, pulling you against him while you stirred a pot on the stove in his apartment.

“You are doing the most!” you scolded between your giggles, trying to wriggle free. “You can’t just ambush me like that! I’m cooking—and my family is coming over for dinner! Best behavior!” You waved a wooden spoon at him warningly.

Franco just held up his hands in playful surrender, though the smirk tugging at his lips betrayed him. “Calm down, corazón. You know I can’t help myself around you.”

You narrowed your eyes, though you couldn’t stop the amused smile tugging at your lips. “Still trying to charm me, huh?”

He only grinned wider. “Worked, didn’t it?” he teased, leaning in closer. “You’re in my kitchen… in my arms… in my life, in my face, in my heart. You’re here.” His voice softened, his eyes warm with sincerity. “So, yeah, I’d say it worked.”

Your chest tightened with affection, even as you tried to roll your eyes.

“Franco Colapinto,” you began, resting the spoon on the counter and turning in his arms, “you’ve chased many wins on track—chased them hard.”

He raised an amused brow. “Yeah?”

You let a soft smile spread across your lips, reaching up to brush his messy hair from his forehead.

“But you chased me even harder,” you said quietly. “And for that… I’m grateful.”

His expression melted, pure adoration filling his eyes as he cupped your cheek, leaning in just enough for his forehead to rest against yours.

“Because even when I lose out there,” he murmured, “I still won you. I guess I’ve been racing toward you this whole time.”

You giggled softly. “There was never anyone else in competition with you, you know,” you teased, pulling back slightly to stir the food again. “You had no reason to race.”

Franco let out an exaggerated scoff, leaning against the counter.

“Um… Lando Norris?” he said dramatically, wagging his brows as you laughed.

“Lando?” You laughed harder, shaking your head. “Relax, Franco. He’s my brother’s teammate. Trust me, Lando doesn’t love me like that.”

Franco squinted skeptically, his lips twitching.

“This is the same man,” you continued, laughing at the memory, “who flipped a hammock with me in it and let me fall flat on my face. The same man who once slapped my sunburn just to watch me scream.”

Franco winced, clutching his chest in mock horror. “Mi pobre amor. You’ve been through so much.”

You burst out laughing again, and he couldn’t help but grin as he watched you—completely enamored.

Still, he straightened up, his chest puffed dramatically. “But I’m still the winner, right?” he teased, his eyes gleaming.

You simply smiled, a knowing softness behind your gaze as you leaned up to kiss his cheek.

“You’ve always been the winner,” you whispered.

And in the quiet that followed, with the smell of dinner filling the air and the rain pattering softly against the window, Franco’s arms slipped around you once more, pulling you into the warmth of his chest.

Because in this kitchen, with you in his arms, he wasn’t Franco Colapinto, the struggling driver under fire.

He was just Franco—the man who won your heart.

And in the middle of his chaos, you remained his peace.

His home.

His everything.

He could brag and say he won the challenge of breaking down the barriers to your heart. But, he didn’t desire to do so.

Because in the end of it all.

He chased the one thing he wanted to win in life.

You.

[didalexiabreakupwitholgaisback]

vicky on her relationship with alexia, including being called stitch and uploading silly photos together 😅

source: diario sport on youtube

did alexia say something to you about the photo in the bus?

no, it's because we're on the bus together and she's really annoying, and then i have to tease her and i tease her a lot, and i don't know, i thought i'd just stick the photo there and that's it.

a few months ago, i asked alexia why she calls you stitch and she told me that she gives permission to tell it yourself?

she says that when because when i laugh a lot, i'm like i do this, and she says i look like stitch, which i don't think i do, but well, if she says that, i'll have to repeat it.

and you call her lilo or something?

yeah because she calls me stitch, well she is lilo.

what is alexia's role with the younger ones? she said that before they were more self-conscious, but now they even tease her.

well, because she also shows you that closeness, right? so you can be, you, well, i can be me with her. from day one, she approached me and always told me that if anything happened, she'd be there for me, and that's how it's been in the bad times i've had. she's been one of the first to be there, and well, now i'm becoming more and more myself. i'm teasing more and more. i'm a bit annoying, really.

does she give you any advice? any tricks?

always, i mean, whenever she catches me when i'm a little angrier, when I'm a little sadder, she catches me and gives me advice and calms me down about everything.

[lorelei-larai]

Finally, I have time to read this—I've been looking forward to it. I hope you don't mind if I ramble a bit, because tags aren't enough.

The sorceress and dragon reference killed me—practically them in another universe, in a way. It's ironic that Sylus calls it nonsense, man, he still doesn't understand what someone would do for love. Meanwhile, Y/N is risking her life to see him again even though she said she wouldn't. Yeah, they're both so stupid and they're perfect for each other.

And Y/N absolutely fell for those flowers. If there was any doubt before, there isn't now, but who could resist Sylus and his sweet gestures? I find the "You had no idea if you'd ever dialed that number" so amusing, she almost immediately searched for a way to call.

And regarding the call, Sylus mentions that if he wanted anything less than Y/N, he would have married the first woman his father introduced him to. So he's the son of a mafia family? I wouldn't be surprised. Maybe that's where his feud with a family like Y/N's, who aren't exactly simple civilians, comes from. On the other hand, it also speaks to how much the man values feelings and one's own decision above all else. As he says, addicted to authenticity.

Sylus was definitely in the middle of some shady business, which is why he dodged the question (he probably didn't approach Y/N because he knew she couldn't easily get away). But he answered anyway. The man cared more about a phone call from the woman he met two days ago than his job. He fell hard too. Very hard. The fall probably hurt.

“For all I know, you could be the most dangerous person I know.”

“Then trust me to be dangerous only for you, sweetheart.”

And he turned out to be a hopeless romantic just for her. Many will know the terror boss of Onychinus, but only a few, like Y/N, know Sylus as a romantic partner.

I adore Elea so much. She accepted Sylus so quickly. She's too young for prejudice and only knows that he loves showing his drawings to her father. And Sylus is really being manipulated by a child. The man is truly made for having a daughter. When he was watching from a distance, did he wish for that? The wish that Elea would talk to him about rabbits and crayons? And Sylus just fit in, like he'd always been there. He cooked for them, not just Elea, he's also there for Y/N—though. Y/N tries so hard not to fall for Sylus again. (She's a lost cause, but she's in denial.)

I'm really curious how screwed up that night was that made Y/N abandon everything to run away. Maybe she saw Sylus kill someone? She genuinely seems closed to the idea of trusting Sylus, or rather, her heart does. The man and she had a romance for a reason, but her mind, her logic, tells her not to trust him. And Sylus can wait for that, but he clearly can't wait to claim his place in the family. Who knows how long he'll wait for that.

I can't help but think about how he may have manipulated Elea a little to convince Y/N to stay, but he knew she wasn't ready yet, so he didn't push. He's there to be a father, and he won't use his daughter against Y/N. Still, I think about how Sylus spent his first night with his daughter filled with laughter and warmth, only to return to the loneliness and darkness of his home at the end of the day. I know he truly wanted to stay, but he knew it was pushing too hard.

Going back to the past, I have a theory that Sara is currently dead because I doubt Y/N would have walked away so easily from her, who is a very good friend and even, I would dare to say, a mother figure. She is so brave to go against the orders of Y/N's family, who I believe are a mafia family because it's not normal for them to control that place so much. I mean, phone monitored 24 hours a day? Not even a child is that controlled.

Sylus absolutely went all out on the first date. The man really put in the effort to make it a good first date. A yacht? Private? The man is setting the bar very high. Damn Sylus has money and isn't afraid to let him know.

ALSO. Confirmation that Y/N's family is a mafia, but she prefers not to say so as not to scare her partner. She and Sylus have more in common than they think. LMAO.

“I have a feeling you'll be very insufferable in the future.” GIRL, YOU HAVE NO IDEA

I love her so much that Y/N didn't hesitate to hit the pervert. It's risky, yes, but not as much as her escapades from home. She comes from a dangerous family and put him in his place. I doubt Sylus didn't notice all that.

The dancing, the flirting, the one night stand between them. I think I read the ending three or four times because god, you have no idea how much I loved the longing between them. They're so in love, both passionate, and want to kiss so badly. Sara said, "Don't fall in love too quickly," and Sylus fell twice as hard for both of them.

"When do I get to see you again?"

"Whenever fate's wheel wants."

"Should I just break the wheel then? Twist fate until it's begging me to keep you?"

That exchange made me think about the current situation. Whether it's fate or Sylus's own doing, they're together again.

ALSO. That last paragraph. “Make sure he understands what happens when he looks at something that’s not his.” Sylus already claiming ownership of Y/N from the first date? Anyway, he’ll find out he’s late to the party; Y/N already landed a good one on him. Although I guess he didn’t act sooner because he didn’t want to scare her off. I mean, seeing my date hit another man on the first night isn’t a good impression.

I absolutely loved this. How did you write over 22k words in such a short amount of time? I admire your skill.

CHAPTER 2

— Onychinus Leader!Sylus Qin X Mother!Female Reader

She Ran To Protect Their Child. He Built A Kingdom To Bring Them Home.・₊﹆ɞ‧₊

*⁠.⁠✧ SYNOPSIS : She was the daughter of his enemy. He was the king of a criminal empire. They fell in love, but when she found out she was pregnant, she vanished-fearing the life their child would inherit. Seven years later, Sylus finds her. And he's not here for revenge. He's here to take back what's his.

*⁠.⁠✧ WARNINGS & TAGS : Dad! Sylus, mom!reader, mafia, rivalry, second chance, secret baby, exes, time skip, past lovers, alternate universe, break in, angst, fluff, romance, love, mature language, stalking, threats, run away! y/n, mentions of pregnancy, blood, gore, dark romance, lovers to strangers, enemies to lovers, their daughter Elea, kiss, 22.2k words

*⁠.⁠✧ LOTUS NOTE : We are getting more of the past in this chapter. My love life is so dry that I can't even write an imaginary date 😭. Literally worked my butt off for that damn date. Also please don't hate y/n, she has solid reasons for what she did I swear.

*⁠.⁠✧ — NAVIGATION // LOVE & DEEPSPACE MASERLIST

➥ KISSED IN POISON : THE SERIES

➥ CHAPTER 1 // CHAPTER 2 // CHAPTER 3

➥ Heart Divider's By @/cafekitsune

DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU ARE NOT COMFORTABLE. MINORS DNI, IF YOU DO THEN IT'S YOUR OWN RESPONSIBILITY.・₊﹆ɞ‧₊

[9 YEARS AGO, CHANSIA CITY]

Two nights in a row. For the first time in your life, you sneaked in the middle of the night two days in a row. And the reason made you want to bang your head on the wall till you forget this embarrassing memory. It was so pathetic of you to risk your life just because your hormones can't stay put.

Two nights in a row. For the first time in your life, you'd snuck out in the middle of the night not once but twice. And the reason made you want to bang your head against the marble walls of your father's mansion until the memory cracked and slipped away.

It was pathetic you, the perfect daughter, the next heir, the girl with a dagger hidden behind her smile - risking your life because your traitorous heart and your cursed hormones couldn't stay put. Poor Sara-having to risk her life yet again just because of you.

Sylus Qin. His name tasted like a secret you'd never meant to keep. A name as sharp and alluring as the man himself dangerous, dark, sweet in a way that left bruises on your soul.

The previous night, you'd spent hours hidden away in a corner of the library, your knee pressed against his thigh as the two of you argued voices hushed but sharp over the tragic legend of the blue-blooded dragon and the luminary sorcerer.

One, bound by an ancient curse to destroy the very soul they loved most; the other, who poured her wrath into a spell that doomed every dragon's veins to hunger for the taste of her kind. And yet as if fate were some cruel trickster a prophecy bloomed from all that ruin: only a child born of the dragon's tainted blue blood and the sorcerer's celestial power could stand against the darkness when it rose to swallow the world whole.

The novel had no author's name, only a title inked in gold and a cover that looked like sorrow carved in paint - devastating and beautiful enough to feel like a promise.

Per Aspera Ad Astra.

Sylus had scoffed at it called it foolish, all that sacrifice for a world so quick to forget. But your heart ached for those two souls bound in the cruelty of fate's twisted joke doomed to be each other's destruction, yet the only salvation the world had left.

You'd stormed out were. Again. telling yourself you'd never come back. Yet here you were again.

You pulled your coat tighter around you, head lowered as you slipped through the half-buried alley behind the florist’s shop. Each footstep crunched on frost-laced cobblestones, your breath ghosting into the winter-dark like a secret you couldn’t hold in.

Inside, the bell above the bookshop door gave that soft chime — the sound that now made your blood sing instead of settle. You stepped in, your eyes blinking against the golden warmth of lamplight and old wood. The hush of paper and ink settled over you like a blanket.

You scanned the rows of books, each shadowed aisle holding a promise, a memory. But he wasn’t there. No sign of that beautiful sin draped in black, lounging where he shouldn’t be.

You told yourself the disappointment curdling in your chest was just nerves — the dread of your father discovering the gaps in your curfew. You drifted deeper into the aisles, fingertips grazing cracked spines — Fyodor, Woolf, Wilde — but none of them could hook your interest tonight. None of them were him.

Minutes slipped by like melting snow. The disappointment grew harder to ignore, a bitter ache you pretended wasn’t hope at all. Finally, you exhaled a shaky breath, hugging your coat tighter around your ribs. Maybe this was a sign. Maybe you should run home before your absence turned from suspicious to dangerous—

A tap on your shoulder made you flinch so hard you nearly knocked over a stack of secondhand hardcovers. You turned, your heart stuttering — stupidly, embarrassingly hopeful — only to find the half-bored teenage shop boy standing there, hair sticking out from beneath a knit cap.

“Uh… sorry.” He mumbled, shifting his weight, “A guy at the counter told me to give you this.”

He shoved a bouquet into your hands — carnations, wrapped in parchment paper. Your breath caught. Your fingers trembled around the stems, the cold moisture seeping through your gloves.

You blinked at the boy, “Who…?”

He shrugged, already turning away, “Said you’d know.”

Your eyes dropped to the carnations — lush, crimson petals cradled by parchment and tied with a ribbon so dark it nearly looked black in the soft library light. They were fresh enough to bead dew on your fingertips — like they’d just been cut for you alone.

Your pulse kicked, betraying every shield you’d built around your foolish heart. You slipped the small card out, the thick paper heavy between your gloved fingers. His handwriting — elegant, lazy, sinfully familiar — stared back at you, every word a dagger turned lovingly in your ribs.

“I know it’s not very gentlemanly of me to send this through someone else, but… work. I’ll make it up to you, sweetheart.”

Your breath caught on that word — sweetheart. He said it like a vow. Like a hook sunk deep into your throat.

“If you miss me — call. Or don’t. I’ll find you either way.

S— +42….”

Your thumb brushed over the number. So simple. So damn easy to dial. It shouldn’t feel like a lifeline and a noose all at once — but it did. And then the final line — slanted just slightly, as if he’d leaned closer to whisper it against your neck:

“PS: You looked absolutely beautiful tonight… and the other night. Would have admired you more if I’d had time.”

You could almost hear it — that low hum in his chest when he said things that were almost compliments, almost confessions. Your cheeks flamed, your mouth bitter with how much you hated and craved that stupid velvet voice.

The flowers quivered in your grip, petals brushing your wrist like his lips might if he were here — if you let him. Was he here? Did he drop off the bouquet himself? Maybe you could still find him.

You slipped the card back between the stems like it might burn you — like you’d keep it safe anyway. You had no idea if you’d ever dial that number. But you’d never throw it away. And you hated yourself for that.

You all but bolted from the shop, the bell above the door jangling frantically behind you. You nearly collided with another girl coming in — her yelp barely registered. Your eyes scanned the street — snow falling like confetti under the streetlights — but there was no sign of him. No dark coat in the shadows. No familiar silhouette leaning against the wall like he owned the whole city.

Disappointment clawed at you, cold and sharp. The smart thing would’ve been to tuck your chin down, press the flowers close, and hurry home before your father’s dogs noticed you were gone.

But your feet betrayed you — because next thing you knew you were across the street, pushing your way into the old glass phone booth that stood crooked under a flickering lamp. The cold air disappeared behind the warped door. Your breath fogged the glass, your heartbeat drowned out the snow’s hush.

You dug the card out again, fingers trembling as you matched each digit to the faded numbers on the dial. It was so stupid. So dangerous. But you pressed your finger into the dial anyway — once, twice — until the final number clicked into place.

The dial tone purred in your ear — each ring a slow, deliberate drag of teeth against your resolve. You didn’t even know what you’d say. Maybe he won’t pick up, you lied to yourself. Maybe this means nothing.

And then — click.

No greeting. Just his voice, velvet wrapped in a grin you could practically hear.

“Couldn’t resist, sweetheart?”

Your eyes fluttered shut, your forehead bumping against the cold glass as a helpless laugh escaped your lips — halfway between a sigh and a curse.

“How did you know it’s me?” You asked, your voice softer than you meant it to be — like he’d pulled it right out of your ribs.

On the other end, you could hear his smirk, velvet and sin, slipping between the static lines.

“Darling, who else would it be? You think I hand out my number on pretty cards to every girl wandering in the library at midnight?”

A pulse of warmth slid down your spine, making you press your palm flat against the booth’s glass. He let the silence linger, like he was listening to you breathe — like the sound of you alone was worth more than anything he could be doing right now.

“Maybe?” You echoed, trying for playful but it came out a little breathless, a little too real.

A soft hum on the other end — you could almost see the way his lips would curve, the slow drag of his thumb across his lower lip as he looked out into the night.

“Mm.” He made a low, amused sound, “It’s quite a problem, you know. Can’t read. Can’t sleep. Can’t work. All because I’ve got a voice in my head whispering about Dostoevsky and how I’m ‘infuriatingly smug.’”

You bit back a laugh — the memory of your argument still sweet on your tongue. Your free hand toyed with the edge of the card, crumpling it just a bit.

“Maybe you should find someone less… distracting, then.”

A low, velvet chuckle slid through the line — dangerous and sweet all at once.

“Darling, if I wanted less, I’d have married the first woman my father found for me the second I turned legal. But I find myself…” He paused — and you could feel the heat of that grin, even though you couldn’t see it, “…addicted to the real thing.”

Your pulse fluttered in your throat — reckless, traitorous.

“Addicted, huh?” You teased, hoping your voice didn’t tremble the way your fingers did, “You don’t even know me.”

A beat of silence. Then his voice dropped — silk catching on the edge of a blade.

“Oh, sweetheart — that’s the tragedy, isn’t it? I know just enough to be ruined. And not nearly enough to stop.”

“What work do you even have at midnight anyway?”

For a moment, all you hear is his quiet breath — then that low, lazy hum that makes your stomach twist.

“Ah. Curious now, are we?” His tone was teasing, but there was a shadow beneath it — something unspoken that made the night feel sharper around you, “I promise you, sweetheart — it’s nothing you’d want to lose sleep over.”

You rolled your eyes — he could almost hear it, because he laughed, low and genuine.

“If you don’t want to tell me, just say that.” You muttered, but your voice softened on the edges, curiosity gnawing at you. Who the hell was this man?

“It’s better this way, trust me.” His voice dropped — that hush you’d felt pressed against your skin the first night in the shop, “You’re too sweet for the details. Let me stay interesting a little longer, hm?”

You bit your lip, fighting a smile you didn’t want him to hear, “You’re impossible.”

Your breath caught — shamefully soft in your ear. You forced out a laugh that sounded a little too much like surrender.

“So what now?” You asked, the words tumbling out before you could think, “You going to stand me up? Alone? At this time? Even though I risked my life to get here?”

Your words were true. You did put your life on line by sneaking out but Sylus didn't need to know that. To him, these probably felt like words of tease.

Another low chuckle — dark, pleased.

“Never. You have my word. I truly have business to handle tonight — tedious, brutal, and entirely less interesting than you.” You could hear the faint sound of his coat shifting, like he was leaning back, letting the city sprawl at his feet, “But I can fix that. Unless you’d rather run back home and pretend you’re not desperate to see me again?”

Your mouth parted — an indignant little sound caught there. He was right, the bastard.

“I’m not desperate.”

“No?” He purred, “Then what are you doing out in this freezing cold, sweetheart? Freezing your pretty-self off just to see me again? Calling me barely a minute after I dropped off the bouquet just to hear my voice? Tell me.”

Your pulse was a drumbeat now — wild, hungry. You glanced out at the snow and wished you could lie.

“I wanted…” You breathed, the words catching in your throat, “I wanted to know if you meant it.”

“Which part?” He asked, softer now, a hush that slid beneath your skin, “The part about you looking beautiful? The part about missing me? Or the part where I said I’d find you either way?”

You bit your lip, eyes fluttering shut as you whispered, “All of it.”

A sigh, quiet but indulgent, filled your ear. You could imagine the way he’d look right now — head tipped back, eyes half-lidded, mouth curved in that dangerous promise of his.

“Every word, sweetheart.” His voice dipped, a low rumble of sin wrapped in silk.

A hush settled between you, the snow muffling the city outside the booth. You could almost feel him leaning closer through the line — that warmth and danger braided together.

“So…” He murmured, voice curling like smoke around your ear, “How about a proper date, sweetheart?”

You froze, your breath catching. Date. The word shouldn’t have made your heart thud like that.

“A date?” You echoed, hating how shy it sounded.

“Mhm,” He hummed, amused, “A real one. Just you and me. No dusty books, no midnight ghosts. Somewhere I can look at you properly — watch you try not to fall for me too fast.”

Your laugh came out flustered, half a huff, half a sigh, “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

“No.” He corrected smoothly, “I’m sure of us.”

Your fingers tightened around the receiver, the cold glass at your back doing nothing to settle the warmth pooling in your chest.

“When?” You asked before you could stop yourself.

There was the faintest sound of leather shifting — maybe gloves brushing over his coat. When he spoke again, you could hear the smile in his voice.

“Two days from now.” He said, each word perfectly deliberate, “This Thursday, dinner. If that’s fine with you.”

Your lips parted, a breath of disbelief slipping out. Thursday. Two days. That soon. And yet — not soon enough.

“Yeah…” You managed, and you hated how breathless you sounded, “That’s fine.”

“Good girl.” It was a purr, a sinful little stroke down your spine, “Eight o’clock. I’ll pick you up.”

Your eyes snapped open, heart skidding in your chest.

“Pick me up?” You echoed, your tone climbing into something like scandalized laughter, “From my house?”

He hummed — a dark, amused sound, “Of course. I’m a gentleman, sweetheart.”

You let out a disbelieving scoff, your fingers pressing harder into the cold glass at your back, “You’re moving too fast, Sylus.”

“Mmm. I don’t think I'm moving fast enough.”

“I barely know you,” You shot back, your voice light but your pulse anything but, “What kind of girl do you take me for? Giving my address to a man I’ve known for — what — two nights?”

“Two very good nights.” His voice slid around your ribcage like silk, “Besides, you already know you’re safe with me.”

“Safe?” You teased, your mouth twisting into a grin even he couldn’t see, “For all I know you could be the most dangerous person I know.”

A low chuckle — a promise wrapped in danger, “Then trust me to be dangerous only for you, sweetheart.”

Your head hit the glass with a soft thunk. You hated how you were smiling, how your breath fogged up the phone booth window like a teenager.

“Nice try, Mr. Qin. No address. Not yet.”

“Then how should I find you, hmm?” He asked, that velvet threat weaving into his words, “Should I follow your footprints in the snow? Climb your balcony like a thief?”

“Try it and I’ll call the police.” You teased.

“You won’t.” He murmured, so certain, so terribly right, “Thursday, then?”

“Thursday. Pick me up from the library.” You breathed.

“Good. Sweet dreams, darling.”

“Goodnight, Sylus.”

[PRESENT TIME, LINKON CITY]

The memory faded like mist when you blinked, replaced by the muted clatter of boxes being shuffled through your hallway. The faint scent of carnations lingered under the stronger smell of spices and herbs. You didn’t even remember standing this still for this long — you’d been leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching Sylus take over your home like he’d never left.

Elea was over the moon — she’d skipped school altogether, clinging to Sylus like a baby koala to its branch. In all her tiny six years of life, you’d never seen her so adamant about anything. No coaxing or bribes could pry her from her father’s side — and honestly, you hadn’t had the heart to try.

The whole day drifted by in a soft blur of giggles and crayon stains and Elea’s high, excited voice filling corners of the house that had always felt too quiet before. She’d dragged Sylus from room to room — showing him her little hoard of drawings taped crooked on the walls, the flower she’d pressed between the pages of her homework notebook, the butterfly facts she’d written in that sprawling, wobbly handwriting of hers.

And Sylus — gods, you’d thought you’d seen him cold, you’d seen him cruel, you'd seen him soft like a rose petal, you’d seen him bored and amused and lethal — but never this. Never the way he went soft for her, crouching down so she could fix his hair with plastic clips shaped like stars and daisies, letting her drag him by the sleeve from one crayon masterpiece to the next, his low hums of praise so gentle they made your chest ache.

The day blurred into dusk far too quickly. And now — night. The windows had gone black, the soft hum of the city seeping through the walls. Sylus was in your kitchen like he’d always belonged there, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he moved with that same lethal grace, stirring the pot on the stove like it was a weapon he knew better than anyone else.

He’d insisted on cooking — refused to let you lift a finger — so you’d perched keeping an eye on Elea while did her math homework. But every time you snuck a glance at her, you caught her eyes darting to the kitchen. Every two seconds, she’d peek over her shoulder, pencil tapping against her bunny’s floppy ear.

She'd scribble down a messy number and whisper for the ninth time in the span of ten minutes, "Is daddy done yet?"

You bit back a laugh, smoothing your hand over her curls, “Almost, baby. Why don't you complete your homework fast? By then daddy will be done with dinner."

A new fire of determination flashed in Elea’s eyes — her little tongue poked out as she scribbled numbers so hard her pencil nearly snapped. You hid a smile behind your hand before slipping away, your steps muffled by the hum of the city breathing through the windows.

The kitchen was warm — too warm. Or maybe that was just him. Sylus stood there, sleeves still rolled, steam curling up around the strong lines of his shoulders. He stirred the pot with a practiced flick of his wrist, like the wooden spoon was an extension of his hand — like even the simplest things bowed to his command.

You found yourself leaning back against the counter across from him, arms folded tight across your chest, heart doing that stupid, fluttering dance it had no business doing as you watched his back move in the kitchen like he knew every nook and corner of it.

Sylus didn’t look up right away — but you could see the corner of his mouth tip up when he felt you there, the way the tension shifted in his shoulders, like your presence was something he was always ready to lean into.

“How’s our little mathematician?” He murmured, voice low as he tasted the broth, the metal spoon glinting in the soft kitchen light.

“She's asking if the dinner is ready every two minutes.” You quirked an eyebrow, “So hurry up or she’ll riot.”

A quiet chuckle slipped from him — low, warm, dangerously fond. He set the spoon down, the scent of garlic and herbs wrapping around you both like a blanket.

“Can’t have that.” He wiped his thumb across the corner of his mouth, eyes flicking to yours, “I want to move in as soon as possible. Preferably by tomorrow."

"What?" Your voice snapped, "Don't you think you are moving too fast? I'm not even sure if I can trust you yet."

"So dramatic." Sylus whispered, throwing you an amused glance, "Or would you rather move in with me along with Elea?"

Your eyes narrowed, "Sylus—"

"What?" He tilted his head, eyes bright, "You said you don't trust me yet but you're standing right here, sweetheart. Watching me cook. Staying close enough to breathe me in. With our daughter in the next room. I'd say we're making progress."

You scowled at him, pulse misbehaving, "I'm keeping an eye on you just in case you decide to set this place on fire in the name of revenge."

“Ouch. You wound me, sweetheart.” The words rolled off his tongue like a purr, too warm, too easy — the kind of tone that made your heart misbehave more than you’d ever admit.

He turned back to the stove, giving the broth one last swirl before dipping the spoon in again. This time, instead of tasting it himself, he lifted it — careful, steady — and brought it to hover just inches from your lips.

“Here.” He murmured, eyes cutting to yours beneath those lashes, “Tell me if it’s good.”

Your mouth opened, words caught somewhere behind your teeth. He held the spoon there — patient, infuriatingly calm — like he had all the time in the world to watch you squirm.

“Why don't you test it?” You eyed the spoon suspiciously.

“Don’t be shy.” He coaxed, the corner of his mouth curving just a little more, “I promise I didn’t poison it. Yet.”

You shot him a withering glare but leaned forward anyway, lips brushing the warm metal. For Elea — you told yourself. The taste bloomed over your tongue — rich, savory, perfect. Too perfect.

“Hmm?” He tipped his head, studying you like he could see straight through your skull, “Good?”

You swallowed — the heat of it, the heat of him, “It’s… fine.”

“Fine?” His brows shot up, faux offended, “I need delicious. My girls deserve only the best."

Your stomach did that traitorous twist. My girls. The words still clung to your ribs like honey and barbed wire all at once.

You forced out a scoff, arms crossing tighter against your chest like that would protect you from the way his voice made your pulse stumble.

“Your girls?” You shot back, trying for bite, “There’s only one girl of yours here, Sylus. And she’s in the living room — doing math, not—”

His eyes flicked to yours — steady, unbothered — and the rest of your sentence shriveled on your tongue.

He let out a soft, humorless laugh as he set the spoon aside. Then he leaned in — slow, caging you in with one hand braced on the counter beside your hip. Not touching, but the heat of him made your skin prickle. His voice dropped, rough silk.

“Just because you woke up one day and decided that I wouldn’t absolutely burn the world down for you — and ran away without a word — doesn’t make you any less mine.”

Your throat closed up, the air between you thick with memories you’d buried so deep they ached to breathe.

“You can hate me all you want.” Sylus went on, eyes locked to yours like a promise carved into stone, “but I'm gonna pretend that I want you with every fiber in my body. Even if it makes you uncomfortable. I’ll take back the one who was mine. You.”

He paused then — close enough you could feel the warmth of his breath ghost over your cheek. His eyes dipped to your lips, then back up.

“And for that, sweetheart…” He hummed, that smile — more dangerous than any blade, “I need you to tell me what on earth actually happened.”

Your next breath came out shaky. You wanted to spit out a retort — to shove him back, to spit every damn detail of that night — no word came out. You couldn't utter a word because you knew the second you started talking, you would shatter like a fallen glass vase.

Outside, you could hear Elea’s pencil tapping on the table, oblivious to the storm brewing in her parents’ silence. Sylus pulled back just enough to smirk, voice softer now — so soft it scraped the raw edges inside you.

“I’ll wait.” He murmured, “However long it takes.”

Then he turned back to the stove, the faint clink of the spoon against the pot the only sound that dared to fill the space he left behind. You stayed pressed to the counter, arms crossed so tight they almost bruised your ribs, the ghost of his breath still warm on your cheek.

He didn’t look at you again — didn’t need to. His voice came out low, almost casual, but the edge in it cut through the steam curling around him.

“Set the table, sweetheart.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Not with your pulse still stumbling over the weight of everything unsaid — the truth you’d buried under a thousand careful lies. The smell of garlic and herbs suddenly felt suffocating, the walls too close.

You set the table with stiff, deliberate movements. Fork. Knife. Spoon. Small glass for Elea — she’d spill it otherwise. Napkins folded, your hands trembling just enough that you hoped he didn’t see.

Behind you, Sylus hummed something low under his breath, tasting the soup again like nothing had happened — like he hadn’t just reminded you that no matter how many locks you’d thrown over your heart, he still knew exactly where the key was buried.

When you finally turned to call for Elea, you felt his eyes on your back — warm, sure, inevitable.

Dinner was… fine. More than fine, actually — but only because Elea, in all her tiny, relentless sunshine, refused to let the dark edges creep back in. She babbled about her day at school, her favorite flowers, the new bunny sticker she’d stuck on her notebook — you’d swear Sylus would have nodded along even if she’d recited the entire encyclopedia backward.

Every time you looked up, you caught Sylus watching her with this look you couldn’t decipher — soft and unguarded, the way you’d seen him only once before. He didn’t interrupt her once, just kept spooning more food onto her plate, his eyes bright with something dangerously close to awe.

You pretended not to notice how he’d cut your portion just right, how he’d poured your drink without asking, how his knee brushed yours under the table — steady, warm, present. Like he was staking a claim he didn’t have to say out loud.

Elea beamed the whole way through, blissfully oblivious to the thousand unspoken things passing between her parents.

But the problem — the real problem — started when you’d finished clearing the plates, when Sylus stood to slip back into his coat. Elea was on him in a heartbeat, her arms like tiny iron bars clinging around his waist.

“No, daddy — no! Stay! Stay here!” She hiccuped, face buried against his pants. Her tiny shoulders shook with each sob, “Don’t go away again, please… mommy, tell him to stay.”

“Hey…” Sylus crouched low, one big hand cradling her head so gently, “I promised you, didn’t I? Daddy’s not going anywhere. I’ll be right back tomorrow. You won’t even notice I’m gone.”

Elea just wailed harder, bunny clutched so tight you worried the ears might come off. Her eyes — those same eyes she got from you — flicked up, glassy and desperate.

“Mommy — mommy, please! Can he stay? I’ll be good, I promise! Please don’t make him leave.”

Your chest squeezed so painfully you almost said yes, right then, just to make the tears stop. But your mouth wouldn’t move — and neither would the old fears lodged in your ribs like splinters.

Sylus’s eyes met yours over her shoulder — something soft and pleading buried in the ice-blue. He didn’t push, didn’t demand, didn’t force you like you half-expected him to. He just scooped Elea up, rocking her gently, murmuring in that low, steady voice you were coming to know all too well.

“Little dove.” He whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple, “I’ll be right here. Tomorrow, and the next day, and every day after that. Okay? You trust daddy, don’t you?”

She sniffled, snuggling closer, her tiny fingers fisting the lapel of his coat, “Promise?”

“Promise.” He said — and you could feel the vow curl around the edges of your own bruised heart, warming places you wished would stay cold.

When he finally set her down — her eyelids heavy with exhausted tears — she clung to your side instead, still hiccuping, still watching him like she was afraid he’d vanish if she blinked.

And Sylus — Sylus just looked at you. Quiet. Certain. Like he knew no matter how many times you bolted, he’d find a way to stay.

“I’ll see you both tomorrow.” He said, his voice—all gentle thunder as he opened the door, “Keep our girl safe for me, sweetheart.”

You couldn’t speak — so you just nodded, holding Elea tighter. And the echo of the door closing behind him felt like something dangerous and tender all at once.

That night, the house felt too quiet — like it was holding its breath. You’d tucked Elea into the middle of your bed, her bunny nestled tight under her chin, the tip of one ear already soggy from all the tears she’d shed clinging to Sylus’s coat.

You smoothed a hand over her hair, brushing away the stray curls that always stuck to her damp cheeks. Her eyes, still glassy with sleep, blinked up at you — wide, trusting, far too big for someone so small.

“Mommy?” She whispered, her voice so soft it barely made it past the covers, “Daddy… he’ll be back, right?”

You froze, your hand stilled mid-stroke. For a heartbeat, you wanted to lie — to tell her the perfect fairytale version, no cracks, no shadows. But the promise you’d seen in Sylus’s eyes tonight burned at the back of your mind, steady as an ember.

You swallowed the ache in your throat and forced your voice to be warm — solid — the mother she deserved.

“He’ll be back, baby.” You murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple, “Daddy promised, didn’t he?”

Elea nodded, but her little fingers crept up to clutch at yours, her bunny squished between you both, “Daddy doesn’t break promises?”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding — your eyes drifting to the darkened hallway where you could still feel his presence, lingering like the faint scent of carnations.

“No.” You said, quiet but certain — more certain than you’d let yourself feel in years, “Daddy never breaks promises.”

Her eyes fluttered closed at that, her grip on your hand loosening as sleep pulled her under. You stayed like that a moment longer — tracing her knuckles with your thumb, staring at the tiny heartbeat you and Sylus made together.

[9 YEARS AGO, CHANSIA CITY]

You were annoyed, to say the least. Thursday had come in a blink — so fast it made your head spin. Two days, that’s all you’d had to tear through half the city, combing through silk and satin and soft chiffons until your fingers smelled like perfume and new fabric. The perfect dress. The perfect shoes. The perfect little bag that could hold your dreams — and your secrets — all at once.

Everything needed to be perfect. This was your first date — the first anything in your life that you’d chosen for yourself, on your own stubborn, foolish will. But in your frenzied quest for perfect lipstick shades and borrowed courage, you’d forgotten one small, crucial thing: How on earth were you going to sneak out?

Midnight was easy. Midnight gave you shadows — sleepy maids, half-drunk guards, a whole house lulled under the weight of its own secrets. But tonight? Sylus was coming for you at 8 p.m. Sharp. Bright. The hour when the house hummed loudest — when the table downstairs would be set with heavy porcelain and your father and brother would talk “business” in low, rough voices, pretending you weren’t there, yet demanding your presence all the same.

Tradition, they’d said once, when you were too young to understand why your stomach always turned to knots when you sat at that long, cold table. Family should eat together. Even if you were invisible. Even if you’d rather be anywhere else.

You sat on the edge of your bed now, your new dress laid across your bed like a beautiful mess. The clock on your wall ticked mercilessly toward 6:00. An hour to come up with a plan. An hour to find the courage to shatter the only thing that held you here — the illusion that you were safe in this pretty, suffocating cage.

Then — like the answer to a prayer you hadn’t dared to whisper out loud — came your saviour: Sara.

The only soul in that entire suffocating house who looked at you and saw you — not the pretty daughter, not the pawn to be traded at the right price, but you. She’d slipped in with arms folded and eyes dancing like she’d been waiting all day to pull you out of your misery.

“Pneumonia.” She’d said, biting back a laugh when you gaped at her, “Who’d want a sick little mess coughing all over their roast, hmm?”

And it had worked — like magic. When the doctor came, Sara was quick with the hot pack tucked under your sheets, your skin flushed and forehead beading sweat on command. The thermometer ticked up, the doctor frowned, your father’s mouth curled with disgust, and the final verdict was handed down like a blessing from the devil himself: Stay in your room. Rest. Do not come near the dining hall.

When they’d left, Sara locked the door behind them, pressing her back to it like she half-expected them to barge in again. But no footsteps came. No voices barked your name. Just silence. Freedom masquerading as fever.

She turned to you then, her grin wicked and soft all at once.

“Up.” She ordered, hauling you off the bed before you could blink.

Your new dress waited, a small, defiant rebellion draped across the sheets like spilled wine. Sara’s fingers were quick and sure — undoing the ties, tugging the soft ivory blouse over your shoulders. The fabric was lighter than air, its wide collar brushing your collarbones, tiny red flowers blooming against your skin like stolen kisses. The hem of the blouse was tucked into the deep wine-red skirt cinched at your waist, falling in neat pleats a few inches under your knees, brushing your bare feet as you swayed on the balls of your heels.

“Shoes—” Sara breathed, shoving the cream Mary Janes into your hands. “Bag?”

You held up the tiny burgundy bag like it was your ticket to another life — which, in a way, it was. Inside: a handful of crumpled bills, your mother's pocket watch, a compact mirror and a red lipstick. And your watch — the slim red leather strap biting into your wrist, ticking the seconds down until you’d be in his world, not theirs.

Sara fussed with your hair next, fingers gentle as she gathered it back, pinning the loose waves with a little gold barrette shaped like a crescent moon. It glimmered in the low lamplight — a secret piece of the night sky you’d carry with you.

“Perfect.” She whispered, standing back to admire you like you were some masterpiece she’d helped smuggle out of a locked gallery, “Now… don’t fall in love too fast, all right?”

You laughed — breathless, a little unsteady — and hugged her so tight she squeaked. And when you pulled back, you saw it in her eyes: the pride, the fear, the hope she dared to have for you.

“Go.” Sara breathed, already pushing you toward the balcony doors, that spark in her grin brighter than any chandelier, “Before they realize their sick little bird has learned how to fly.”

You slipped out like a ghost — feet barely touching the cold marble floors, heart hammering against your ribs loud enough you were sure it would give you away. The night air kissed your flushed skin the moment you ducked through the side door Sara had left cracked open for you, the scent of the garden’s damp earth and late-blooming roses mixing with your nerves.

The streets were quieter than usual, shadows swallowing your hurried steps as you pressed the little bag to your side like it could anchor you to this reckless freedom. You wished — not for the first time — that you could bring your phone. Having it would’ve been so convenient, so normal. But your father’s rules wrapped around you like barbed wire even now — the device tracked 24/7 by men who’d sooner lock you away than let you breathe the same air as your own choices.

So you walked. One block. Two. Past shuttered shops and flickering street lamps, the weight of your watch ticking heavy on your wrist. When the library’s familiar arched windows finally rose into view — pale light spilling through stacks of books like a sanctuary — you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

This place was yours. Untouchable. Your father’s reach ended right outside its old stone facade — his men had no authority here.

You slipped through the doors, the soft scent of old pages and ink wrapping around you like an old friend. You found your favorite corner — the one hidden behind the tallest shelves — and curled into the velvet chair, knees pulled up, the gold crescent moon barrette catching the warm lamplight.

You must have checked the clock on the far wall a hundred times, your foot tapping against the carpet every second that passed. 8:00 p.m. The time he’d promised.

And right on the dot, the world outside shifted — headlights slicing through the dark. You peeked through the dusty window just in time to see it: a sleek black car gliding up to the curb, so quiet it could’ve been a phantom.

Your heart somersaulted into your throat. Sylus Qin — your Sylus, even if you’d never dared to say it out loud — had come for you. Just like he’d promised.

Your fingers curled tighter around the strap of your bag. No shadows tonight. No walls. Just you. Just him. Just the wild, terrifying taste of a freedom that belonged only to you.

You almost ran out — embarrassingly fast, your shoes scuffing the stone steps of the library as the heavy door swung shut behind you. The cool night nipped at your bare collarbones.

And there he was — stepping out from behind the wheel like he owned the pavement beneath his feet. Sylus Qin. All shadow-slicked coat and dark hair tousled just enough to look like he’d run his fingers through it a few dozen times. The streetlight caught on the sharp line of his jaw, the faintest curl of a smirk ghosting over his mouth when his eyes found you.

“Easy there, sweetheart.” He drawled, voice so low that it glided down your spine, “Wouldn’t want you bruising those pretty knees before I even get you in the car.”

You huffed — but the sound caught somewhere in your throat the second you really saw him. Sylus Qin, right on time, not a hair out of place except for that deliberate tousle you knew he’d done just to make it look effortless. The streetlight turned the edges of his dark coat to silver, catching on the faint twist of a grin tugging at his mouth.

“I just… didn’t want to be late.” You muttered, clutching your bag like it might anchor you to the sidewalk.

He laughed — soft, low, a sound that seemed to slide under your skin. He stepped in close, boots brushing yours on the cracked pavement.

“Late?” He repeated, voice warm against your ear as he leaned in just enough to breathe you in, “Sweetheart, we have the whole night to ourselves."

Your heart did that traitorous flutter, and you hated that he could probably feel it — could sense every little thing you gave away just by standing there. His gaze dipped to your lips, lingering like he was tasting something only he could sense.

“Let me see you,” He murmured. His gloved fingers brushed the edge of your jaw, trailing up to the moon-shaped clip nestled in your hair, “Mm. Perfect. Did you wear this for me?”

“Nope.” You lied, but your voice cracked down the middle.

Sylus chuckled, thumb dragging softly along the edge of your earring.

“Liar. I like it.” His eyes flicked to yours, dark and sure and bright all at once, “You look…” He tilted his head, the streetlight catching in those sharp eyes, “Beautiful”

Your lips twitched, the compliment heating your cheeks in a way you hated him for. So you fired back, chin lifting just enough to hide the flutter in your chest.

“You don’t look half bad yourself, Mr. Qin.” You shot back, all false bravado, letting your gaze drop pointedly over his broad shoulders, the open collar of his shirt, “Though you could’ve at least tried. I did put in a little effort, you know.”

“Mm. So you did.” His voice dipped lower, silk over steel, “A pretty skirt, that sweet perfume — your favourite lip colour. I notice everything, sweetheart.”

His thumb brushed your bottom lip — so soft you almost leaned in.

“But next time you say you’re putting in effort, remember…” His mouth dipped just close enough that his words brushed the edge of your skin, “It’s never wasted on me.”

Your cheeks burned under the weight of his stare — that smile that said he knew exactly what he was doing to you. You ducked your gaze, fingers gripping the strap of your bag a little too tight.

“We should get going now.” You mumbled, clearing your throat, hoping he wouldn’t hear how breathless you sounded.

“Alright.” He murmured, straightening up, “Your wish is my command.”

He stepped back, the loss of his heat a betrayal your skin immediately mourned. With one hand, he popped open the passenger door, the other sweeping low to guide you inside — his palm grazing the small of your back, fingers lingering just a heartbeat too long.

“After you.” Sylus drawled, eyes dancing, “Before I lose control and skip all the formalities.”

The click of your seatbelt was almost too loud in the hush of the car as he rounded the hood, slipped into the driver’s seat, and shot you that same wicked, impossible smile.

“Ready?”

The engine hummed beneath you, low and smooth as Sylus pulled away from the curb. The city lights flickered past the window in a blur — gold and neon and sharp edges that made your heart pound in your chest for reasons you couldn’t quite name.

You kept stealing glances at him — the way one hand rested lazy on the wheel, the other drumming a slow rhythm on the console, the streetlights slipping like liquid gold across the sharp cut of his jaw. He looked unbothered, like this was just any other night. Like you weren’t sitting here trying not to choke on your own heartbeat.

You cleared your throat. Casual. “So… where are we going?”

Sylus didn’t look at you, but you saw the smirk tug at his mouth, the corner of his lips catching the city’s glow.

“Impatient?” He murmured.

You scowled, ignoring the way his voice wrapped around your spine, “I thought we were going to a restaurant or something but you are driving towards the outskirts."

He hummed, that deep, thoughtful sound that always meant he was enjoying this more than he should.

“Sweetheart,” He called out, tapping the wheel once with his ringed fingers, “Has anyone ever told you that you don’t dream big enough?”

Your frown deepened when he turned off the main road — the neon signs fell away, replaced by quieter streets. Then the hush of water came up all around you, glittering in the moonlight. You sat up straighter, peering out the window. Docks. Wide, private. Yachts — not just boats, but floating palaces lined up like a kingdom of secrets.

“Wait…” You breathed, “Why are we at the port? Are you going to murder me and then dump my body in the sea?”

Sylus’s laugh was sudden, his fingers drumming once on the steering wheel before he cut the engine. The quiet that fell around you both was filled only by the soft slap of water against the docks.

“Murder you?” He echoed, turning to you with that maddening tilt of his head — all shadow and citylight catching in his eyes, “You wound me.”

You tried to glare at him — you really did — but the heat in his gaze made your pulse stutter in your throat. He leaned closer, one arm slung over the back of your seat like he owned every breath you took.

“If I wanted you gone, sweetheart…” His thumb brushed your chin, forcing your eyes to stay locked on his, “…you’d never see me coming. You’d just feel it — right here.”

He tapped your pulse point, the pad of his finger warm against your skin, lingering just a moment too long.

Your breath a humiliating hitch — and the corner of his mouth curved like he’d heard it, like he could taste the panic and the thrill mixing in your veins.

He leaned in — close enough that his hair tickled your cheek. His breath was warm as he spoke, words threading straight through your ribs.

“But I don’t want you gone.” Sylus’s smirk softened into something darker, hungrier, “I want you here. Right where you are.”

He pulled back just far enough to look at you — his eyes glinting under the streetlight, too bright, too sure, before he got down from the car. Your eyes followed as he rounded the car and stopped to your side.

The door opened. Your hands curled tighter around your bag. Your skin burned under his stare. But your door clicked open anyway, and Sylus’s gloved hand was there — palm up, patient, so infuriatingly steady.

You slipped your hand into his, and he squeezed — just once, just enough to tell you there was no turning back.

“Let me give you the best night of your life, sweetheart.” He murmured, lips brushing your knuckles like a vow, before he tugged you out into the night — toward the dock where the waiting yacht glowed like a secret kingdom built just for you.

Sylus led you down the private dock, your hand swallowed in his — warm, steady, that subtle squeeze every few steps like he liked reminding you you were tethered to him now. The closer you got, the more your breath caught in your throat.

Your jaw nearly hit the polished wood when Sylus helped you step aboard. You felt like a giddy child as you padded across the deck, the boards warm under your shoes, the hush of the ocean wrapping around you like a secret only the two of you shared.

Sylus stayed a step behind you — close enough that the heat of him brushed your shoulders when the breeze kicked up. He didn’t say a word, just let you wander — let you trail your fingertips over the soft drapes, the glassy rail, the scattered petals that shimmered like they’d been kissed by the stars themselves.

Fairy lights strung across the upper deck turned the sea into a bed of diamonds. Somewhere, the low croon of jazz melted into the soft slap of the waves, the kind of music that made you want to dance barefoot with your heart wide open.

You spun slowly, your skirt flowing around like a tulip in bloom. Every detail was perfect — almost painfully so. The candlelit dining table set for two. The soft velvet cushions arranged in the lounge. The chilled bottles resting in a crystal bucket near a tray of tiny, delicate desserts.

Your chest squeezed tight, breath stuttering when you realized there were no other guests, no laughter drifting up from hidden corners. Just you. Just him. And the hush of the sea all around.

You turned, your pulse jumping when you found Sylus leaning against the railing, arms crossed, eyes glittering under the warm glow. Like he was the one thing that made all this beauty make sense.

“There’s… no one else?” You asked, your voice softer than you meant it to be.

He tilted his head, that ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips, “Disappointed?”

Your cheeks warmed.

“No— I just thought…” You gestured helplessly at the fairy lights, the flowers, the empty hush between you, “All this, just for me?”

Sylus pushed off the rail, closing the distance with those lazy, predator-smooth steps that always made your knees go a little soft. He stopped just close enough for you to smell the faint spice of his cologne under the salt-sweet air.

“Told you I'll give you the best night of your life.” He murmured, slipping his hands into his pockets, “I'm a man of my word after all.”

His eyes dipped to your lips, lingering there like a promise, “Tonight, you’re mine alone.”

The yacht hummed beneath your feet, a low, steady purr that seemed to match the way your pulse tripped in your throat. Slowly, the dock fell away, the city lights shrinking behind you like a string of dying fireflies swallowed by the dark.

You braced your hands on the polished railing, the breeze teasing your hair as the gentle sway of the vessel carried you farther and farther from everything you’d ever known — the rules, the walls, the eyes always watching.

Up above, the city’s haze faded into a sky so clear it made your chest ache. A blanket of stars blinked back at you, the moon full and silver, the sea catching every reflection like a thousand scattered diamonds.

For one breathless moment, you almost forgot how to hold all that wonder inside your ribs. Sylus placed a hand on the centre of your back and brought you down to the middle of the deck — where a single table waited like something out of a dream: candles flickering soft golden halos, crystal glasses catching the moonlight, petals scattered across the linen like a promise you hadn’t dared to make.

His hand slid down your back, "Take a seat."

You shot him a half offended look but amusement glinted in your eyes, "Since when do you get to boss me around?"

"I'm not bossing you, sweetheart." He bowed his head dramatically, "It's a humble request of this peasant that you kindly take your seat and provide some rest for your delicate feet."

"Since you asked so nicely — I'll humour you I guess." You chuckled and sat down.

Sylus settled into the chair across from you, legs angled wide, elbow draped over the back like he owned not just the seat, but the whole damn night. Candlelight flickered across the sharp lines of his jaw when he glanced at you — and didn’t bother to look away.

With a snap of his fingers, a server emerged so silently you almost startled — a bottle of deep red wine balanced on a tray. The cork popped, the wine slipped into crystal glasses like ink spreading through water. You caught the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of Sylus’s mouth as he swirled his glass, eyes on you instead of the swirl.

“What would you like, sweetheart?" Sylus took a sip of the wine, letting it rest on the tongue before swallowing, "Order anything you want tonight?"

"Anything? Did you chefs from all over the world?" You meant to tease but the smirk on his face paused you, "Wait! Did you really?"

Sylus shrugged as if it was just another Tuesday, "I told you I'm gonna give you the best night and I meant it, sweetheart."

Your jaw dropped a little, and he had the audacity to look smug about it. You leaned back, arms crossing under your chest, giving him a look.

You turned to the waiter, “Then I want shrimp tempura, a Truffle Fettuccine and Oysters Meunière. For now."

The meal was a beautiful, delicious mess. You’d lost count of how many times Sylus leaned across the flickering candlelight to wipe sauce from your mouth — always with his thumb, always dragging it slow across your bottom lip before sucking it clean, eyes glinting with that insufferable, devastating heat.

Somewhere between the last bite and the swirl of wine on your tongue, the servers faded into the shadows — discreet ghosts. It felt like the whole world had shrunk to this table, this ocean, this man and the way he watched you like he already owned every secret under your skin.

He leaned back, thigh pressing against yours under the linen, “So, when are you giving me your number?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the casual way he asked, “My number? What for?”

His thumb tapped lazy against the rim of his glass, a half-smirk curving his mouth, “So I don’t have to stalk you every time I want to steal you away.”

You laughed — a bright, startled sound that warmed your chest, “Nope.”

His brow arched, the predator’s smile sharpening, “Why not?”

You possibly could not tell him that it's because your father was a crime lord could you?

“There's no fun in that,” You repeated, nudging his shin with your foot beneath the table, “Also my father’s people track every call. He’d love to trace you right back to your home and beat you up. My father is a very important businessman you know.”

His brow arched higher, amusement flickering like a flame in those dark eyes.

“Beat me up?” He echoed, laughing under his breath, low and dangerous.

He leaned forward, elbow propped on the table as his thumb brushed the rim of his glass again — but you could feel the heat of his knee pressing a fraction harder into yours under the linen.

“I’d like to see him try.” Sylus murmured, voice dipped in velvet and knives. He tilted his head, eyes locked to yours, every word a slow drag across your pulse, “So you’re telling me I have to keep chasing you down in the shadows… every time I want you to myself?”

You pretended to think, tapping a finger to your chin while fighting the grin threatening to betray you, “Mm-hm. That’s the price you pay for trying to steal a princess from her tower.”

Sylus’s lips curved into that infuriatingly slow smile — the one that said he could and would burn the whole damn tower to the ground if you dared him to. His knees slid closer — almost touching yours under the table — heat seeping into you like he was a flame and you were tinder.

“And here I was hoping you’d make it easy on me, sweetheart.” He drawled, low, intimate. He leaned closer until your noses almost brushed, his cologne and the salt-sweet night curling around your head like a spell, “But fine. I like a good hunt.”

"What am I? A dear in the wild?" You shot him a look, but the edge of your mouth betrayed you, twitching, “I have a feeling you'll be very insufferable in the future.”

“And you'll love every second of it.” Sylus murmured, a wicked spark lighting behind his eyes. He drew back just enough to drag his thumb once more across the corner of your mouth — slow, deliberate — before bringing it to his lips, his tongue flicking over it like a promise, “Every. Damn. Second.”

You were too busy dragging your fork through the last bite of tiramisu to notice Sylus stand. When you finally looked up, he was watching you with that half-lidded, devastating stare.

He said nothing at first — just stepped around the table, each footfall a soft, controlled echo on the polished deck. He stopped in front of you, close enough that the crisp scent of his cologne and the warmth of his body made your pulse skip.

Then he extended a hand, palm up, fingers loose but sure.

“Dance with me.” Sylus said — simple, low, and laced with a smile you could feel in your ribs.

You let your gaze drift from his hand up to his eyes — the way they glinted like the night was bending just for him, just for you. A teasing huff slipped from your lips as you set your fork down, wiping your mouth with the napkin, stalling just to make him wait.

“Quite a romantic, aren't you?” You teased, but your fingers were already sliding into his palm. His grip closed around you — warm, possessive — a promise and a threat all in one.

The music drifting through the speakers shifted — the jazzy hum softening, melting into something slow, something that curled in your chest like a secret. The hush of the waves, the distant call of the sea, the rhythm that matched your heartbeat.

The music curled around you like smoke — slow, sultry, timeless. Sylus’s hands found your waist, his fingers pressing into the soft fabric, warm through to your skin. He guided you effortlessly, each step a delicious push and pull, your bodies brushing, then parting, then brushing again like you were trying to learn each other by touch alone.

Your palms slid up the hard line of his shoulders, fingertips tracing the nape of his neck where his hair curled just slightly. He hummed at the contact, his eyes half-lidded, his breath a lazy heat against your temple.

When he spun you, you felt the rough pad of his thumb skim the sensitive inside of your wrist — a touch that made your stomach tighten, a spark that shot all the way up your spine. He caught you again, pulling you flush against him, his thigh pressing between yours, stealing the air from your lungs. His nose grazed across your shoulder, breathing you in.

“You’re dangerous like this.” You teased, breathless, lips brushing the sharp edge of his jaw.

His teeth grazed your earlobe, “Look who’s talking. You’re the one who’s got my hands shaking.”

You laughed, but it broke into a soft gasp when he rocked you gently into him, one hand sliding low on your back, the other catching your jaw. His thumb traced the corner of your mouth, and you felt him smile against your cheek, felt the hungry drag of his breath.

The world shrank to the hush of the waves, the whisper of silk and suit, the flicker of candles caught in his hair when he tipped your head back just enough to look at you — really look at you — like you were already half-undone.

But then — that itch. That cold ripple down your spine — the unmistakable feeling of eyes where they didn’t belong.

Your face frowned, your gaze flicked past Sylus’s shoulder. And there he was. One of the servers, lingering by the shadows near the bar, his eyes locked not on the wine or the plates — but on you.

His stare slithered down your body, blatant, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with the dance.

Sylus hadn’t noticed yet — too wrapped up in the way your pulse stuttered under his thumb. But your spine went stiff under his hands. The music, the candlelight — they all felt like they were miles away now, swallowed by the weight of that filthy, lingering gaze.

Your skin crawled under that stare, the filthy weight of it dragging you right out of Sylus’s touch, no matter how warm his hands were on your hips.

You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear, voice sweet as honey, “I’m gonna freshen up. Don’t miss me too much, hm?”

Sylus’s answering hum rumbled against your collarbone, “Hurry back. I haven’t had nearly enough of you yet.”

You managed a smile — one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. He pressed a fleeting kiss to your cheek, but your focus was already locked over his shoulder, on the bastard in the shadows.

As you stepped away, you caught the server’s gaze dead-on — a look that makes perverts drool. You knew he would follow.

You slipped inside the corridor leading to the washroom, your steps soft, your breath steady. The muffled sway of music faded behind you, replaced by the low hum of the yacht’s engines and the slap of water against the hull.

You rounded the corner and waited for him. No long after you heard him — the shuffle of cheap shoes on the polished floor. Pathetic. Predictable.

You didn’t wait for him to speak. The instant he opened his mouth, you spun on your heel and your fist connected with his jaw — a sharp, clean hit that sent him crashing against the wall before he crumpled to the ground like trash.

He let out a low, broken whimper. You stepped over him, heel grinding just enough into his ribs to remind him exactly who he’d messed with.

“Eyes up next time, pervert.” You hissed, brushing imaginary dust from your knuckles.

Without another glance, you slipped back down the corridor, heart pounding not from fear — but from the electric rush of it all. You pushed open the door, stepping back out onto the candlelit deck where Sylus waited, oblivious and still half-drunk on the taste of you.

You let out a breath, smoothed your skirt, and glided back into his orbit like you’d never left.

Sylus lifted an eyebrow, catching your hand to pull you back into the dance, “Everything good, sweetheart?”

You smiled up at him — sharp, satisfied, a secret tucked behind your lips, “Perfect. Now, where were we?”

The ride back was a blur — city lights streaking past the window, your hand tucked safely in Sylus’s like it belonged there, his thumb brushing lazy circles on your skin as if he couldn’t stand to stop touching you, not even for a second.

But your mind was already racing ahead. The creak of your bedroom window. Sara’s worried hush as she’d help you sneak back in before anyone noticed. If you were late, she’d catch hell for it — and you wouldn’t let that happen. Not for anything.

By the time the library came back into view, you almost wished the road would just keep on going. That you could stay wrapped up in this impossible, stolen thing for just a little longer.

Snow fell in soft, fat flakes, landing in Sylus’s dark hair, on the shoulders of his coat, melting against the warmth of your cheeks. He cut the engine, but neither of you moved. The silence stretched until it was too fragile to break.

When he finally did open your door, you stepped out onto the frost-slick pavement, boots crunching on salt and snow. Sylus didn’t let go of your hand — if anything, he tugged you closer under the light of the streetlamp.

“Well…” You murmured, your breath misting between you, “This is… goodbye, I guess.”

Sylus tilted his head, eyes glinting under the amber glow, “When do I get to see you again?”

You let out a soft, helpless laugh, brushing a snowflake off his shoulder, “Whenever fate's wheel wants.”

His thumb stroked your wrist, “Should I just break the wheel then? Twist fate until it’s begging me to keep you?”

Your heart stuttered, “You can’t.”

“Sweetheart.” He murmured, leaning in so close you could feel the heat of him, “Don’t tempt me.”

“Don’t look at me like that” You breathed, every inch of you coiled tight.

“Like what?” His voice was silk and sin, “Like I want to drag you back to my car and ruin you ‘til dawn?”

You almost said yes. Almost begged him to do it. Instead, you rose on your toes, pressed a soft kiss to his cheek — a coward’s goodbye, a promise you’d never speak.

“Goodnight, Sylus.” You whispered, lips ghosting his jaw, “Thank you… for tonight.”

You turned, boots crunching in the snow — one step, two, three, four—

Then you spun around, your chest bursting, your feet carrying you right back to him. You grabbed his collar, yanked him down, and crushed your mouth to his.

The kiss was fire and teeth and too much all at once. His hands caught your hips, fingers digging in like he’d carve your shape into his palms. He bit your lower lip — sharp enough to draw a gasp, sharp enough that you tasted blood when he chased it with his tongue.

You broke away, breathless, lips throbbing.

“Sylus, you dog—” You whispered, half-laughing against his mouth, “You bit me.”

He smirked, eyes blown wide and wild, “Don’t act like you didn’t love it.”

You did. God, you did. This time, you forced yourself to pull back — really pull back, the cold rushing in to fill every place he’d left burning.

“One day.” He said, voice low, promise carved into each syllable, “I won’t have to let you go.”

You smiled — a tiny, trembling thing — and disappeared into the falling snow before your bones changed their mind. The moment you were fully gone out of the view, Sylus’s smile fell away like a mask sliding off glass. He turned toward his car, jaw ticking once, twice.

He pulled his phone from his coat pocket, thumb hovering just a second before he hit call.

“Kierran ” He said when the line clicked open, his voice now all frost and iron, “I want every server from tonight — every single one who set foot on that yacht.”

A pause. His eyes flicked the way you had disappeared.

“Find that piece of shit who couldn’t keep his eyes to himself.” He continued, tone so calm it burned, “Make sure he understands what happens when he looks at something that’s not his.”

He ended the call, the snow catching in his hair, melting on his lips — lips still stained with your kiss, with your blood. His eyes glinted dark as the sea beyond. And then Sylus Qin smiled — but there was no warmth left in it at all.

LIKED IT? THEN PLEASE LEAVE A LIKE, REBLOG & COMMENT. IT WOULD MEAN A LOT AND FOLLOW ME FOR MORE LIKE THESE. THANK YOU ♡

© 𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐔𝐒-𝐍-𝐋𝟎𝐕𝐄 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓, 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 — all content rights belongs to LOTUS-N-L0VE. do not plagiarise any works and do not repost or translate onto any other sites.・₊﹆ɞ‧₊

[whenmemorydies]

Claire Dunlap: A consolidation of analyses

This post is my attempt at consolidating a whole bunch of meta on this platform about Claire's role in The Bear. Because given the new season, everyone's coming in with takes (some great, some not so great) and it gets hard to wade through it all. Also, there has been A LOT of historical analysis of this character from past seasons and almost all of it still holds up. But Tumblr being what it is and folks' attention spans and ability to actually conduct research being what they are, a lot of that analysis has fallen by the wayside.

Above: Claire in 4x03 Scallop looking a haggard mess. Also a picture of my shrivelled soul after reviewing this insane volume of Claire-based meta in the last few days.

With all that providing a lens through which to look at season 4, this season has confirmed for me that Claire has been purposefully written as an escalating threat to Carmy's mental health. This has been building from the start of her tenure in the The Bear, up to and including season 4. I repeat: Claire has not been written with the intention that anyone in the audience should ship her with Carmy. And if you do? If you are watching The Bear and are rooting for Carmy and this woman to be endgame? The show told you in 1x01 to stop watching get out of line along with the other media illiterate white supremacists incel, QAnon, 4chan, Snyder-cut, (and I'd also add) Reddit motherfuckers. [In case I need to spell it out: this is because you'd rather ship white wunderkind chef man Carmy with one of the only available, conventionally pretty white women in show whose character has not been fleshed out at all, than imagine him loving, needing, wanting his beautiful, multi-faceted, professional equal (well...superior at this point) who is a Black woman.]

Now, I'm not saying that Claire has been written as an out-and-out villain. The Bear doesn't have those (except for Chef David of Empire). Among the many things the show is about is how we all hold light and dark within us and that we have choices to make about how or if we share or weaponise those parts of ourselves with others. This is why many of us love this show, its realistic in that way. And lets be real: the folks in our lives who are not good for us, usually don't enter our lives with a sign around their necks or red flags flying from their heads to identify them as threats. In many cases, it takes time to recognise that someone's behaviour hurts. Similarly, it will take time for Claire and Carmy's incompatibility to make itself plain for viewers (particularly those who don't want to engage subtext when watching this show).

TLDR: If Syd and Carmy are the slow burn love story at the heart of The Bear, then Claire and Carmy are its slow chill: a relationship that if it keeps going at its current pace, will leave Carmy frozen in heightened anxiety, unable to move.

I put together this post in the hopes that it might make people feel better about this character's future (or lack thereof) in season 5. I've said it before and I'll say it again: legacy media, Reddit, Twitter etc none of them hold a candle to the level of analysis and rigour that gets put out by the folks in the #sydcarmy tag on Tumblr (and they know it too - thats why they're regularly combing through our shit and stealing content without attribution *cough*).

The list of meta links below, while long as shit, is by no means comprehensive. Its based on my own imperfect searching through multiple tags. I also stopped actively searching for Claire meta in the last week so there’s probably lots of recent S4 meta I’ve missed in this list. Feel free to reply or reblog with links to meta you’ve found/written that are not listed here. This post was haunting my drafts so I had to get it out lol. The list is under the cut.

Season 2

@eeeeehhhhhkiszkahkiszka's meta on Claire as part of a pattern in Carmy's life where things are chosen for him.

@strawberryscare's meta on a costume choice in 2x08 Bolognese that associates Claire with regression into Carmy's past instead of his forward growth.

@fairestbeard’s meta on Claire's disruptive waiting in S2.

@fairestbeard's meta on the use of signs and magical realism in 2x05 Pop.

My meta on the subtextual sex scene between Claire and Carmy in 2x05 Pop.

My gif-based meta highlighting the difference in warm and cold lighting for Syd/Claire scenes.

@brokenwinebox's meta analysing Clairmy over the course of S2.

@brokenwinebox's meta on pushing between Claire and Carmy and between Marcus and Syd

@yannaryartside's meta on Claire pushing Carmy.

@radio-ghost-cooks' meta on Claire as the last thing holding Carmy back.

@myloveismineallmine's meta on Claire, Carmy and chores.

Part 2 and Part 4 of @myloveismineallmine's multi-part meta on song choices and Sydcarmy. Note: this whole series is awesome: Part 1 and Part 3.

Season 3

@outmakingmoonshine's meta: Part 1 and Part 2 on the fact that Sydcarmy has been intentionally written by Chris Storer as endgame from the jump and the superficial role of Clairmy in the show.

@moodyeucalyptus' meta (and ALL the reblogs) on Claire's performance as an ER doctor and her role as an anaesthetic that helps Carmy to numb himself.

@brokenwinebox's meta laying out visually the associations between Claire (in the present) and abusive Donna (in the past).

@brokenwinebox's meta on connections between Claire, mold and death.

@ambeauty's meta on Claire as the personification of the freezer Carmy got stuck in during 2x10 The Bear

@ambeauty's meta on Syd, Carmy and Claire's roles and how they fill the tropes in a romantic workplace comedy.

@yannaryartside's meta on Carmy's relationship with Claire as another example of him not dealing with his past traumas.

@freedelusionshere's meta analysing Claire's role as a dramatic foil: "Donna with a soft voice."

My reblog meta on @espumado's original post about Claire being a reverse-engineered haunt, created by Carmy to keep Michael in his life.

My reblog meta on @mitocamdria's original post about Carmy's sublimation and shame and what this might tell us about his relationship with Claire.

@yannaryartside's meta on why Carmy has a freeze response around Claire

@ciaomarie's meta on Claire's treatment of Carmy over eps 2x10 to 3x09.

@thoughtfulchaos773's meta on Carmy's memories of Claire and Syd and what they tell us about his state of mind with these two women.

@thoughtfulchaos773's meta on repeated connections between Claire and Tiff

@thoughtfulchaos773's meta on Claire being the mother that Carmy wanted.

@yannaryartside's meta on Claire and narcissim.

@freedelusionshere's meta on Claire and gaslighting.

@thoughtfulchaos773's meta (and ALL the reblogs) on Claire, Carmy and S3's horror theme.

@mitocamdria's meta on Carmy's reluctance in his relationship with Claire.

@bioloyg's answer to an ask about Claire's role in S3 as it pertained to Carmy's charcter arc.

@turbulenthandholding's meta on Carmy, Claire and dissociative amnesia.

Season 4

@marianasue20's meta about Claire's propensity for making light of the heavy things that Carmy discusses with her.

@fairestbeard's meta (and @freedelusionshere's reblog meta) on Molly Gordon's acting choices to convey Claire's disdain for Sydney.

@fairestbeard's meta on dialogue in 4x08 Green between Claire and Carmy and how this might point to Claire having two faces when it comes to Carmy.

@bioloyg's meta on the use of Claire in 4x06 Sophie as a confessional for Sydney to disclose her fears.

@brokenwinebox's meta on Claire's controlling language in 4x03 Scallop.

@thoughtfulchaos773's meta on Carmy's use of fire (and Claire) to forget/escape pain.

My meta comparing Pete, Syd and Claire's approaches to the surviving Berzatto children as they navigate their reintroductions to Donna.

[bananayuyu]

a match made in hell

pairing: Yunho x f reader

genre: smut, academic rivals

word count: 8.0k

summary: a terrible day turned terrible night, and your stupid, handsome rival couldn't seem to leave you be. yeah he could be gentle, but that ain't what you like, right?

warnings: smut, MDNI, cnc vibes, reader is not very mentally stable or well adjusted, implied obsessed!yunho, throat fucking, breath play kinda, reader straight up faints for a bit, unprotected sex, it's dark so please heed the warnings <3

a/n: y'all I started working on this before In Your Fantasy dropped, and I still can't believe the lyrics match this fic so perfectly 😭 sorry I've been gone for a while, life has been genuinely insane, but I finally got this one coherent piece of writing done. I hope y'all enjoy <3

“I’m handing your exams back today,” Dr. Kim called from his desk, the entire room going silent in anticipation, save for a few low groans audible from the back corner of the room.  “I’ll rip the bandaid off, only two of you passed.”  His eyes flashed to you in the center, then to the front row, where a head of black hair sat high above the rest.  He collected the stack of papers in his hands, thick despite there only being twelve of you.  He looked up warily, bracing himself as if expecting the room was about to explode.  “All I ask is that you save the arguing for the hallway, or preferably, outside.  I’m sure the birds will appreciate the heated discussion.”

He surveyed everyone, eyes passing again over you and the tall man sat in the front row, just three seats ahead.  Dissatisfaction purred in your stomach.  So too did a building anger.  Twitching in your seat, you kept it at bay, shooting looks at the worried students sitting around you, knowing they all were contemplating the weight of Dr. Kim’s words.

Should you feel bad that they’d be leaving with nothing after this?

Try as you might, you couldn’t feel bad for them, not yet.  It was still possible your fate would be the same as theirs, if you couldn’t outscore a certain student sitting in front of you.  To think that Jeong Yunho of all people could take Dr. Kim’s elusive assistant researcher position from you was a truly sickening thought.

“No surprises here,” Dr. Kim quipped under his breath as he passed Yunho his exam, that wicked smile he saved for his favorite student painting his features in pride.  You wanted to rip that little smile right off every time you saw it; he never whispered his praises low enough to be unheard, making it clear he felt no shame in playing favorites.

The rest of the room remained uncomfortably quiet as he quickly made his way to each desk, disappointment clear in the hunched shoulders of every one of your classmates.

“I was quite impressed, good work,” he said as he approached you, making your head snap up in shock, along with Yunho’s.  It wasn’t your passing grade that was a surprise; you both had been top of this class all semester.  The shock was at his words, as never once had he been this kind or genuine to you.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, nodding your head as he made his way further back, more groans following as the worst grades were handed to the back row.

You took in what you hoped was a subtle deep breath, then looked at your paper.  77%, ouch.  It was your worst mark all semester, but you doubted Yunho’s was much higher given how long the exam was.  You hadn’t managed to answer every question, as fast as you’d forced yourself to work.  Dr. Kim was clearly pushing you all, not having expected so many students to survive this long.

“Well, as you all know, one failed exam means you’re out of my class,” he said, back behind his desk and eyeing the clock sharply.  “You will still get credit towards your degrees, but you are out of the running for my assistant research position, so there’s no reason to continue attending my lectures.  I’ve appreciated every bit of hard work from you all, and I look forward to continuing to work with you two.”  

His gaze this time only fell to Yunho, before he was picking up his briefcase and snapping it closed, always the indication that class was over.  You stood with practiced patience, never wanting to appear panicked in front of a professor.  As soon as you exited the classroom Yunho’s voice rang out behind you, making you jump.

“What’d you get?” 

You recovered from your initial shock quickly, making for the front doors.  It had always frustrated you just how affected you were by his deep, rich voice, and how it seemed impossible to hide it.  He had angered you from the moment you’d been acquainted, those months ago when the start of the semester held the promise of bright things to come.

That had waned, the brief hope.  It had never grown roots, if you were honest. Anger was much easier to feel, and your quick temper had only been made worse by meeting a student smarter than you, who threatened everything that you wanted.

You slammed a hip into the old metal doors to exit, wincing at the pain.  Campus was loud in the early afternoon; hordes of undergrads flew about calling out to each other, bikes and skateboards trying in vain to find pathways through the sea of other students.  It would be easy to believe in moments like these that you attended a state school in a big city, not this strange little university in the outskirts of an old mountain town.

You joined the masses, quick to fall into the currents of movement, wanting to get lost.

“Don’t you wanna know what I got?”

His voice somehow carried through the tornado of noise, like your ears were tuned for it.  You couldn’t help shooting a glare over your shoulder, easily catching his eye as his face stuck out high over the rest of the crowd.

“79,” he added.  Your guts rolled with frustration, and you hoped the feeling would avoid festering like it always did.  “I’m guessing you barely passed,” he chuckled darkly.

He knew your buttons, having learned them far too fast.  Comparison had always been the thief of your happiness; it had followed you since you could remember, your perspective shaped by it in every way.  Rejection, praise, every feeling was connected to it; when smarter students came along and threatened your prestigious number one spot, the jealousy came in like a tsunami, knocking every part of your life off course.  Winning, beating everyone else, nothing felt better.  No matter how the world changed around you, your obsession with it would never cease.

Graduate student housing lay just beyond the measly two frats and two sororities, whose street was as silent or chaotic as one could imagine it to be, depending on factors you’d never paid attention to.  A whistle sounded from up above, and you picked up your head to spot what must have been a freshman boy staring down at you, hands on the railing of the balcony he stood upon.

“You whistling at me?” Yunho asked behind you, voice raised and fakely bright.  You realized suddenly how empty the street had become.

“No, her,” the boy called back with confusion, pointing in your direction.

“I know you little perv, get the fuck back inside and cut that shit out.”  The boy balked and immediately followed orders, disappearing into the house with a quickness that almost made you laugh.  You supposed the intimidating nature of the man behind you couldn’t be overstated; you’d seen plenty of moments like this, Yunho putting someone in their place, and never was the reaction any different.

And god did you hate when you witnessed it.  It made feelings bloom in your guts that you wished would fucking disappear for good.

You had no idea that first day you met, a week before classes started, that you’d be seeing more of him than was bearable.  It was only after class your first day that you even realized you shared a major and lived in neighboring buildings.  It meant you also shared a laundry room, trash room, and worst of all, lounge, and unfortunately there was nothing else to do in this barren town than shoot the shit in the evenings and weekends. That lounge got more than its fair share of use; everyone in the four adjacent buildings would crowd the small couches, rowdy and impatient, getting drunk and high.

Too many times, he’d been there.  You were hopeful the first week when he’d barely shown his face at the regular gatherings, but quickly it seemed he found a routine with it, coming to share a single beer with his only two friends and talking loudly enough for the entire room to hear.

“You’re just as smart as him,” your friend Yeosang remarked one day.  “He brags about being in Professor Kim’s special class, but you’re in it too.  He’s such a little weasel.”

“Yeah, the tallest little weasel in scientific history,” you snorted, sipping the last of your seltzer.  You two often found yourselves in the back corner of the kitchen by the fridge, willing to stand if it meant at least an ounce of privacy.

“Seriously, you should go over there and tell everyone the same thing, brag the same way.  Make him look like an idiot.”

“Eh,” you shrugged, gazing over your shoulder momentarily to take in the scene your friend was so intently stuck on.

“Why not? You’re good at that stuff.  You know, arguing with people.”

“Yeah, I guess,” you sighed, smiling tightly.  “But he’s a weasel, remember?”

There was nothing to do but endure.  Yunho’s questions had come fast, as soon as he’d realized you were the only student who came close to succeeding the way he did.  Where are you from?  What college did you go to?  How did you get connected with Dr. Kim?  It was clear he hadn’t expected to find someone so similarly talented; you were certain his inability to leave you be was equal parts insecurity and ego.

“I’ll see you at Mingi’s party,” Yunho called as you finally turned down your street, away from the undergrads and all of their chaos.

“Fuck off,” you muttered as you made your way up the front steps of your house, sighing with relief in knowing he had to walk on ahead.  Your roommates would no doubt eat him alive if they saw him enter the building, and he was well aware.

Yunho only smirked with satisfaction at your words.  He always felt a surge of pride when your nastiness turned on him, giving him a sense of power that nothing else could.  It was the first time in over a month that you’d made it home without starting an argument with him; you patted yourself on the back when you reached your room, slinking down into the rough carpet of your floor and breathing in the familiar stench of it.

Yeosang had quite regretted his initial flippant suggestion, when days later you’d actually taken him up on it.  The arguments that broke out between you and Yunho were so severe that everyone knew by now to keep you separate.  The desire to rip his head off, especially when he taunted you with his better grades, had not dwindled, despite it all.  There was nothing that physical space could do to diminish the searing energy that raged within you at his words.

Collapsing after a long day of classes was commonplace, but today was different.  The exhaustion you’d caused yourself by avoiding snapping to him was so severe you felt it almost hadn’t been worth it.

Why did everyone else care so damn much?

A knock sounded at your door, and you suddenly realized you’d been in a dreamy space, probably asleep for a while.

“Girl, are you alive?”

Yeosang sounded mildly concerned, but more annoyed than anything, and you took a deep breath and swallowed all the negative feelings roiling within you.

“I’m alive, you can come in,” you called back.

“You okay?” he asked as he stepped in, drink in hand, already pregaming.

“What time is it?”

“Almost seven,” he responded, handing you the can in his hand.  You sat up awkwardly and grabbed it, taking a sniff and wincing.

“Beer?” you asked with a frown.

“We don’t have much other shit left,” he chuckled, taking it back when you shoved it in his direction.  “You’re getting dressed up for tonight, right?”

“I don’t feel like it,” you groaned, tipping your head back and squeezing your eyes closed.  “I’m fucking exhausted.”

“You gonna flake?”

“Maybe,” you sighed.  The party sounded anything but exciting, but there was nothing to do otherwise, except maybe put on a show and numb your mind until you passed out again for good.

“Can I use your mirror for my makeup?”

“Course,” you replied, finally pushing yourself up all the way and standing.  Your rumbling stomach sent you to the kitchen, while Yeosang busied himself at your desk with his makeup strewn across it.

Your neck ached as you walked, hip cracking, your entire body taught and stiff and painful.  The stress of awaiting your exam grade had been overwhelming you, not a single night of good sleep gracing you all week.  You fumbled for the leftovers you’d set on the bottom shelf of the fridge last night, but only found a weeks old yogurt, cracked open and half eaten, starting to grow mold.

You grabbed it and flung it in the trash with a grimace, sighing with a hand on the counter.

“Did someone eat my fucking pad thai?!”

Yeosang’s head poked out of your room, hair clipped back and out of his face.  “I didn’t,” he said with big eyes, looking at the small girl shuffling into the room from the opposite hallway.

“I’m sorry, I was starving when I got back from practice,” Mari said, pouting.  You couldn’t help rolling your eyes, the sharpness of her bony shoulders like piercing lasers to your brain.

“It’s fine,” you huffed, doing all you could to again avoid arguing with someone.  It wasn’t like she deserved it the way Yunho did, even if she had taken your much prized food, and even if she’d done this before.  The dining hall was only a ten minute walk, and thankfully stayed open pretty late, given it was the only place that served hot food for miles.

The air was uncomfortably thick as you headed out, spring air damp from the winter’s heavy snow and rains.  You’d appreciated the generally mild weather of summer and fall when you’d first arrived, but braving winter in the mountains was an experience you were far from prepared for.

Walking on the paved path, air clear, felt a bit miraculous.  Still in the running, you reminded yourself.  One year nearly down, and you were acing your classes.  Next year could be spent getting the best possible experience a graduate student could hope for.  

You just had to beat Jeong Yunho.

“Hello, do you have a minute to talk abou-”

“No, I do not,” you snapped at the group of three girls walking up to you, dresses high necked and hems reaching the ground.

“But it would only take a minute, we’d re-”

“It would not take a minute, I know it wouldn’t.  Or would you like me to time you?”  It was hard not to be snarky with them, these poor girls who were just doing as they were told.  Small towns came with things city life hadn’t prepared you for.  Judgement aside, you couldn’t stand being preached to every damn time you simply walked from one place to another.

“I just noticed, what you were wearing and all-”

“Oh, you think it looks good?  Is my butt hanging out of my shorts enough for you?”

A titter sounded from beside you.  Jongho, leader of the debate team, cross hanging from his neck, stood there watching.  “We could really use you on the team,” he chuckled, the girls stepping aside awkwardly with stony faces and looking for their next student to approach.

“For the last time, no,” you huffed, rolling your eyes as you continued towards Atria Hall, the only building on campus tall enough to be easily spotted from the main walkway.

“But you have this calculated way about you, you disagree with them fiercely but you don’t curse at them-”

“Is self control really that hard to come by?”

“You’d be surprised.  And you could hone your skills in crafting an argument, learn about persuasion-”

“I don’t need to learn about fucking persuasion, I’m going to be an archeologist,” you spat, the two of you walking fast through the waning sunset.  It was always pink and red and stunningly gorgeous, but clouds had begun to roll through and make everything dark and gloomy, despite the bright sun.

“They are useful skills, seriously, any field you go into-”

“I don’t have any interest in persuading my way in, it will be my grades and my work that will land me the research positions I want, and then nothing will matter but the quality of my resear-”

“You know more than that matters, this is all a game-”

“Just shut the fuck up and leave me alone, I’m not joining your damn club!” you snapped, kicking a rock on the side of the paved path and sending it flying down a small hill.  Atria Hall was quickly approaching, the bottom floor bustling with activity as students ran for the dining hall or each other.  It was the only building open late into the evenings, containing the dining hall, Goffen-Besen library, a few small lecture rooms, and a small gym.  The lawn to the east side of the building was littered with students, and everyone’s cheerful chatter made your ears ring.

“I hope one day you find someone who likes this whole, angry, nasty vibe,” Jongho sighed as you reached the front door, neither of you bothering to hold a door for the other, each grabbing one for yourselves.  You snorted at his words, rolling your eyes and not bothering to respond.  Your stomach was squeezing with emptiness, and the smells wafting in from the kitchen were making your mouth water.

“You really get off on ruining a day, don’t you?” a voice chuckled behind you, just as you made your way inside and spotted the line, five students deep.

“The fuck are you doing here?” you muttered into your hands, the deepness and richness of his chuckle reverberating through you.  You had expected the coast was clear, that he’d be at Mingi’s party already and you could grab your meal in peace.

“Hmm, we’re at a dining hall.  What could I possibly be doing at a dining hall?” Yunho quipped, and your fist reached out and struck him in the solar plexus, involuntarily.  He stepped back, wind knocked from his lungs, his face exasperated as he tried to catch his breath.

“Nuh-uh, no way I’m having you two here in line at the same time,” Maggie called from behind the register.  Her grey hair was pulled back in a tight bun, making her face taught and sharp and adding to her air of authority.

“Can you tell her not to assault me, maybe?” Yunho gasped through a tense breath, his diaphragm still paralyzed.

“Go stand in line young man,” Maggie barked, pointing in the direction of where she wanted him.  “Young lady, you get over here right now.”

You trotted quickly, a surge of embarrassment flowing through you.  It was always automatic, your reactions to him, but rarely was someone around who could pull such shame from your heart.  You kept your face as neutral as you could as you made your way over, the students already in line shooting glares your way.

“I’ll just have my usual,” you said, not really craving a sandwich, but hoping it would smooth over the scene you’d just caused.

“Coming right up,” Maggie sighed, punching your student ID number into the computer from memory.  Her years of experience showed, in her mastery of her job and in her attitude, but she’d always garnered your respect with her consistency.  You didn’t know why, but having met so few fellow students or professors you clicked with, some part of you was incredibly soft for this brazen, confident old woman.  

It wasn’t until you stood at the far counter waiting for your order to be called, watching her worn and cramped hands punching number after number into the system, that you realized how badly you were shaking.

“Turkey club, no mustard,” a short cook called, sliding the plate in your direction.  You smiled in thanks and grabbed it, unsteadily making your way to the drinks station to fill a cup of water.  You peered around the room, seeing hardly any empty tables, and elected to go eat outside.  When you passed by the line you finally saw Yunho in full; plain black tee, but paired with nice black trousers, a black belt, black dress shoes, and a simple watch.  The look in his eye when he locked on you made you shake so severely that water dribbled down your front, and in a moment of severe embarrassment you remembered your shirt was white and you weren’t wearing a bra.

You stalked outside, finding one tiny patch of shaded grass underneath a tree.  You were starving and your head hurt; you knew you were dehydrated.

You were fairly sure in pants that nice Yunho wouldn't dare sit outside, and you appreciated the distance, no matter how small.  He’d surely find a table of some random acquaintance and make small talk, or persuade a single girl at a double table to let him join her.  Outside meant seeing the groups of friends though, which always made frustration boil within.  Kids who didn’t care like you did, who found this whole college thing so boring or stupid or easy.  You judged harshly, as a way of maintaining your own crushing schedule and perfect grades.  

You had to convince yourself it was worth it to push beyond the brink of burnout constantly.

The laughter made your skin itch, and you wolfed down the food too quickly.  You chugged the last of your water, feeling your stomach clench from the uncomfortable, sudden fullness, and made your way inside.  Dumping your dirty dishes into the designated area by the kitchen, you sighed in relief in knowing you could finally go hole up in your room and forget everyone else for the night.  If you had the energy, you could get ahead on a paper for your grant writing class, maybe bang it out in a few hours.  If you couldn’t focus, at least you’d be alone, away from the frustration of people.

“I guess you decided to traumatize the lawn with your see-through shirt.”  His voice was low and steady and followed you as soon as you exited, making it impossible to hold it together.

“Will you stop fucking following me?!”

“God you wish, we live on the same fucking street,” he laughed, rolling his eyes as hard you’d just rolled yours.

“You couldn’t wait two fucking minutes more to walk home?!”  you yelled unabashedly, heads turning from the lawn as you walked past it.  Yunho’s strides were long and his hands were casually held in his pockets, but he moved with a quickness that was anything but calm or easy.  You broke into a run, so overcome with agitation that you just couldn’t do it anymore.  

“You’re so fucking dramatic,” you heard him call after you, but it didn’t change your mind, it didn’t affect you, it didn’t mean a thing.

You crashed inside the front door as soon as you arrived home, thankful everyone was gone at the party and not there to see your tear streaked face or flushed cheeks.  As soon as your bedroom door was shut you sank down into the carpet again, and the tears flowed quickly and freely, your body going numb.

You weren’t sure how long you were there, but it was probably not more than ten minutes.  You’d gotten good years ago at letting yourself cry hard, getting everything out completely, quickly.  When you came down from the rush of emotion you finally started to sense twinges of normal feeling again, and you pushed your way up to your bed, opening your laptop.

The paper would have to wait another few days.  Mind numbing TV was what you needed now, and some Fritos, and no other thoughts.

You grabbed a bag from your stash beneath your bed, slumping down beneath the covers, and opening a browser.  Your cursor spun, the page not loading.  Out here the network could be slow, so you’d gotten used to this necessary patience.  But after nearly three minutes of waiting, you opened your email.

‘Wifi down, school network backup still running,’ the subject line read.  You clicked in, sighing deeply.  A load of uninteresting words filled most of a paragraph, but then near the bottom you spotted it.  ‘Email and online submissions still are up and running, but general Wifi is not.  Please give us until….’ “Fuck,” you groaned, staring at the unopened bag of chips in your hand.  This had happened before, too often this winter.  You knew they wouldn’t have it fixed until at least tomorrow morning.

The pavement was cooler with the sun set, and a chill ran through the skimpy romper you’d thrown on.

The lounge blared with music, bright lights inside contrasting with the ever darkening evening sky, ominous in its appearance.  The trees lining the road had gone shadowy and soft around the edges, but you could find your way.  The day had been unsettling, but a drink or two should help hush the sharp voice of your anxiety.

“You came!”  Yeosang’s voice was bright in a way only tipsiness allowed, and you stumbled through the back door right into the small kitchen and into his arms.  It was busy tonight, a ferocious card game capturing much attention, the couches crowded and the room hushed, save for the music.

“The wifi is down so I couldn’t watch my show,” you sighed, looking longingly at the drink in his hand, giving pathetic eyes.

“Alcohol, yes, here,” he said, opening the fridge in haste, his ankles nearly crushing each other.  “Mingi wanted to play a giant Mario Kart tournament but I guess the TV wasn’t working, maybe cause of the wifi.”  He handed a drink your way, which you cracked open, trying not to gag at the smell.

“I guess, I don’t understand.  They really need to upgrade the damn network,” you said through a sip, bitter and gritty, beer never your favorite.  But you could get used to it, and it’d have to do.

Yeosang nodded, eyeing you closely.  “You hate it.”

“I do not-”

“Do too!  You’re literally wincing-”

“I’m literally not!”

Yeosang broke into giggles, the alcohol making him all too confident and all too ready to poke at you.  Every time more than a few drinks were involved, his wariness over your attitude seemed to fade.  He gave no thought to what a poor idea it might be to start an argument.

“How many drinks have you had?” you asked.

“I dunno, someone got a giant bottle of vodka somehow, so I took some shots.”

“Fucking hell,” you laughed, head shaking in surprise, surprise at your own surprise.  It was a birthday party after all, for Mingi of all people, and he’d probably been stashing it all year just for today.

The couch dwellers suddenly erupted in raucous cheers and screams of indignance, before laughter and shit-talking took center stage, and the group began to split up.  You and Yeosang slunk to the corner, just behind the fridge where you always stood, feeling the waves of people about to enter your space.

“A beer?” you heard an all too familiar voice ask, before his long limbs were in your eye line.

“Yeah a beer!” a low voice called back, hidden in the crowd in the adjacent room.

The high wide arch that somewhat separated the two spaces was too low for his frame, and as he ducked below it, getting in line behind the two other people who’d beat him to the punch, his eyes locked on you.

“Don’t you dare, sir,” Yeosang snapped at him, sticking out his tongue. 

“I didn’t say anything,” Yunho countered, hands up in innocence, but eyes raking every inch of you in an aggressive sort of manner.

“You don’t have to say anything, it’s obvious what you’re thinking,” Yeosang continued, rolling his eyes dramatically, laughing at his ridiculousness.  The cold air of the fridge wafted across your legs, the two students in front of Yunho fumbling around for what they wanted.  Everyone was drunker than usual, the lounge feeling more like a circus in its chaos.

“Listen,” Yunho said, loud enough to startle the people in front of him, who took it as a sign to grab what they could and bolt.  Fridge now free to him, he crouched down and reached into the bottom shelf, pulling out bottles of beer, very light in color.  “Why don’t you take this beer-” he grabbed the can opener on the counter and cracked it easily after he stood, the fierce hiss quite satisfying “-and take that attitude over to the birthday boy, help him enjoy this evening a little bit more.”

Yeosang’s eyes went wide, mouth slightly agape, before he registered that Yuhno’s arm was outstretched in offering.  He grabbed the beer, face turning to yours in what looked like panic.  His cheeks bright red, eyeliner slightly smudged, his lips slightly wobbly.  But his outfit and hair sat perfectly as always, and you could read the desire all over his eyes.

Hardly a thought of kindness passed through your head for anyone at this school.  It had been a strange set of months, more isolating than you could have expected, but in the end it had been good.  A chance to focus solely on your studies, on the only thing that you desired in any real, meaningful, reasonable way.

Yet one friend, this one person who’d actually cared to get to know you all those months ago, did mean something.  And though his leaving your side would mean pure abandonment, you couldn’t deny him this obvious fantasy falling right into his lap.

“Go,” you nodded, nudging his shoulder.  With exasperation and confusion painting his features, he gave you a quick hug, before trotting off.

It left you standing there with him, fridge still open, eyes still piercing.  You looked down at the open door with disgust, then back up to him.  WIth a wicked smile he leaned down, grabbed another bottle before slamming the door shut, and cracked the top off with ease.

“Why don’t you try something nice?” he said, holding it out.

“Why don’t you suck a dick?” you laughed, voice fakely high, face ridiculously animated.

“If only I liked that,” he drawled, taking a swig of the beer for himself, head tipped back, adam’s apple bobbing.  And then you just stared, that dissatisfaction, frustration, and comparison ripping through every fiber of your being.  This arrogant, good-looking asshole was still outscoring you in exams?

“Yo, can we get through?” a call came, and Yunho stepped back to let more bodies make their way to the alcohol.  You watched with mild amusement as almost all the rest of the beer was grabbed; the fridge looked barren, the floor already a sticky mess, and the wildness of the night wasn’t really comforting you the way you’d hoped it would.  You downed the rest of your beer can in one go, gulping and cringing at the taste, before crumpling it in your hand and tossing it in the trash can in the corner.  Wiping your lip on the back of your hand, you turned to find him staring.

“Why the hell are you still here?”

“Cause no one’s telling me to get away from you, like we’re children.”

“It’s cause they’re all too drunk to give a shit right now,” you answered, shrugging and making for the back door again.

“You’re leaving?” he asked, right before the propped-open door slammed shut, wind howled, and thunder rumbled.

You crouched to the ground, head in hands, letting the screams of the two girls next to you act as your message to the world.

This fucking day.  It can’t get any worse.

Laughter escaped him, from deep within.  “Loosen up, you are at a party you know,” he said above you, black shoes in your periphery.

“Please, just leave me the fuck alone,” you muttered, staring up with daggers, wishing beyond everything that you could control a goddamn thing.

As the storm raged, so too did your emotions, choosing the worst possible time to greet you in honesty.

It was rare that you were stuck in boredom, always having something to work on, to ponder, to discuss.  Keeping busy was of course a method of distraction, as was the reality TV you could devour when given the chance.  It didn’t matter that one gave you pride and one gave you shame, it was all the same; a chance to avoid the strange, sensitive parts of your mind.

In the corner, crunched in the window sill, knees touching your chin, you felt unstable.  The storm came and went, periodically slapping the wall with harsh rain, then brushing by with a gentle breeze.  After the initial shock of the slamming door, no one else seemed to give it notice; no one gave notice to your presence, either, and something about being ignored started to grow like an itch on your brain.

This was not how today was supposed to end, here at the party, no Yeosang for company, no articles on your phone for distraction.  A quick scroll through your camera roll left you feeling empty more than anything, remembering the giant group of friends from college, the ones that stopped talking to you immediately post graduation, and the horrible trip with your aunt that had capped last summer in perfect disappointment.  There was no one in your life you liked, and no one that liked you; that’s why you studied ancient peoples, to try to find evidence that maybe at one time, in some culture, somewhere, you would have fit in.

Tears sprang in your eyes as the next wave of rain hit the window.  You felt so utterly ridiculous for being this way.  Sure, your parents had all but abandoned you, moving across the country to an off grid commune, leaving the last few years of your development in the hands of your child-hating, absent aunt.  They’d left you money for school, so how could you complain, really?  An only child is used to entertaining themselves, raising themselves.  It left the door open for your fifteen year old self to live free.  The boys, the all nighters, the extracurriculars, the AP exams, the college applications, the parties, the drama, the drugs, the mess, the horrible fucking mess you made of every-fucking-thing-

Suddenly your body shuddered, hard, cold air seeping in through a crack in the window.

“Are you okay?”  You couldn’t even see the face before wiping the tears from your eyes frantically.

“I’m fine,” you finally told your roommate Mari, blonde hair brushed over her shoulder.

“Are you sure?  I’m here if you-”

“Yes, I’m sure,” you snapped, standing up from your uncovered hiding place, readjusting your hair and clothes.

“Okay, sorry,” she said, tone pissed, eyebrows low.  

You didn’t have time to get into it with her; you needed to leave, leave now, no matter what the weather.  But as you started to walk you heard conversation flaring, Yeosang’s bright laugh, and couldn’t help your eyes wandering over.  He was tucked against Mingi’s side, face wide and staring up at him, as Yunho and Mingi stood face to face feet apart, arguing.

“No fucking way dude,”  Mingi was saying, wide smile flashing and chest flushed, no doubt drunk like every other person here to celebrate him.

“Seriously, a 79.  The test was fucking brutal.”  Mingi’s head shook before his eyes hit you, and suddenly his eyebrows raised.

“What’d she get?”  His finger pointed in your direction, and the back of Yunho’s head disappeared before his face was visible, hard and unreadable.

“A 70, right? Barely passed?” he shot in your direction, smug smirk forming on his lips.

“Fuck, that’s almost a-”

But Mingi couldn’t finish his sentence before the bottle you’d flung in their direction had hit the wall behind, smashing into a million pieces.  All three of them jumped, Mingi’s arms pulling Yeosang around as if to protect him.  But the damage had already been done, your goal achieved; everyone was suddenly as anxious and perturbed as you were, and a million angry looks shot your way.

“Yo, why the fuck would you-”

You were sprinting out of the room before the accusations could come, before they could ask you how that empty bottle had ended up in your hand, or why the thought of it cracking on the side of Yunho’s skull would have satisfied every feeling within you, letting you finally implode for good.  All you could think about was your failed aim as you reached the back door, pushing against the wind with all your might, letting it slam behind you.  It was only moments before Yunho had managed to open it too, and as you made your way for your building, tears once again streaming down your cheeks, you felt something clip your heel and send you tumbling down onto the asphalt below.

“Ahh!” you heard yourself yell, palms screaming in pain as skin ripped away, the blood immediate.  You couldn’t push on them to get up, couldn’t fight in any way except to start smearing it all over those perfect pants he was wearing, grabbing hard at any bit of the man completely crushing you with all his weight.

“Couldn’t keep your fucking cool tonight, could you?!” he growled into the howling air, the sharpness of it lost to you as other sensations jumped in your face.  A hand was crushing your face into the pavement and something was trapping your bent knees to the ground; your skin ached with the coldness of it, but you managed to land a heel kick to what must have been his crotch before retching yourself free enough to punch him hard in the gut.

“I FUCKING HATE YOU!!” you screamed into the night, not sure who you were saying it to, letting the feral energy you despised envelope all of your senses.  You were an animal again, fighting tooth and nail for just one moment of relief; you were out to win, out to do the only thing you knew well.

With his breathing unsteady you finally pulled entirely free, smashing his back to the ground in the process, and shoving him hard with your knee as you scrambled to your feet.  You had no idea if you’d gained any sort of head start, but it had been worth a try, and you continued on without looking back, just simply running.  The pain in your hands and tears in your eyes made thinking and seeing straight nearly impossible, and suddenly the knowledge of which direction your house was had left you.

The paved path was at least easy to run on, and you followed it in your tennis shoes, having somehow known to wear them tonight, despite them not matching your romper in the slightest.  Your free hair whipped around and struck you in the face, but you were able to gain some distance, lungs heaving, brain numb, fried, not aware of anything.

Soon the ground beneath your feet was softer, and the tree line came into view, Laki forest in all its beauty.  Maybe you could hide behind a tree, or- 

You heard a growl, and looked back to find him not ten feet away, making good time despite his disadvantageous footwear.  The look in his eye was so dark, so devoid of any human feeling, it made your stomach turn.  And in the course of feeling frozen by the image, your head turned as you continued to sprint forward, you tripped on a root and went sprawling again, this time from your own lack of focus.

You screamed again as you hit the ground, trumbling awkwardly to your side, rolling once over completely.  Twigs were no doubt poking holes in your romper and getting stuck in your hair, but all you could really register was that large hands were on you again, and he’d managed to trap you on your back in a perfectly vulnerable position.

“Look what you’re doing to me,” he said, grabbing your cut up hand, palming his bulge and not caring about the staining.  He was rock hard, pants straining, rutting his hips into your hand and making you cry out in pain.  There was a twisted, sick intrigue to it all, and soon you found your mind had completely slipped into its simple, animalistic side, fear and lust the only feelings available.

“You need to stop screaming like that or we’re gonna get fucking caught,” he spat, slapping your face and making you yelp again, trying to bat his hands away and fight him off, despite there being no way.  His hips on top of yours, knees caging you in, and his huge frame was far too heavy for your legs to move him in this position.

The tears welled quickly, and though you thought you’d ridded yourself of them earlier, you hadn’t experienced this level of pure terror in so long and had no recollection of just how quickly it destroyed you.  You tried not to wail and sob, a distant feeling of embarrassment trying to push through to the front of your brain and stop you, but you couldn't help it.

“Fuck, don’t start crying, you’re just making me harder,” he said through gritted teeth, rapidly starting to unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants.  His silver watch flashed in the moonlight, but mostly the night was dark and silent and felt all encompassing, giving you the feeling of an animal at sacrifice.

It was then, as you knew what was coming, as the sound of his belt hitting the forest floor filled your mind, that you briefly realized just how horny you were for it all.

Beneath him some of your fight had started to leave you, but when he suddenly crawled forward and started prying your mouth open, his hard cock bobbing against his stomach in flushed need, you suddenly found it again.  Your hips were somewhat free and you bucked them, pushing his hips suddenly closer to your face, hoping it would knock him off balance.

“Don’t you fucking dare-”

Turning your torso sideways you tried to scramble, to push, but his harsh grip on your face and head kept your upper body firmly in place, and it only hurt to try and break free.  You tried not to scream for it would only mean opening your mouth, but even as you bit down on the first finger he managed to get inside, you were losing the fight.  He wrenched your jaw open with immense strength, and you let out your final guttural call into the night, another wave of tears falling, before he sheathed himself entirely, and you were silenced for good.

Warm, heaviness filled your mouth, his tip hitting the back of your throat and making you gag.  Already your nose was stuffy from the tears, and your body instinctively tried to suck in a breath, only for a small deep thrust from Yunho to cut it off entirely.

“What, is it too much? Just say stop,” he chuckled above you, one knee on one of your shoulders, the other steadying him on the ground.  Your face and hair were a tearful, dirt filled disaster zone, your face looking intoxicatingly tiny and pathetic with his huge cock stuffed in your mouth.  Nothing felt better than shutting your angry, nasty mouth up with his huge length lodged in your throat, your gags and attempted coughs only adding to his pleasure, more spit and tears falling and leaving such a mess in their wake.

He picked up a slow pace, sliding the bottom of his tip along the warmth of your tongue, but never pulling out too far.  It was seeing his cock bulge in your throat that he really liked, and as he continued his thrusts, trying to push farther despite there being no room, you felt your head start to get fuzzy.  There was hardly any way to breathe, and in the intense feelings of it, all you could do was turn inward and think of your injured, ragdoll body out in the forest, getting used by the boy you so desperately hated beyond words.

Something about it made your cunt throb, and in a moment of what could almost be described as joy, you let your throat relax, let him hit even deeper. “Good slut,” came his roar, and you managed to blink up through your tears and catch his face, mouth hanging low in pleasure, his eyebrows pulled in tight.  A hand, which had been holding your shoulder firmly to the ground, now came up to brush gently over the ever present bulge in your throat, and then stroked your cheek gently, rubbing dirt and tears out of your eye as he continued his thrusts.  Your face was starting to go slightly blue, brain fuzzy, very fuzzy, but the gentle stroke of his hand was all the comfort you needed as you felt yourself begin to drift off into faintness.

A sharp slap awoke you, your lungs gasping for air as you suddenly realized your throat felt cold and empty.  A series of harsh coughs wracked through your body as you tried to regain your senses, the dark emptiness of your mind so comforting you didn’t want to leave it.

“Wake the fuck up,” came his ragged, rough voice, and for a moment you could swear it was laced with concern or fear, the thought so absurd you felt stupidly crazy.  Before full consciousness greeted you, you could feel hands pulling at the shorts of your romper, fabric tearing away, then again, and your cunt was bare and cold in the breeze.

“Getting your throat fucked makes you so damn wet,” he chuckled, fingers sliding down your slit with ease, and sinking into your hole without warning.  Still choking on spit and snot, a deep, uncontrollable moan wracked through you, that deep spot inside that you could never hit yourself coming alive in pleasure.  Yunho’s chuckle deepened as his fingers did, your body writhing in front of him, legs trapped beneath his.  His cock still angrily hard, he flipped you over in an instant and pushed your face into the ground again, guiding his cock to your aching entrance and pushing in without hesitation.  Your screams and moans were caught in the dirt, his huge hand caught in your hair, the other held on your hip and anchoring him.  It wasn’t long before he felt the clenching of your walls, cervix pounded and making your legs shake in pleasure, the feeling indescribable.

Waves of it started building, and there was nothing to describe the pain and pleasure mixing in your mind, overwhelming, intoxicating, utterly and completely spellbinding.  There was no other kind of distraction, no other sensation that could fill your senses like this; it was the break from monotony, from constant work and control, that your body craved.  And in a matter of moments you were coming hard around him, the sensation like a hot fuse being lit, your entire nervous system alight in sparks and fires of pleasure.  He was filling you up, hot cum seeping everywhere, the mess of your face now matched by the mess of the rest of you.  Sticky, dirty, skin ripped and clothes torn, there was nothing about this moment you should have loved, nothing about it that should have you trembling for weeks as your mind wandered back and your hand wandered down, between your legs, cunt soaked, thinking of him and the rough ground below your face.

Yes, your roommates hated when this happened, when they found him sneaking out of your room in the morning and insisting they hadn’t seen anything.  But nothing could make you give up these nights with him, arms wrapped around his neck, carrying you bridal style back to your room and curling you within his arms, fast asleep in the pure bliss of nothingness.

And he loved it too.  Even if you were right back to hating him the next morning.

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Summer reunion

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this one-shot of Kimi x reader. If you want a part 2 let me know :)

Taking into account his age, I'll only write fluff for him.

If you want to read more stories of mine, here's my masterlist.

The wind carried the scent of the pine trees as you sat on the wooden steps of Kimi’s summer house, your legs stretched out, face tilted to the golden sunlight. It felt surreal being back. The place hadn’t changed much, the same blue paint chipping slightly from the windows, the same old tire swing hanging by the tall birch tree you two used to dare each other to jump from as kids.

It had been years since you last visited this house. You used to spend nearly every summer here with Kimi, chasing frogs by the lake and roasting sausages over campfires. But things had changed. He had started racing, first in karts, then in Formula 2, and finally in Formula 1. The boy who used to throw pebbles at your window to sneak you out for late-night swims had become someone the entire world knew.

Still, to you, he was just Kimi. Quiet, weirdly poetic in his silences, always making you laugh when you least expected it.

You heard the familiar crunch of gravel under tires and your heart raced a little. You stood up and brushed off your jeans just as the black SUV came to a halt. The door opened slowly, and out stepped Kimi, sunglasses on, expression unreadable as always.

Until he saw you.

He froze. You waved.

A slow grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he walked over. "You actually did it," he muttered.

"What, surprise you?" you teased, stepping forward and wrapping your arms around him. He hesitated a beat, then pulled you into a tight hug.

"Yeah," he said softly, burying his face into your hair for a moment. "Took you long enough."

"I could say the same to you, Mr. Formula 1," you murmured.

He chuckled and pulled back, ruffling your hair like you were still twelve. "Let’s go inside."

The day passed in a blur of easy memories and soft, quiet laughter.

You helped him unpack his racing bags, teasing him for the ridiculous number of branded caps he still collected. You made grilled sandwiches while he found the old, dented badminton rackets in the garage, and ended up chasing each other barefoot across the backyard, laughing like kids.

At some point, you both collapsed onto the grass, breathless. The sun was lower in the sky now, painting the clouds in soft pinks and oranges.

“I missed this,” you said.

He didn’t reply at first. Just looked up at the sky. Then, “Me too.”

Later, you made your way down to the dock, dipping your feet in the cold lake water. You handed him a beer and took a sip of your own, legs swinging just above the surface.

“I still can’t believe you’re here,” he said, bumping his shoulder against yours.

“Well, someone’s been too busy driving ridiculously fast in circles,” you replied with a smirk.

He scoffed. “It’s not a circle. It’s a circuit.”

You laughed, the sound echoing slightly over the still water.

Kimi turned his head toward you slowly. His sunglasses were off now, and you could see the pale blue of his eyes, calm and thoughtful in the fading light.

"I've really missed that," he said quietly.

"Missed what?" you asked, tilting your head.

"Your laugh."

The words hit softly, but deeply. You blinked, caught off guard by how sincere his voice was.

There was a pause. The kind that was just a little too long to be purely platonic.

You looked at him, and he was already looking at you. Neither of you looked away.

It was strange—after all this time, the silence between you felt comforting, not awkward. Like the years hadn’t stretched so far between visits. Like you still knew exactly how to be around each other.

And then, Kimi leaned in ever so slightly. Not enough to cross any lines, but enough to tell you he was thinking the same thing you were.

You smiled softly. “I missed you too.”

His gaze lingered on your lips for a second longer before he turned away, clearing his throat.

“You still laugh like a goose,” he said, trying to smother the emotion with a smirk.

You rolled your eyes. “And you still flirt like a twelve-year-old.”

But neither of you moved away.

The sun dipped below the trees, and the air turned cooler, but you both stayed on that dock, shoulders touching, hearts a little lighter, wondering if maybe, after all these years, summer had brought something more than just a reunion.

Maybe it had brought the beginning of something that had always been there, quietly waiting.

[ak319]

A.M x f!reader ─ 𝐎𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐝

ಇ. one-shot

Warnings/MDNI: sad /angst, death, hard pining by arthur as usual, the reader is blind in this and a teacher, glimpse of low honour arthur. Syno: Jack is happy to attend a Montessori, and Arthur is even more, and sure that maybe this time nothing can go wrong... +++ arthur's pic by rachel and jack's by yena on Pin. ┆ ⤿ ❀ m.list

The morning air is still cool, soft with dew and the faint scent of lilac drifting from the edges of town. Arthur was riding slow. Because today, he has a little companion with him.

Jack sits in front of him on the saddle, legs swinging, chattering about something he dreamt, something about a lake full of sugar and himself being a cowboy. Arthur hums, pretends he’s listening. His eyes are on the path ahead, but his mind drifts. He's tired. Bone-tired. A temporary camp, Abigail said. Temporary nursery. Just a few days. And yet it’s routine that clutches tighter than chains.

He'd argued, of course, due to safety reasons. But in the end, Jack had looked up at him with that pleading look and a broken smile, and he'd caved like always.

They reach the edge of town. A whitewashed fence, crooked at one end, lines a little patch of land just past the stables. The "school" is a one-room building, wood darkened by age, but neat. Tidy. A fresh blue curtain flutters in the lone window. Wildflowers are growing uninvited along the edge of the porch. Jack little legs are already wiggling before the horse even stops.

"Wait for me, kid," Arthur mutters chuckling, swinging down and helping him down, his boots hitting the dust.

But Jack doesn't wait and dashes to the entrance. The school door creaks open before they even reach it. And then Arthur sees her.

You.

At first, it's just your voice, soft, like it's folded in silk.

"Jack...Marston? I received a letter about you," you ask gently, a smile in your tone.

Arthur watches as you step forward. Slowly. You walk with a wooden cane, not tapping, but gliding, like you know exactly where the edges of the world are. You have a light scarf draped around your shoulders, the ends fluttering in the breeze.

You don't look at them. Doesn't raise your head, not even when Jack speaks. "My uncle Arthur brought me. Mama said I'm s'posed to be good."

He hears a chuckle, the kind of laugh that doesn't shake the body but warms the chest. "Then I'm delighted to meet you, Jack."

Arthur opens his mouth to say something, but the words die. You hadn't looked at him once.

And then it clicks.

Your eyes, unfocused, pale in a way that feels like absence. Not eerie. Just…quiet. Like clouded glass.

Arthur finds himself standing still. His fingers flex at his side.

You crouch to Jack’s height, her hand extended slowly until you brush his sleeve, locating him with gentle precision. "I've set a seat near the window for you," you tell him. "It's warmer there. And the sparrows sing."

Jack beams. "I like birds!"

You then straighten up, your face tilted faintly to the side. "Will you be picking him up, sir?" Arthur startles.

"I--uh--um yes," he says. His voice comes out rough, urging him to clear his throat. "It's...Arthur Morgan.." Your eyes don't land like most folks. They settle, soft, unbothered, and Arthur swears he's never felt so seen by someone who couldn't see.

You nod. "If I'm not at the door, just knock once. I'll hear you." He doesn’t move. You don’t wait and turn, motioning for Jack to follow you inside. Arthur watches you walk, not hurried, not fragile. Just…graceful. Like the world was something you'd memorized long ago, and now had no need to see. He watches as Jack glances back once, waving, then disappears behind the blue curtain.

The door clicks shut behind them.

He stands there a minute longer, not sure why his chest feels tight.

Not just in passing. Not in a classroom thank-you. He wants to hear it , on your tongue, shaped like you mean it. Like you know who he is. Like you've let him live in your mouth for a while.

Though he had his doubts at first about Jack having a blind teacher, Arthur kept those thoughts quiet. After all, you wouldn't be running a school if you didn't know how to teach. And all the other parents, they couldn't all be fools. That's what he told himself. Besides, there was a kind of calm to you, a steadiness he didn't see in most folks. Like maybe not seeing the world lets you listen to it better. Like you caught things others missed.

"Blind don't mean weak. Not in her case. Means quiet. Means focused. Means she don't waste a second on things that don't matter." He jotted down.

Which is why he nearly punched John square in the jaw when the bastard laughed to Abigail about "the boy being taught by someone who can't even see the chalkboard."

And soon, it becomes habit.

Each morning, Arthur rides Jack in, listens to the boy prattle beside him, legs swinging off the side of the saddle. He pretends not to notice the way his chest feels lighter as the schoolhouse comes into view. As you come into view.

You always open the door just as they reach the porch, as if you sense them from down the road. As if you know the rhythm of their arrival.

You smile every time, always in Jack's direction. Never his. Your scarf changes colors. Pale yellow one day. Dusty pink is the next. Once, it was lavender, and he had his heart in his mouth way back.

He stops smoking around the school. Starts washing his hands more. His hat comes off, always, when you open the door, even if it’s raining.

Once, Jack asks why Arthur always watches the porch after they say goodbye. Arthur shrugs. "Just waitin'." For what, he doesn't say.

When someone else mentions bringing Jack in, Hosea, Charles, then you can always expect the bounty hunter to say no. Every time. And doesn't even know why he fucking says it. He just does. And for that, he's also become a target of jabs.

Arthur starts waking up earlier than he needs to. Just to make sure Jack's collar is clean, his boots are laced, and they arrive on time. He won't admit it, but he wants to catch that moment when you step out , scarf fluttering, smile ready.

He finds ways to fix things around the schoolhouse for Jack's sake, the step, the latch, a loose board, but he watches your hands brush the railing after. Feels...heavenly to know they're touching something he mended. His usual enforcer's tone in camp starts to soften because these days, he's practicing it. Past version of him would call himself a fool to practice his voice for a woman. But his heart says if his voice is soft enough, she'd keep turning her face his way.

He keeps bringing small things, a crate of apples (says they are from his 'farm' while Jack grins sneakily beside him. But obviously sides with his Uncle), candies for all the kids. But of course, they aren't stolen goods because even if he's a criminal, he ain't that audacious and a fool to have someone who teaches about honesty and morals, feed herself and the children his sins.

He had his dumb moments where he accidentally brushed her hand when handing the pastries bag and said, "Sorry ma'am!" and then can't stop thinking about it all day.

He watches for things that hold bad intentions...like the other day when he rode to pick the kid up and saw three boys, too old to be called that, crouched by the fence line like they've got nowhere to be and too much time to waste. They see him coming.

One nudges the other with his boot as Arthur slows the horse. Jaw tight and hat low.

"What're you lot doin'?"

One of them grins, all teeth and vinegar. "Ain't doin' nothin'. Just waitin'. Our sisters are in there."

Arthur glances toward the schoolhouse. He looks back at them. That grin falters. "That right?" Arthur mutters.

The second boy speaks up. "Sure. Little ones. Ain't hurtin' nobody. Gotta wait for 'em to come out. Can't leave little girls alone now, can we?" They laugh again, loud and false. One of them nudges the others like he just said something clever.

Arthur doesn't laugh, he just dismounts calmly. The third boy shifts his weight, suddenly less sure.

The tall one opens his mouth to say something, but Arthur takes one step forward, hand near his holster, not drawing, not yet. Just resting. "There ain't no siblings inside. We both know that. So I'll ask again, what're you doin' here?"

The first one swallows. "Didn't mean nothin' by it."

"Yeah," Arthur says flatly. "That's the problem."

Behind them, the schoolhouse windows glow soft with oil light. Your voice drifts through the cracked panes, warm, unaware. Arthur hears it.

They do too.

His hand doesn't move far, just enough to rest on the grip of his revolver. Thumb flicks the hammer. Click. Then he draws.

Not at them. Not yet.

But the bullet kicks up dirt inches from the first boys' feet, loud enough to echo down the road like a damn thunderclap. They stumble back, pale-faced now. The cigarette falls from their mouths.

"Next time," Arthur growls, "I don't miss."

They turn. Fast. Stub out what’s left of their smokes, hands up, muttering curses under their breath like cowards. He watches them go, doesn't follow. Just waits. Until they’re small shapes on the road and then nothing.

"Damn idiots."

You step out onto the porch not long after the silence settles. The air still smells like gunpowder and kicked-up dust. Your hands are steady, but you tilt your head just slightly, listening. You already know.

"You fired a shot."

Arthur doesn't answer right away. He stands by the fence, hat low, eyes on the horizon like he's hoping you'll go back inside. "T'was a warning shot...only."

You take another step forward. "I know what a warning shot sounds like, Mr. Morgan."

His jaw ticks. His hand flexes near his belt like he's holding something back. "They were lyin'," he mutters. "Didn't have any sisters inside. They were hangin' around, starin' too long. Sayin' things they didn't ....have the right to."

You nod slowly, lips pressed into a tight line. "I figured as much." You pause. The wind picks up, tugging your scarf against your cheek. "But not near the school," you say, quieter now. "Not with the...children inside."

He finally looks at you. Not directly, just enough to catch the corner of your face, your expression. It's not angry. Not fearful. Just… tired.

"I wasn't gonna hurt nobody," he says, voice low and almost petulant.

"I know. But they don't. And the kids don't either. You don't need to scare the Earth off its axis to keep wolves away. Sometimes all it takes is standing still."

Arthur swallows hard. You hear it. "They jus' didn't seem like boys with good intentions, thought they could get away with it. I ain't lettin' that happen."

You offer him the smallest smile, a fragile thing. "And I'm grateful for that. But let me keep the school a place that doesn't echo with gunshots, alright?" He nods once, eyes still on the ground like a child being scolded. You take one last breath before stepping back toward the door.

"Thank you for being vigilant. I'll go bring Jack."

And for the first time in years, Arthur wants to be the kind of man who never gives you a reason to flinch.

"I know how men look at a house with one curtain drawn and no husband inside. Makes--and made my hand twitch near my holster. A woman like her shouldn't have to be that alone-" His pencil halts. What the hell am I even thinking? She probably does have a man, that's why she has this grounded aura around her. As if someone is there for her, who comes to pick and drop her off, makes sure that she's safe. Jack also, upon a subtle ask, told that "her house is nearby."

I already am starting to behave like some creep, hell, she probably thinks I am. Can't have the kid asking her if she's spoken for. Forget it. Poor boy goes there to learn, not to be your...matchmaker, and my job is to take him safely. Only. That's that, Morgan, you idiot.

Well, Jack had a great time recounting the whole story later to his mama and Hosea.

"And then Uncle Arthur shooed away those guys!" Jack said, eyes wide, arms flailing for dramatic effect. "We were all really quiet at first, but then we cheered inside!"

Abigail looked less than thrilled, but Hosea just gave Arthur a long, knowing look of 'I knew it', over his cup of coffee.

Arthur didn't say a word, but decides to when Abigail is too silent, to reaffirm her. "Wasn't nothin'. Just keepin' the road clean and everyone safe."

The days you're not at the door? He doesn't ride home right away. He circles town, pretending to wait for Jack, but really, he's just hoping for one more sound of your voice or a glimpse through an open window.

Jack was the one going to school, and for some reason, he was here acting like a schoolboy with a damn crush.

Hell, even Jack is noticing now. I gotta stop.

"Why do you look at her like that, Uncle Arthur? As if you saw a ghost."

"…like what?" Poor kid doesn't know that the damn look is not a one you give a ghost.

He knows what look he's talking about, though. The one he has when you tilt your head to the side, listening for Jack's giggle. When you laugh, gently, without ever knowing if he's smiling back, his heart melts.

You never call him 'Arthur..' That'd be immodest, of course, But he keeps showing up, anyway. Just in case one day… You do.

"Ain't fair. How easy it is to want someone who never once looked at me funny...or scared. Maybe that's why I want her. Ain't ever had ....clean want before," he writes in his journal beside a drawing of you leaning over Jack's shoulder while he draws, your head bowed beside his, both of you lost in your own quiet world.

❀˖°

The days bleed together in soft, indistinguishable strokes. One day, he gets a job from Strauss. Due to lack of sleep (due to you clouding his mind of course and he doesn't know what to do at this point), the young outlaw wasn't in a good mood already and these...damn debt collections.

He rides straight from the schoolhouse to the house, where Strauss's note directed him. Another damn name. Another man with unpaid debt. Old, bad knees, lives just outside the eastern fence line in a small brick home with a blue door.

Arthur doesn’t think much of it. The sky is gray, the air is damp, and the the house is easy to find. He knocks and waits. The door creaks open after a moment. An old man stands there, late sixties, maybe more. Thin, sharp shoulders, sunken cheeks. His beard is trimmed, and he’s dressed neatly despite the wear in his coat. His hands tremble slightly on the cane he leans against.

"Yes Sir? How may I help you?" the man asks, accent soft, words careful.

Arthur sighs. "You've got a debt, mister. You know why I'm here."

The man shifts, not in fear, but in resignation. "I told them I needed more time."

"And they don't care."

"I am trying my best here--just a little more. i was sick. Bed ridden-"

Arthur's jaw ticks. He doesn’t want to hear this. Not today. Not when his hands already itch.

"Can't help you," he mutters, stepping inside. The man tries to stop him. "Please- just one more week! I swear." Something snaps in Arthur then. He slams the door behind him.

"I said," Arthur growls, stepping forward, "I ain't in the mood, bring what you have, right now."

One shove sends the man backward. His cane clatters to the floor. Arthur grabs the front of his coat, meaning just to scare him, to rough him up, like usual. But the man resists, claws at his arms, and in one heated moment, Arthur's fist flies.

Once.

Twice.

The man collapses before the third blow lands. His head hits the edge of the hearth. A sickening crack splits the air.

Silence.

Arthur stands over the body, panting. Blood seeps beneath the man’s skull like ink into parchment.

"Shit," he mutters. "He wasn't supposed to----damn it all". Does he have any other option but to loot whatever this man has? He feels shit about it though but Strauss would want something.

His eyes scan the room to find anything valuable. A chair still rocking. An open book. A framed photo turned toward the wall. He turns the photograph over.

It's you.

Your face was younger, smile unchanged, just a little girl with soft, blank eyes pressed against the chest of a man now dead at his feet. Arthur stares at it like it might vanish. Like it can't be what it is.

No...

It can't be...

The blood on his knuckles feels hot now. He swallows as his feet remain frozen...

His blood will always remain like the countless others.

❀˖°

He rides back to the schoolhouse...and sees children's chalk drawings on the fence post. He can still smell the wildflowers. But Arthur feels like he's walking through water. Heavy. Thick and choking.

His knuckles are raw. His shirt smells of sweat and smoke and copper. He washed them in the stream. Rubbed them like a madman. Doesn't matter...now does it? His blood would remain on his hands forever.

Nothing helped.

He climbs off his horse and lingers by it and then by the fence, staring at the door. His boots feel like lead. He shouldn't be here....but can't let Jack stay...maybe should have sent someone else to-

The door opens before he can knock. There you are.

The girl he just came back from making an orphan...

Your head tilts faintly at the sound of his boots in the dust. "You came early," she says with that same soft, lilting voice. "It's fine. Jack's still cleaning the blackboard. He didn't want to leave streaks."

Arthur swallows. He can barely meet your gaze, though you're not looking at him. You can't. You wait patiently, unknowing. Your pale eyes, blank and gentle, don't accuse. Don't judge.

Because she doesn't know.

Not yet.

You smile, brushing her hands over her skirt. "He told me your horse is named Boadicea, is it?"

"Y-yeah," Arthur murmurs. His voice feels wrong in his throat. "Yeah, that's right."

"Nice name." Arthur lets out a low breath. His chest hurts, and he could only whisper a thank you. "He's been drawing horses with wings. I thought you and Ms. Marston should know. What an imaginative kid."

You chuckle, and he gulps at the thought of this being the last day you do.

Your cream-colored scarf is pinned neatly beneath her chin today, the same one as this morning. He remembers it now, a white one was folded on the chair back at the home...the framed photo beside it. The man was smiling beside her.

Your father.

Dead.

Because of him.

The door creaks and Jack bounds out, hands dusty, shirt untucked. "Uncle Arthur!"

"Come on," Arthur says roughly. "Time to go...kid."

Jack turns back. "Bye Ms. (Y/N), see you tomorrow."

"Bye. Have a safe ride!" you call back. And smile.

Arthur almost collapses right there.

He just lifts Jack onto the horse, swings up behind him, and rides without looking back. The next day, of course, the school is closed and...Arthur wasn't the one who took Jack. He couldn't. The boy went with Hosea, and later came running to Arthur and shared his sadness as if...Arthur's mind wasn't bleeding enough. He could barely hold himself back when Jack talked in his innocent voice.

"Hosea said maybe she's busy or had an emergency. Could be sick too. I just don't want it to close. I've made friends there...and she's so nice and fun. Mama said to pray that she's well. You do that too, Uncle Arthur. Okay?"

Arthur could only pat his head and offer a comforting smile.

Prayers can't reverse what I did. They can't. If only they did....

❀˖°

Days pass, and then one morning, you hear it.

Not the gallop, just the soft sound of hooves on tired earth. You don’t move at first. Just sit with your hands folded in your lap, listening to the stillness that followed your father's silence.

When the porch boards creak beneath your feet, it's not hesitation. It's resolve.

You open the door slowly, knowing it's him. The same man who brought Jack, and now the same man who killed your father. Something in your heart said he'd be back. For money? For forgiveness? Or to kill you? You didn't know. And frankly, you didn't care at this point. A person having nothing feels nothing.

You can feel the shape of him in the way the air stills. The way the birds refuse to sing. The way your stomach knots, not from fear, but from the weight of knowing. And he sees you, the eyes he looked forward to seeing, be so lifeless.

You don't ask him why he came. You just go back inside and find the box, waiting. You carry it out and stop at the fence, the same place where your father used to lean on and hum, the earth just past it still dark and soft from yesterday's digging. Never thought that one day, you would have to bury your own dead father with your own hands in the same garden where he played with you.

You don't lift your head. You hold the box forward. The ones that had your earnings, his savings, and money from selling your school and dream. The same dream your father had gifted you by taking a loan and not telling you. He wanted you to be independent and able to look after yourself if he's gone. But you don't think you'd be able to do that now...Now that he has actually left. Left you all alone. Left you while he was cold, lying in his own blood, alone till you came back from school. Your heart knew something was wrong...he didn't come to pick you, despite such great weather. The type of one during which he would insist on going on a walk.

"I...didn't come for that, I--I didn't--know he was-" he says.

"Would it have made any difference....My father or someone else's?" With a heavy sigh, you continued. "I thought if I saved enough, I could bring him comfort, repay him, free him. Turns out comfort doesn't....buy time."

You set the box down on the fence post between you.

"I don't need it anymore," you say. "But you do. A lot, it seems. And...I'm not giving this to you to make us even. I'm giving it so I can sleep without owing you or anyone anything. He didn't raise me to be like that."

He doesn't move. You listen to the way his breath catches, the way his weight shifts like he wants to fall to his knees and still can't let himself.

Such people always fall into the holes they dig, your father always said so. 'So never feel powerless and alone, my dear.'

"It's strange, isn't it? How someone can destroy your life and still ...make you pity them." You take one step toward the house, tapping with your cane, then another, and then the wind stills as the door shuts.

And then you leave him standing there with the box, and a debt he can never return.

tag list: @sensitivegamergirl

[beef-brisket]

The next few days blended in together, between planning Teddy's funeral and sorting through his belongings, neither of them knew when a day ended or a new one started.

Lucifer had taken charge of telling his family members who couldn't make it to the hospital about Teddy's passing, which was hell. Everyone asked the same questions and all it did was make Lucifer frustrated and annoyed. He knew they had a right to ask, but all he wanted to do was curl up into a ball and lock himself away.

Sighing, Adam leaned against the base of his and Teddy's bed, rubbing his eyes. He was sorting through the many photo albums. The funeral director suggested finding more than what was needed for a slide show. It hurt. Seeing photos of them, Teddy and his family, some of Lucifer and many that had his wife.

He picked many with her in it, a few of the family gatherings, and a good handful of ones with Lucifer. He smiled at a photo of Lucifer, Charlie and Teddy. Maybe they should end with that one. It's a good photo.

Adam jumped when there was a soft knock at the door, Looking over he saw Lucifer standing in the doorway.

Adam: Hey, you okay?

Lucifer shrugged and walked in: I can't find his tie. His favourite one. The orange one with the sun on it.

Adam looked around: Uh... try... the second draw in his desk.

Specific but Lucifer did what Adam said and smiled widely when he found the tie. It was a little wrinkled but he could iron those out. Walking back over, he sat across from Adam.

Lucifer: How are the photo's coming along?

Adam: Good.

He smiled and handed a photo to Lucifer. It was taken when he was 10 by his mom. It was Halloween, and Lucifer was dressed up as a little devil while Teddy looked like Frankenstein's monster. They were both posing, trying to look scary.

When Lucifer took the photo in his hand, he laughed: Oh shit... this was... a while ago... y'know, I ate so much candy that I vomited for a day and a half.

Adam: I know. Teddy told me. Said something about your vom being rainbow or something.

Lucifer laughed: Y-Yeah, that's right...

He scanned the photos before finding one of Teddy and his mom. He smiled warmly and picked up the photo.

Adam: Was thinking of putting that on the little booklet thing.

Lucifer: Yeah... I like this photo. Simpler times. No... crazy bitch running around after me, full nights sleep... my mom was here...

Adam smiled along, even when he wasn't fully feeling it. He looked at Lucifer's face, before watching the way he smiled softly at the photo, the way his thumb ran over the faces of his parents.

After a moment, Lucifer scanned the picked photos. When he finished, he placed them gently on the floor.

Lucifer: There's none of you. Why?

Adam: ...Didn't want to rock the boat. I've already had his brother and his wife call, and... I wont get I won't get into it. I know many weren't happy about me- so... I was thinking of getting a few behind-the-scenes things done, let you control most of it. I-If you want.

Lucifer: ...What did they say...?

He watched Adam tense up: I... don't think I can repeat it even if I wanted to...

Lucifer: I'll talk to them-.

Adam: No- no, it's okay. I... don't want them thinking I'm complaining to you- it's fine. Doesn't matter. I uh... have yoi found something for him to wear?

After a moment, Lucifer smiled : His wedding suit.

Adam chuckled: His white one? The one he said made him look like the KFC guy?

Lucifer laughed: No, he'd haunt me if I did that. It's uh... rose one. The one he wore to your guys wedding.

He smiled when Adam looked genuinely surprised but he quickly leaned back and wiped his eyes: He did look good in that.

Lucifer: It was his favourite colour, after all. I... want you included, Adam. I don't care what anyone else thinks, he loved you. I could tell.

Adam: Y-Yeah...

Lucifer: ...He'd want you to be included. Especially your wedding photos. He loved them. He'd want people to see them. In fact, I'm sure he'd shove it down their throats, like he did when he and mom got married... how about, I find a photo?

Adam couldn't say anything as Lucifer opened the sleeve of the wedding photos and flicked through them before smiling and pulling one out. It was the only photo where Teddy was standing next to Adam. He was determined to get out of the hospital bed, at least for one photo. And even though Lucifer could see his pain, his happiness outweighed that. He could also see how tight Adam's arm around him way, seeing as he was holding him up once the photographer got their shit together.

Lucifer: This one.

Sugar baby!au

This one's a bit different- maybe because I love Adam being a little shit 👀

Lucifer and Adam used to be best friends in high school, but they had a falling out after Adam caught Lucifer and his girlfriend at the time, Lilith, in her bed.

After Adam moved schools, they didn't see each other for ten years. Lucifer went on to do woodworking and eventually made a toy start up. And after Lilith left him, he was forced to move back in with his dad.

Since he moved in, his dad wouldn't stop gushing about some singer he's dating. Lucifer didn't really care, he has his own issues. But when he saw the person his dad was dating, Lucifer was disgusted- and extremely annoyed.

-

Adam: Sup, loser.

Lucifer: What the hell are you doing here?!

Adam smirked: I'm fucking your dad, shit lips!

-

Queue Lucifer's compain to destroy his father's relationship with Adam- who's obviously using him to fun his music career.

Adam's having a great time pissing Lucifer off, but he also hates the fact that he still has a crush on his ex best friend.

I love this so fucking much. I want to do this simply for this line: You want to date my dad? Fine. But he is a good man and deserves to be happy so you're either with him because you love him, or step away.

And Lucifer is only staying with his dad because Lilith got the fucking house lol He's looking for a new one but the market is a MESS.

Maybe Lilith calls Lucifer up and says she's pregnant adding to another layer of it. Because not only is he getting divorced but there's a custody battle in future.

[mrs-delaney]

Hide | Chapter Seventeen | The Unraveling

🏈 Joe Burrow x Riley Carter (OC) | 8.2k-ish words

requested: nope

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Taglist: @wickedfun9 @starsyoongi @amiets2 @palmettogal508 @throwaway12356123 @lilfreakjez @destinyg237

Author's Note:

This is the final chapter, and I want to thank everyone who has been on this journey with me. This is the first story I've ever completed in my life, and sharing it has been both terrifying and incredible.

I've carried Joe and Riley with me for literally years - they've lived in my head through so many different versions and possibilities. Getting to finally tell their story, and having people connect with these characters who mean so much to me, has been more meaningful than I can express.

Thank you @crazytheoriststrawberry!

Riley let herself into Joe's house, dropping her bag by the door. She'd flown straight from St. Louis, her voice still hoarse from three shows in four days.

"Joe?" she called out.

Nothing. The house was quiet—not unusual for the middle of the afternoon, but she'd been hoping he'd be home.

Riley wandered into the kitchen and checked his calendar on the fridge. Physical therapy at 2:30. He'd probably be gone for another hour or so.

She pulled out her phone:

hey I'm at your house but you're not here. gonna steal your car and get stuff to make gumbo

She hit send and grabbed his keys from the hook by the garage door. Joe loved gumbo—it was one of his favorite comfort foods. He needed that right now.

Riley backed out of the driveway, already thinking about the grocery list in her head. It had been too long since she'd cooked for him—since they'd had a normal evening together that wasn't about his recovery or her tour schedule.

Maybe that's all they needed. Just a regular Tuesday night.

* * *

Riley pushed the cart through the automatic doors of Kroger, already mentally planning her grocery list. The store had that late afternoon energy—people stopping by after work, parents grabbing dinner ingredients before school pickup.

She pulled out her phone to check if Joe had responded yet. One new message.

ok

Riley stared at the two letters. Not "sounds good" or "can't wait" or even "thanks." Just ok. She tried not to read into it. He was probably still finishing up PT,  and couldn't type much.

She grabbed a basket and headed toward the meat section. No andouille, but there was decent smoked sausage. It wouldn't be exactly like Papa's, but it would do.

Her phone buzzed as she was at the counter examining the different kinds of smoked sausage. Pete's name flashed on the screen.

"Hey," she answered, tucking the phone between her ear and shoulder while she kept shopping.

"How's Cincinnati?" Pete's voice was amused but concerned. "Andy said you looked dead on your feet before you left."

"I'm fine. Just tired." 

"How's he been?" Pete asked quietly.

Riley moved toward the seafood counter. "I don't know yet. He wasn't home when I got there."

"Riles." Pete's voice was gentle but firm. "You sure about this?"

"What do you mean?"

"Flying from St. Louis to Cincinnati when you should be sleeping. To surprise someone who's been..." He trailed off.

"Who's been what?"

"Riley."

"We're fine," she said, more firmly this time. "We just need to be in the same room again."

She could practically hear Pete's frown through the phone. "What can I get for you?" the guy behind the seafood counter asked.

"Two pounds of smoked sausage, please." Riley covered the phone with her hand, then brought it back to her ear. "Look, I'm grocery shopping. I'm making him gumbo. We're gonna be good."

"Riley, you flew to Cincinnati after three shows to make him dinner."

Riley sighed. "I have to go. I love you so much, but I can't do this with you right now. I'll call you later."

"Riley, just... be careful, okay? You're putting a lot of energy into someone who's been pulling away."

"He's going through a lot, Pete. He's not pulling away."

But even as she said it, Riley knew Pete was right. The Joe from before would have called her back, would have asked about the shows, would have wanted to know everything. This Joe responded with single words, if he responded at all.

"I love you," Pete said finally. "Call me if you need anything."

"Love you too."

Riley hung up and finished shopping. Celery, onions, bell peppers. A whole chicken for stock. Rice. 

At the checkout line, she found herself scrolling through her recent texts with Joe again. The pattern was stark when she looked at it all together. Her messages were paragraphs—updates about shows, questions about his recovery, random thoughts throughout the day. His responses were getting shorter and shorter.

Last week: Good luck tonight.

Yesterday: Thanks.

Today: ok

The cashier scanned her items while Riley stared at her phone screen. Maybe Pete was right. Maybe she was putting too much energy into someone who was pulling away. But Joe was hurting, physically and emotionally. His whole season had been taken from him. Of course he was struggling to connect.

She just needed to remind him what they had together. Good food, comfortable silence, the easy rhythm they'd found before everything got complicated.

Riley paid for the groceries and headed back to the car, already planning how long the gumbo would take to cook. Joe would probably be home by the time she got back. They'd have the whole evening together, no distractions, no pressure.

She could fix this. She could fix them.

* * *

Riley was pulling ingredients from grocery bags when she heard Joe's car in the driveway. She'd already started the stock—the whole chicken simmering with onions, celery, and bay leaves, filling the kitchen with rich, familiar smells.

The front door opened and closed. His keys hit the bowl by the entrance.

"Hey," Joe's voice came from the entryway, surprised but not excited.

"Hey yourself." Riley turned toward him with a smile, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "How was PT?"

Joe appeared in the kitchen doorway, still in his workout clothes—grey joggers and a hoodie, hair slightly damp with sweat. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes that hadn't been there last time they saw each other.

"Fine. Good." He stayed in the doorway like he wasn't sure if he should come in. "You didn't tell me you were coming."

"I wanted to surprise you lovey." Riley gestured toward the stove. "I'm making  you gumbo. I figured you could use some good comfort food."

Joe's mouth twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. "You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to." She moved back to the counter where she'd been chopping vegetables. "Plus I missed you. I missed cooking for you."

Joe nodded but didn't say he'd missed her too. He moved into the kitchen, but kept distance between them, leaning against the counter by the sink instead of coming to stand next to her like he used to.

"How were the shows?" he asked.

"Good. St. Louis was incredible—we sold out all three nights." Riley kept chopping celery, trying to sound casual. "The crowd went crazy for 'Daylight' Joe. It's still weird hearing thousands of people sing it back to me."

"That's good." Joe's response was flat, automatic.

Riley paused her chopping, looking up at him. "You okay? You seem..."

"PT was long and I haven't been sleeping well." Joe moved toward the doorway. "I'm gonna shower."

"Okay." Riley watched him head toward the doorway. "Dinner's gonna be a while."

"Right."

He disappeared up the stairs, leaving Riley alone in the kitchen with the sound of simmering stock and her own uneven breathing. She stared at the empty doorway for a moment, trying to shake off the feeling that she'd just had a conversation with a stranger.

This wasn't the Joe who used to light up when she surprised him. Who used to want to hear everything about her day, who made her feel like coming home to him was the best part of any trip. This Joe looked at her like she was an interruption.

Riley turned back to her vegetables, chopping with more force than necessary. The onions made her eyes water, which was convenient.

Twenty minutes later, she heard the shower turn on upstairs. She'd finished her prep work—vegetables chopped and ready, sausage sliced. The stock was perfect, rich and golden. She strained it carefully, saving every drop.

In the heavy pot Papa had taught her to use for gumbo, Riley started her roux. Flour and oil, stirred constantly over medium heat until it turned dark chocolate brown. This was the part that couldn't be rushed, couldn't be multitasked. You stirred and watched and waited for the magic to happen.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. A text from Andy: how's the reunion going??

Riley stared at the message, stirring steadily. How was she supposed to answer that? That Joe had looked at her like she was an interruption? That he'd managed to have an entire conversation without actually saying anything?

She set the phone aside without responding and kept stirring. The roux was just starting to darken.

Forty minutes later, the shower turned off upstairs. Riley added her vegetables to the roux, the sizzle filling the kitchen with the smell of cooking onions. This was usually her favorite part—watching the ingredients come together, building layers of flavor that would simmer into something rich and comforting.

Joe came back downstairs in clean clothes—jeans and a t-shirt, hair still damp. He looked better, more like himself, but the distance was still there in his posture, the way he hovered at the edge of the kitchen instead of coming close.

"Smells good," he said.

"Getting there." Riley added the stock to her pot, watched it bubble and steam. "I called Papa yesterday. He asked about you."

"How's he doing?"

"Good. Ornery as ever." She smiled, stirring the gumbo. "He wanted to know when you're coming back to New Orleans. Said you still owe him a fishing trip."

"I'm not really a boat guy," Joe said quietly.

Riley waited for him to say more, but he just pulled out his phone.

"I'll let it simmer for a bit," she said, lowering the heat. "Add the sausage at the end."

"Okay." Joe was scrolling through whatever was on his screen.

Riley wiped her hands on the dish towel, suddenly unsure what to do with herself. Usually when she cooked for Joe, he'd stay in the kitchen with her. They'd talk, or he'd help, or at minimum he'd pay attention to what she was doing. Now he seemed more interested in his phone than in her or the meal she was making for him.

"I'm gonna watch some film," Joe said, still looking at his screen. "Just let me know when it's ready."

He left the kitchen before Riley could respond, heading toward the living room. She heard the TV turn on, heard him settle onto the couch.

Riley stood alone in the kitchen, the gumbo bubbling softly on the stove, and tried to ignore the growing knot in her stomach. This wasn't how she'd imagined their reunion going.

This wasn't how anything was supposed to go.

* * *

Riley stirred the gumbo, watching the vegetables soften and meld together. The TV was on in the living room—some football analysis show, the volume just loud enough that she had to raise her voice to be heard.

"So Andy completely ate it on stage last night," she called out, adding the sausage to the pot. "Tripped over his own cable during the guitar solo and just rolled with it, kept playing from the floor. I thought I was gonna die laughing."

A soft sound from the living room that might have been a laugh, but she wasn't sure.

Riley waited for him to ask more, but the silence stretched on.

"Pete's been working on this insane bass line for the new song," she continued, stirring the browning sausage. "It's so complicated I don't know how he remembers it all, but it sounds incredible live."

Silence except for the TV commentators discussing draft picks.

"Joe?"

"Yeah, I heard you. Sounds cool."

Riley bit her lip, focusing on the gumbo. The stock was simmering perfectly, rich and golden. She added it to the pot with the vegetables and sausage, watching everything come together.

"Oh, speaking of Pete he said to tell you hi," she said, trying to keep her voice light. "He's been asking about you. Wants to know when you're coming to another show."

"Tell him I said hi back."

That was it. No mention of actually coming to a show, no questions about Pete or the band. Riley could hear Joe changing channels, the brief flicker of different voices before he settled on something else.

She tasted the gumbo, adjusted the seasoning. It needed more time to develop, but the flavors were building nicely. This was usually her favorite part—the slow process of creating something warm and nourishing, something that tasted like love.

"I was thinking," she said, louder this time, "maybe when I'm done with this leg of the tour, we could take a vacation. Not just a weekend, but like a week somewhere. Just us."

"Mmm."

"We could go somewhere neither of us has been. Europe maybe? Or we could do something simple, like rent a cabin somewhere. Just us, no distractions."

The channel changed again. Riley stirred the gumbo more aggressively than necessary.

"Joe, are you listening?"

"Yeah, sorry. A vacation sounds good."

But his voice held no enthusiasm, no curiosity about where they might go or when. It was the same tone he might use to agree that it looked like rain.

Riley added the sausage to the gumbo, watching it release its flavors into the rich, dark liquid. The smell was incredible—rich and complex, exactly the way Papa had taught her. This was comfort food at its finest, the kind of meal that was supposed to bring people together.

"We've been talking about doing some acoustic stuff," she tried again. "Maybe an EP or something. Strip everything back to basics."

"Cool."

The word hung in the air between the kitchen and living room, as empty as everything else he'd said since he got home. Riley stirred the gumbo more aggressively than necessary, frustration building in her chest.

"I recorded a voice memo of it. Want to hear?"

"Sure."

Riley pulled up the recording on her phone, played it loud enough for Joe to hear. Andy's guitar work filled the kitchen—intricate and beautiful, the kind of melody that gave her chills every time she heard it.

When it finished, she waited.

"That's cool," Joe said eventually.

Cool. Again. Riley set her phone down and went back to stirring, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. Everything was cool. Everything was good. Everything was fine. But nothing felt real anymore.

"The new album's doing really well," she said, her voice smaller now. "We might get invited to do some festival dates this summer. Big ones."

"That's good."

"Some really big names. Could be huge for us." She stirred the gumbo, waiting for him to ask which festivals, which artists might be there.

Silence.

Riley tasted the gumbo again. Perfect. Just the way Papa had taught her. She turned the heat down to let it simmer, the kitchen filled with the smell of home.

"Dinner's almost ready," she called out. "Maybe ten more minutes."

"Okay."

She stood at the stove, stirring slowly, trying to convince herself that everything would be fine once they sat down together.

But deep down, she was starting to realize that Joe had already checked out of this conversation.

Maybe he'd checked out of a lot more than that.

* * *

Joe sat on his couch, staring at the TV without seeing it, listening to Riley's voice drift from the kitchen. She was trying so hard. The way she always did when she sensed something was wrong.

Every story she told, every attempt at conversation, felt like it was happening to someone else. Like he was watching from outside his own life, unable to connect to any of it.

His wrist throbbed—a constant reminder of everything that had gone wrong. Twelve weeks of PT, twelve weeks of headlines questioning his focus, twelve weeks of Mark and Bill in his ear about image and priorities and the cost of distractions.

But it wasn't just their voices anymore. It was his own.

Joe closed his eyes, trying to block out the sound of Riley humming in his kitchen. She was making gumbo. She'd flown across the country after three shows to take care of him, and he felt... nothing. No gratitude, no warmth, no connection to the woman who was trying so hard to love him through this.

When had he stopped being able to feel anything good?

"The new album's doing really well," Riley called from the kitchen. "We might get invited to do some festival dates this summer. Big ones."

Her voice sounded far away, like she was calling to him from across a canyon he didn't remember creating. Everything good in her life was expanding while everything good in his felt like it was slipping away. Her success highlighted his failure. Her energy made his emptiness more obvious.

It wasn't her fault. None of this was her fault. But somehow, loving her had become another thing that exhausted him.

Joe turned the volume up on the TV, but he could still hear her moving around his kitchen, still smell the gumbo that was supposed to comfort him but just reminded him of how broken he felt. She was trying to bring warmth into his life when all he felt was cold.

How could he keep accepting her love when he had nothing to give back?

The thought hit him with devastating clarity. Riley deserved someone who could match her energy, who could appreciate her sacrifices, who lit up when she walked into a room. She deserved someone who wasn't hollow inside.

And he... he needed to figure out who he was when everything he'd built his identity around was gone. He needed to do that alone, without pretending he was okay for someone else, without feeling guilty for not being the man she fell in love with.

"Dinner's almost ready," Riley called. "Maybe ten more minutes."

Joe's chest felt heavy. She was being perfect. Loving and patient and everything he needed. And he couldn't feel any of it. Every gesture of care felt like pressure, every kindness like a debt he couldn't repay.

This wasn't fair to either of them. Riley was pouring herself into someone who was too broken to receive it. And he was drowning under the weight of trying to be someone he wasn't anymore.

* * *

Riley tasted the gumbo one more time, adjusting the salt. Perfect. Just the way Papa had taught her.

"Okay, it's ready," she called out, turning off the heat.

No response from the living room.

"Joe?"

Still nothing. Riley wiped her hands on the dish towel and walked toward the living room. Joe was on the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor instead of the TV that was still playing.

"Hey," she said softly. "Dinner's ready."

Joe didn't look up. "I can't do this with you right now."

Riley felt her heart skip. "Can't do what, talk?" She forced a small laugh. "That's okay, we don't have to talk. We can just eat."

Joe stood up slowly, his movements deliberate and final. He walked into the kitchen, but not to the table she'd set. He stopped in the middle of the room, still not looking at her.

"Riley." His voice was quiet, careful. "I mean this. I can't do this with you right now."

The words hung in the air between them. Riley stared at him, trying to process what he was saying, what he meant. The gumbo sat on the stove behind her, cooling, forgotten.

"Do you mean me being here tonight?" she asked, her voice smaller than she intended. "Or like... us in general?"

Joe finally looked up at her, and Riley saw something in his eyes that made her stomach drop. Not anger, not frustration. Just... emptiness. Like he'd already made his decision and was just waiting for her to catch up.

He looked down again, then back up. "Us in general."

The words hit her like a physical blow. Riley felt the breath leave her lungs, her hand finding the counter to steady herself.

"What?" The word came out as barely a whisper.

"I can't do this anymore," Joe said, his voice steady in a way that made everything worse. "The relationship. Us. I can't."

Riley stared at him, waiting for him to take it back, to say he didn't mean it, that he was just frustrated or tired or in pain. But he just stood there, looking at her with those empty eyes.

"I don't understand," she said finally. "Joe, what are you talking about? We're good. We're us."

Joe shook his head. "No, we're not. This isn't working anymore."

"What isn't working?" Riley's voice was getting higher, more desperate. "I flew here to see you. I made you dinner. I've been trying to support you through everything—"

"That's the problem," Joe interrupted. "You're always trying to fix things. Always trying to make it better. But some things can't be fixed, Riley."

"I'm not trying to fix anything. I'm trying to love you." The words came out raw, honest. "I'm trying to be here for you."

"I know." Joe's voice was softer now, but no less final. "But I can't handle that right now. I can't handle you being here, trying to make everything normal when nothing is normal."

Riley felt tears starting to blur her vision. "So what, you just want me to leave? To give up on us because you're going through a hard time?"

"Yes."

The single word cut through her like a blade. Riley stared at him, this man she'd flown across the country to see, who she'd been worried about for months, who she'd been supporting through the worst period of his life.

"Joe, please." She took a step toward him, but he stepped back. "Don't do this. We can figure it out. Whatever you're going through, we can work through it together."

"I don't want to work through it together," Joe said, and his voice was so calm, so sure, that it was worse than if he'd shouted. "I want to work through it alone."

"That's not what you want." Riley was crying now, not caring how she looked or sounded. "That's fear talking. You're scared and you're pushing me away because that's what you do when things get hard."

"Maybe that's what I need to do."

"No, it's not." Riley moved closer, reaching for him. "Joe, look at me. This is me. This is us. This is real."

Joe did look at her then, and for a moment she thought she saw something flicker in his eyes. Something that looked like regret, or pain, or love. But then it was gone, replaced by that terrible emptiness.

"I know it's real," he said quietly. "That's what makes this so hard."

"Then don't do it." Riley's voice broke. "Don't throw this away because you're hurt and scared. Don't punish us for something that isn't our fault."

"I'm not punishing anyone. I'm making a choice."

"A stupid choice." The words came out sharper than she intended, fueled by desperation and heartbreak. "You're choosing to be alone when you could choose to be loved."

Joe flinched, but his resolve didn't waver. "Maybe being alone is what I need right now."

Riley stared at him, this man she'd fallen in love with, who she'd written songs about, who she'd imagined a future with. He looked like Joe, sounded like Joe, but the person standing in front of her felt like a stranger.

"So that's it?" she asked, her voice hollow. "You've decided. Without talking to me, without trying to work on it. You've just decided we're done."

"Yes."

Riley nodded slowly, wiping tears from her cheeks. Behind her, the gumbo sat cooling on the stove, the kitchen still smelling like home and comfort and all the things she'd tried to bring into his life.

"Okay. But you know this isn't something you can come back from, right? You're not asking for a break. You're ending this."

"Riley—"

"No." She held up her hand, stopping him. "You don't get to say my name like that. Not after what you just did."

She walked past him toward the entryway, grabbing her bag from where she'd dropped it hours ago when she still thought she was coming home to him.

"Riley, wait."

She turned back to look at him. "No." Her voice was steady now, resolved. "I'm calling a car. I'm getting my stuff." She pulled out her phone with shaking hands. "And I'd appreciate it if you stayed out of my way."

"Riley—"

"No, Joe." She looked up from her phone, meeting his eyes directly. "This is your choice. Your decision. I'm not going to stand here and beg you to change your mind."

She turned and headed for the stairs, her footsteps echoing in the quiet house. Joe stayed frozen in the kitchen, listening to her move around upstairs, opening drawers, zipping bags.

Thirty minutes later, she came back down with her overnight bag. She walked to the kitchen counter and carefully removed two bracelets from her wrist—the LSU one and the gold snake bracelet, both gifts from Joe. She set them down gently next to the stove, then pulled his house key off her keyring and placed it beside the bracelets.

"I'm sure I'm forgetting stuff," she said without looking at him. "Please get Sarah to put it in the mail. Or not." She picked up her bag. "I'll get your stuff to you when I get home. It'll be a while."

She walked past him without looking, past the stove where the gumbo still sat cooling, past the table she'd set for two.

The door closed behind her with a soft click, and Joe was alone with the smell of gumbo and the sound of his own breathing.

* * *

Joe stood in his kitchen for a long time after the door closed, staring at the counter where Riley had left the bracelets and his house key. The gold snake bracelet caught the light, the same one he'd given her on impulse because it reminded him of her—wild and beautiful and impossible to ignore.

The LSU bracelet sat beside it, the one he'd given her during his first visit to New Orleans. She'd worn them both every day since. Now they sat on his granite counter like abandoned pieces of jewelry, stripped of all the meaning they'd carried.

The smell of gumbo filled the kitchen, rich and warm and everything he'd needed but couldn't accept. Riley had spent hours making it, standing in his kitchen trying to bring comfort into his life while he sat in the next room willing her to disappear.

And now she had.

Joe picked up the snake bracelet, the metal warm from Riley's wrist. He could picture her hands as she'd removed it, careful and deliberate, the same way she did everything when she was trying not to fall apart. She'd been crying, but her voice had been steady. Strong.

Stronger than him.

The gumbo was still warm. Riley had made enough to feed them for days, the way she always did, like she was planning to stay, planning to take care of him. Joe ladled some into a bowl and sat at the table she'd set for two.

It was perfect. Of course it was. Riley cooked the way she did everything else—with complete attention, with love, with the kind of care that made you feel seen. The flavors were exactly right, complex and comforting, tasting like New Orleans and family and home.

Joe ate mechanically, each bite a reminder of what he'd just thrown away. On the third spoonful, he had to stop. His throat was too tight to swallow.

He pushed the bowl away and looked around his kitchen. Everything was exactly the same as it had been this morning, but it felt different. Empty. The turntable in the living room that he'd bought so Riley would want to come back. The plants on the windowsill that she'd brought over one weekend, claiming his house needed "something alive."

All evidence of a life they'd been building together. All evidence of what he'd just destroyed.

Joe's phone rang. Mark's name on the screen.

"How's the recovery going?" Mark's voice was brisk, businesslike.

"Fine." Joe's voice came out rougher than expected.

"Good. Listen, I've been thinking about your image rehabilitation strategy. We need to start positioning you for the comeback narrative. Maybe some interviews about your dedication, your work ethic..."

Joe listened to Mark outline plans for his future, his brand, his career. Everything that was supposed to matter. Everything he'd just chosen over Riley.

"Sounds good," Joe said when Mark paused for a response.

"Great. And Joe? I know this year's been tough, but you're making the right choices. Staying focused. The distraction stuff is behind you now."

The distraction stuff. That's what they called Riley. That's what they'd convinced him she was.

"Yeah," Joe said quietly. "It is."

After Mark hung up, Joe sat in his quiet house with a bowl of cooling gumbo and two bracelets on his counter. He'd gotten what he wanted. Space to focus on his recovery. Space to rebuild his career without worrying about headlines or speculation or the way loving someone complicated everything.

So why did it feel like he'd just made the biggest mistake of his life?

Joe picked up the snake bracelet again, remembering the day he'd bought it. He'd been walking past a jewelry store and seen it in the window, and something about it had made him think of Riley immediately. The way it curved and twisted, beautiful and unpredictable. He'd bought it without thinking, just because he wanted to see her face when he gave it to her.

She'd lit up when she opened the box. Not because it was expensive or flashy, but because he'd thought of her. Because he'd seen something and wanted to share it with her.

Now it sat on his counter next to cold gumbo and the echoes of everything he'd just lost.

Joe went upstairs to his bedroom, the one Riley had shared with him dozens of times. Her pillow still smelled like her shampoo. There were still bobby pins on his nightstand, a hair tie around the lamp base, a book she'd been reading face-down on the dresser.

Evidence that she'd been here. Evidence that this had been real.

Joe lay down on his side of the bed and stared at the empty space where Riley should have been. The house was completely quiet now—no humming from the kitchen, no music playing softly from the living room, no Riley talking to herself as she worked through a melody.

Just silence. The kind of silence he'd thought he wanted.

This was what he'd chosen. This was what he'd said he needed.

So why did it feel like the worst kind of punishment?

* * *

Joe woke up to silence.

No humming from the kitchen. No coffee brewing. No Riley padding around in his t-shirt, making the house feel alive.

Just the hollow quiet of a house that felt too big and too empty.

He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, last night feeling like a bad dream. Had he really ended things with Riley while she was cooking dinner for him?

The pressure from his team. The headlines. The feeling that loving her was too complicated when everything else in his life was falling apart.

But lying here now, Joe couldn't remember why any of that had mattered more than her.

He dragged himself downstairs and stopped short at the kitchen doorway. The gumbo sat on the stove, congealed and cold. A full pot of food she'd spent hours making for him, abandoned when he'd destroyed everything between them.

The bracelets were still on the counter where she'd left them. The LSU one he'd given her that first weekend in New Orleans. The snake bracelet he'd bought on impulse because it reminded him of her. She'd worn them every day since, and now they sat there like discarded promises.

Joe picked up the snake bracelet, the metal cold in his palm. Last night, he'd convinced himself he was setting them both free. That she deserved better than someone who couldn't handle the pressure of loving her publicly. That he needed space to rebuild himself.

This morning, it felt like the stupidest thing he'd ever done.

Riley had flown across the country to take care of him. Had cooked his favorite meal. Had tried to connect with him while he sat on his couch feeling sorry for himself and letting Mark and Bill and the whole fucking world get in his head when normally he never cared about the bullshit.

She'd been nothing but patient and loving, and he'd repaid that by ending their relationship in his kitchen while she was literally stirring gumbo she'd made for him.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

Joe's phone was already in his hand before he'd consciously decided to reach for it. His fingers moved across the keyboard faster than his brain could catch up.

I fucked up

He hit send and immediately felt a small spark of hope. Riley would understand. She'd see that he'd been overwhelmed and scared and made a terrible mistake. They could fix this.

But minutes passed with no response. An hour passed with no response.

Joe typed again, more desperate now:

Can I come to you? Let me make this right

He watched the message sit there, the sending indicator spinning. Then it disappeared entirely.

Not delivered.

The reality hit him like ice water. Riley had blocked him. She'd actually blocked his number.

Joe stared at his phone, panic rising in his chest. Last night he'd thought he was making a hard but necessary choice. This morning he realized he'd just destroyed the best thing in his life because he'd been too scared and too prideful to let someone love him through the worst of it.

And now she was gone.

He scrolled through his contacts and found Pete's number. His fingers hesitated over the keyboard before he typed:

Pete I fucked up and I want to make this right

The response came back within minutes:

Brother I love you but that's my girl and you can't make this right right now. She flew across the country to take care of you and you broke her heart. She's devastated. You need to give her space and figure out what you actually want before you try to fix anything.

Joe stared at the message, feeling completely cut off from Riley, and it was entirely his own doing.

* * *

Riley made it to the end of Joe's driveway before the tears came.

She stood on the sidewalk waiting for her car, hands shaking as she tried to hold herself together, and finally let herself fall apart. Three weeks of worrying about him. Hours of cooking for him. Flying across the country on no sleep because she thought he needed her.

And he'd just... ended it. Like it was nothing. Like she was nothing.

When the car pulled up, Riley slid into the backseat and pressed her forehead against the cool window, crying ugly sobs that came from somewhere deep in her chest. She'd known something was wrong, had felt him pulling away for weeks, but she'd convinced herself it was just the injury, just the recovery, just the pressure.

Not that he'd already given up on them.

The drive to the airport was a blur. Riley sat in the back of the car she'd called, staring out the window while the driver navigated through Cincinnati traffic. She called Pete from the backseat, her voice still thick with tears.

"Riley?" Pete's voice was immediately concerned. "What happened?"

"He broke up with me." The words came out flat, matter-of-fact, like she was reading them from a script.

Silence on the other end. Then: "What!?"

"Joe. He broke up with me. He said he couldn't do this anymore. Us. The relationship."

"Jesus, Riley. I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

"No." The honesty surprised her. "I'm really not okay."

"Do you want me to come get you? I can fly to Cincinnati—"

"I'm flying back." Riley paid the driver and grabbed her bag, moving on autopilot. "I just... I need to get out of here now."

"Okay. Text me your flight info. I'll pick you up."

Riley hung up and made her way through the airport, each step feeling like she was walking through quicksand. Everything felt surreal, like she was watching someone else's life fall apart.

On the plane, she stared out the window and tried to process what had just happened. Joe had been distant, yes. Cold, yes. But she'd thought it was temporary. She'd thought if she just showed up, if she just loved him enough, if she just reminded him of what they had together...

But he didn't want what they had together. He'd made that clear.

Riley pulled out her phone and scrolled through their old text messages again, looking for signs she'd missed. The conversations that had gotten shorter and shorter. The calls that became less frequent. The way he'd stopped asking about her shows, stopped sharing details about his recovery.

He'd been checking out for weeks. She'd just been too stubborn to see it.

* * *

 Pete was waiting for her at baggage claim in Nashville, and Riley fell into his arms the moment she saw him.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, holding her while she cried again. "I'm so fucking sorry."

They drove to the hotel in silence, Pete occasionally reaching over to squeeze her hand. When they pulled up to the Nashville hotel, Riley looked at the building—another city, another show—and felt nothing.

"You want me to stay?" Pete asked.

Riley shook her head. "I just want to sleep."

But sleep didn't come. Riley lay in her hotel bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of the evening. Joe's face when he told her he couldn't do this anymore. The way he'd stepped back when she'd tried to reach for him. The empty look in his eyes, like he'd already left her long before she'd walked out his door.

She thought about the gumbo cooling on his stove. The bracelets she'd left on his counter. The key she'd returned like she was checking out of a hotel.

A few hours ago, she'd been planning to spend the evening with him. Now she was alone in a hotel room in Nashville, single, with no idea how everything had gone so wrong so fast.

Riley rolled over and pressed her face into her pillow, letting herself cry until there was nothing left. Tomorrow she'd have to face the guys, had to get through soundcheck and pretend she could perform. Tomorrow she'd have to figure out how to sing love songs when her heart was broken.

Tomorrow she'd have to start forgetting Joe Burrow.

But tonight, she just let herself grieve for what they'd lost.

* * *

Riley woke up to her phone buzzing on the nightstand. Multiple notifications. Her eyes were swollen from crying, her head pounding.

Two texts from Joe:

I fucked up

Can I come to you? Let me make this right

Riley stared at the messages for a long moment, her thumb hovering over the screen. Part of her wanted to respond, wanted to call him, wanted to hear him say he was sorry and he'd made a mistake.

But a bigger part of her, the part that was tired of fighting for someone who didn't want to fight for her, deleted the messages without responding.

She found Joe's contact and hit block.

He'd made his choice. Now she was making hers.

Riley opened the band group chat and typed:

Not coming to soundcheck today. I'll be at the venue for the show. Taking Daylight off the setlist. Pete can fill you in.

She hit send and turned her phone face down on the nightstand. She couldn't face their questions right now, couldn't explain what had happened until she'd processed it herself.

* * *

Riley arrived at Nissan Stadium three hours before showtime, sunglasses on despite being indoors. She'd managed to shower and put on clothes, but that was about the extent of her functioning.

Jenny was waiting in the hallway outside her dressing room, concern written all over her face. "Riley, honey—"

"Don't." Riley's voice was hoarse. "Please. Not yet."

She disappeared into her dressing room and locked the door behind her. The space was set up exactly like always—her stage clothes laid out, makeup station ready, flowers from the venue. Everything normal except for the fact that her world had completely fallen apart twelve hours ago.

Riley sank into the chair in front of the mirror and stared at her reflection. Red-rimmed eyes, pale skin, hair that she'd barely managed to run a brush through. She looked like exactly what she was—someone who'd been crying all night.

Her phone had been buzzing all day. Messages from the band group chat, from friends who'd seen her cryptic text about soundcheck, from Gwen wanting to know what was wrong. She'd ignored all of it.

A knock on her door. "Riley?" Pete's voice. "Can I come in?"

Riley unlocked the door and let him in. Pete took one look at her and pulled her into a hug.

"Fuck. Come here." He pulled her into a hug.

"I don't know if I can do this, Pete." Riley's voice cracked against his shoulder.

"The show?"

Riley nodded, fresh tears starting. "I can't get up there and sing when everything feels like a lie." She pressed her hands to her face.

Another knock. Andy and Daniel appeared in the doorway, their faces grim.

"We heard," Andy said simply. "What do you need?"

"Nothing. I don't need anything." Riley wiped her eyes. "I just need to get through tonight."

Daniel sat down on her other side. "We changed the setlist. Moved some things around, took out the slow stuff."

"And Daylight's definitely out," Andy added. "Pete told us."

Riley nodded gratefully. The thought of singing that song—their song, the one she'd written about Joe—made her stomach turn.

Jenny appeared with a makeup artist. "We need to start getting you ready," she said gently.

For the next two hours, Riley sat in the chair while people worked around her. Hair, makeup, wardrobe. The makeup artist had to keep retouching her eyes every time fresh tears fell. She answered when spoken to, moved when directed, but inside she felt hollow and empty.

"Five minutes to places," Mara called from the doorway.

Riley looked at herself in the mirror. The makeup artist had performed a miracle—she looked like herself again, polished and stage-ready. But her eyes still held all the pain.

"I can't do this," she whispered, panic starting to rise in her chest. "I can't go out there."

"Yes, you can." Pete was suddenly beside her, gripping her shoulders. "Look at me, Riley. You can do this. You've been doing this since you were sixteen. It's muscle memory."

"But—"

"No buts. You're Riley fucking Carter. You get up on that stage and you sing your heart out, because that's who you are. That's what you do."

Andy appeared in the doorway. "We've got you," he said. "All night. We've got you."

Daniel nodded from beside Andy. "Whatever you need out there."

The crowd was already roaring. Sixty thousand people who'd come to see them, who'd bought tickets months ago, who had no idea that Riley's world had imploded.

"Places, everyone!"

Riley stood up on shaking legs. Jenny handed her a bottle of water. "Just get through the first song," she said quietly. "After that, it'll come back to you."

Riley nodded, not trusting her voice. They climbed into the golf cart that would take them to the stage, her bandmates surrounding her. As they drove through the backstage corridors, Riley felt the tears start again.

"Shit," she whispered, pressing her hands to her eyes. "I'm gonna ruin my makeup."

Pete reached over and squeezed her hand. "You're gonna be fine."

The cart stopped at the stage entrance. Riley could hear the crowd already cheering, could feel the vibration of thousands of people through the concrete walls.

The lights went down in the stadium. The crowd erupted.

The stage lights blazed to life. Sixty thousand people screamed her name.

Riley wiped her eyes one last time, took a deep breath, and stepped into the light.

The pain was still there, would always be there. But for the next two hours, she was exactly who she needed to be.

She was Riley Carter, and she had a show to do.

* * *

X:

@RamblesUpdates: "NASHVILLE WAS INSANE. Riley just delivered the most ELECTRIC performance I've ever seen. Pure rock and roll. No ballads, just pure energy and rage and it was EVERYTHING 🔥🔥🔥"

@musicfan_sarah: "wait did anyone else notice they didn't play Daylight? That's been the closer for every show this tour..."

@concertgoer615: "Riley Carter just proved she's a ROCK STAR. That wasn't a pop show, that was straight up arena rock. I've never heard Ego sound that heavy live"

@RileyCarterFan: "guys I'm worried... she looked like she'd been crying during the first song but then she just UNLEASHED. most powerful performance I've ever seen from her"

@BengalsFan2024: "anyone else notice Riley's bracelets are gone? She's worn that LSU one and the gold snake one EVERY show this tour 👀"

@jewelrywatch: "Riley Carter's signature bracelets are MIA at tonight's show. She's literally never performed without them since the tour started"

@musicjourno: "The Rambles just played the angriest, most cathartic show I've seen all year. Riley Carter channeled whatever she's going through into pure musical fury. Incredible to witness."

Instagram:

@concertphotographer posted a photo of Riley mid-scream during "Mad Woman" with the caption: "When artists use pain as fuel. This is what real rock and roll looks like. @rileycarter absolutely destroyed Nashville tonight. #TheRambles #Nashville"

Top comments: "She looks like she's exorcising demons" "This energy was UNREAL in person" "Something's different about her tonight and I'm here for it"

@musicfestivalfan posted a video of the crowd during "Ego": "The ENTIRE stadium was losing their minds. Riley had us in the palm of her hand for 2 hours straight. No slow songs, no breaks, just pure ENERGY"

TikTok:

@concertgirl23 posted: "POV: Riley Carter just delivered the performance of her LIFE while clearly going through it 💔 The pain in her voice during the first song... then she turned it into pure POWER #TheRambles #Nashville #RileyCarter"

@bandtok posted a side-by-side: "Riley's usual bracelet stack vs tonight in Nashville 👀 Those bracelets haven't left her wrist all tour until tonight..."

@musictheorytok: "Music theory moment: The Rambles completely changed their setlist tonight. Removed every single ballad, added heavier arrangements to songs that are usually softer. Riley's going THROUGH it and channeling it into the music 🎸"

@fanaccount_rambles: "y'all I was at the airport today and I THINK I saw Riley and Pete and she looked... not okay. Like she'd been crying. And now this show happened... I'm concerned 😭"

Reddit:

r/TheRambles: "Nashville Show - Did anyone else feel like something was off?"

Top comment: "Off? That was the best show I've ever seen them play. Riley was absolutely UNHINGED in the best way. Pure rock goddess energy."

Reply: "No I mean like... she seemed upset? During the first song she looked like she was about to cry, then suddenly it was like she became a different person. And no Daylight? That's literally their biggest hit."

Reply: "Also did anyone notice her bracelets were gone? She's worn those every single show this tour. Something definitely happened."

r/nfl: "Did Joe Burrow and Riley Carter break up?"

"Purely speculation but she had a weird show tonight, took off songs she usually plays, wasn't wearing the bracelets she always wears (including an LSU one), and someone said they saw her crying at the airport. Neither of them have posted anything about each other lately..."

"They never even confirmed they were dating officially though"

"Bro the LSU bracelet being gone is actually suspicious. Why would she stop wearing that unless..."

"Y'all are reading too much into this. Maybe she just wanted to switch up the setlist."

"Nah something's definitely up. That performance tonight was someone working through some FEELINGS."

Instagram and X trending:

#RileyCarter #TheRamblesNashville #DaylightMIA #RileysBracelets #JoeAndRiley

@PopCrave: "Riley Carter delivers emotional powerhouse performance in Nashville, noticeably removing all ballads from setlist including hit single 'Daylight.' Fans speculate about her relationship status after missing signature bracelets and raw emotional performance."

@EntertainmentTonight: "The Rambles' Nashville show was unlike any other on their tour. @RileyCarter's intensely emotional performance has fans asking questions. Full story on our website."

@TMZ: "RILEY CARTER BREAKS DOWN? Singer's Nashville performance leaves fans wondering what's behind the emotional show. Plus - where are her signature bracelets? 👀"

@DeuxMoi: "Heard from a little birdie that a certain rock star and football player are OVER. She was spotted looking very upset at Nashville airport yesterday. The show last night confirmed it - pure heartbreak channeled into an incredible performance 💔"

Author's Note 2: I know this chapter is heavy. I know it hurts. But here's what I want you to remember: love like theirs doesn't just disappear. Sometimes people make terrible decisions when they're scared and broken. Sometimes we push away the very thing that could heal us because we don't think we deserve it.

Joe and Riley's story may be ending here, but their love? That's the kind that changes you forever. Riley taught Joe that it's okay to feel deeply. Joe showed Riley what it means to be truly seen.

And sometimes, that's enough. Sometimes, loving someone - even when it ends - is still the most beautiful thing you'll ever do.

Thank you for loving them with me. Thank you for going on this journey. And remember: every ending is also a beginning. Sequel soon.

[aviradasa]

Headconons on how the lost boys would react to their mate teething her new fangs?? (My teeth are aching and I had this thought LMAO)

I got you (this is such a late response, lmfao im so sorry about that.)

Tags: @vxncevis @sillyturquoisepuffin @thelostsimp @acotar-lover @gutlesscatherine @adams-fav-roach @theorizinganomaly @angstinaofsantacarla @thatonegirl2

Ok to start THEY UNDERSTAND YOUR PAIN BRO

Even though it was a long time ago since they have been turned, they still remember how it felt originally getting used to fangs

And sometimes it still happenes.

Especially to marko in particular because I have a feeling that his fangs are a bit sharper than the others and may cause more irritation.

They will tell you that chewing on stuff helps.

But then they instantly regret telling you cause when you do vamp out randomly (like I believe new vamps do) and you lose a bit of control they will find things torn up that they really did not want chewed up

Like for instance, leather on hurting gums is just 🤌.

Do with that as you will.

A bit of there main advice it cold things like water and holding ice to your gums.

They really do try their best to get you stuff to knaw on, tho

Like they see some plastic or rubber bracelets, rings, or just a random toy on the boardwalk thats nice and chewable

They already shoved it in their pocket, and when they get back, they are just like.

"Yo look what I got"

If pain does get really bad though to the point its causing other problems they will hang back to try to help in any way they can, but if there's nothing they can do about it they will kinda just hang out and try to provide a bit of comfort.

Now im guessing you wanna know the main event of will they let you sink you teeth into them.

I know you people

And the answer is duh.

Bro, they already bite each other for fun, of course. If you need something to sink your teeth into, they will let you.

But each of them has there boundaries with that.

Now, for instance, do Not full-on sink your teeth as far as you can into david without asking.

He does not like to be surprised, and it might just piss him off. But hey, if you ask first, sure.

He will probably not offer you up a neck or a shoulder at first, but you want a wrist? A forearm? Go for it.

And he dont care if you just want to knaw on like his coat or sleeve knock yourself out for all he cares.

He only really wants you to ask about full on bites cause bite on other vampires can take a bit to heal sometimes

Marko, dont give a FUCKK Go for it. Bite the shit out of him he doesnt give a damn. But again, consent is key, but he's more lenient. You wanna suprise attack him, go ahead but only suprise him by the arms. You probably wanna ask before going at him anywhere else.

But with him, there are no freebies. You get him, and he will get you back and you need to understand that.

But like I said before you just wanna knaw on him go ahead but he would prefer you leave the coat alone he will make that very clear

Paul is anything goes type of dude, go ahead do your worst. Suprise him, attack him. You can walk up and maul the guy if you want he doesnt care.

He probably thinks its funny to be honest. And will probably Crack jokes about it. Have your fun , but again he will get you back eventually.

And if you just wanna chew on him or something he owns, he'll yeah fuck it got ahead. He gives no shits like I've previously stated. He's just happy to help

Now, Dwayne is an interesting creature. It depends on his mood, he doesnt really care where. But surprises are uncertain. Sometimes he's cool with it. Other days, he dont wanna be touched..or talked to.. Or bothered.

If you catch him on a 'leave me alone day' he will probably just shake you off and just be like "not today" and its up to you on weather you respect that or not, but you probably should.

Otherwise go crazy, he also doesnt give a fuck it doesnt bother him one bit he will actively ignore it and let you do whatever as long as if hes doing something its not interrupted.

But honestly, that can go for all of them sometimes

And if you are just trying to chew on him? Have at it. Go crazy, have fun. He will just continue whatever he is doing while you just do your thing

Oh also honorable mention

I think human blood/flesh can dull the pain of the fangs hurting, so dont be surprised if you get a severed arm or leg to sink your teeth into as a gift once in a while.

Alright! That's it for now. I hope you enjoy. I kinda came up with these on the spot. Sorry if they weren't what you were hoping for. Nonetheless, I hope you liked sinking your teeth into these hcs even if they aren't much. Have a good night/day!!!

[iwritefanfictionsnottragedies]

Friendly Fire (John Walker x Reader, Frank Castle x Reader)

I've had it in my head that John Walker and Frank Castle met at Kandahar early in John's military career, and that they HATE eachother. Here she is!

Pairings: John Walker x Reader, Frank Castle x Reader

Warnings: 18+, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Profanity, friends with benefits, jealousy, unresolved sexual tension, big buff men feeling big difficult feelings, tw: knitting, discussion of injuries / medical talk.

Word Count: 2K

The Watchtower-

The air inside the Watchtower always felt a little bit too clean, like a hospital. It smelled like it was trying too hard not to smell like blood and sweat and ammunition. It was quiet for the first time in a while, though no one would dare to say it out loud. Surely, the universe would hear you and provide chaos. You sat curled on the couch in the common room, thick forest-green yarn draped across your lap and needles clicking together as your muscle memory worked without much input from your brain. Your mind had wandered after a few rows, when you noticed that despite having been on this couch for most of the day, you hadn’t seen John Walker once. Not that you were waiting to see him. Not that you’d admit, anyway.

John had this way of hovering without hovering. He, with his square jaw and clipped tone and aggressive military posture, was always observing people. He observed you. He always had, since the moment Val brought you into the team. You were the team’s “low profile wet work specialist” according to Val, which was a very classy way to say you killed people for a living. You were unassuming, and it seemed to really throw John off. On missions, you were the most skilled, heartless, and terrifying thing he’d seen in ages. After missions, you came home to decompress by knitting or, god forbid, baking. The more violent the mission, the more complex the baked goods. You once made an obscene number of honeysuckle macarons, and John called you “a weird mix of homemaker and harbinger of death”. You laughed and said, “I contain multitudes.” You liked the way that he looked at you like you were a puzzle to solve. But you weren’t sure if he looked at you like you were a friend, and certainly nothing more than that; a teammate at best.

“Fuckin hell,” you muttered under your breath as you dropped a stitch. Then, as if the universe heard your frustration and chose to double down, the Watchtower’s alarm blared out a single, short tone meant to alert you that the lobby cameras picked up a potential threat entering the building. You straightened, yarn forgotten in your lap, and grabbed your radio from the coffee table.

Bucky’s voice was the first through the radio. “Is anyone expecting any company tonight?”

You heard Ava let out a chuckle and say “I don’t suspect it’s my UberEats driver. The cameras detected that the guy has a gun, and he looks like he’s had one hell of a bad day. He looks like he’s bleeding.” 

Moments later, the whole team was assembled in the common room with you. John entered the room the same way that he always did: distractingly. You briefly forgot you were supposed to be worried about the active security risk. 

Bucky pulled up the surveillance video on the TV screen, and the potential intruder was standing at the security desk, speaking with the guard. 

“Try to get another angle,” John said. 

Bucky pulled up another angle and before he could display it on the screen he said, “Is that, uh… is that the Frank Castle?” His name hit your chest like a rubber bullet. Not fatal, but still it bruised like hell. Yelena’s eyes snapped to you, searching your face for your reaction. She had heard the stories from you. It always happened like this. Out of nowhere. Uninvited. Bleeding and bruised.

John’s voice came from behind you, rough and tense. “Son of a bitch. What is Castle doing here?” You looked over your shoulder. John stood leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, brows drawn tight.

“You know Frank?” you asked, pretending you weren’t on the verge of an absolute crashout. 

John didn’t look at you. “Met him in Afghanistan,” he said, “At Kandahar. He’s a Marine, so obviously we didn’t exactly run in the same circles, but you know… he was around enough for me to know that he’s a real fuckin-” John rubbed a hand down his face in frustration. “Let’s just say we didn’t exactly get along.”

You nodded and let out a sigh, looking down at your feet. “How do you know each other?” John asked. “Biblically,” Yelena quipped. “It means they used to fu-” “Thank you, Lena,” you snapped, cheeks burning. “That’s enough.”

John’s eyes locked onto yours, and his face became alarmingly neutral. The same kind of forced neutrality that came right before he absolutely lost his temper in a briefing. 

You felt compelled to explain, and the words started flying out of you. “Not recently,” you blurted out, “Nothing serious. He’s more like an old friend, or a colleague, or… something.” Bucky rolled his eyes. “Okay, well those aren’t the details I’m seeking here.” He pointed at the screen, where Frank was surprisingly still talking to the security guard, but becoming increasingly more animated the longer he was denied entry. “Do we let him in?” “Yes.” “No!” You and John answered at the same time. 

Ava, meanwhile, already had the phone in hand, and was taking the liberty of calling down to the security desk. “Send him up,” she said.

Ten Minutes Later -

The elevator door opened, and Frank Castle walked out like a walking obituary. Blood down the side of his ribs. A rip in his black shirt. A busted lip, five-day stubble, and that haunted stare that always looked like he was expecting gunfire. It had only been a year since you’d last seen him, but he looked older; there were a few grays in his hair.

“Hey, sweetheart.” The gravel in his voice scratched down your spine. “Still play nurse? I could use some help.”

You stared. Your brain short-circuited for a second. “Jesus, Frank-”

He gave you a weak grin.

John made a low noise in this throat, half scoff, half snarl. You didn’t look at him, you were almost afraid to. Frank raised an eyebrow, “Interesting.”

You grabbed Frank by the wrist and dragged him down the hall to the medical bay without a word. Most of the team stood silently, exchanging glances that varied from concerned to thoroughly entertained. But not John. John followed you both down the hall.

In The Medical Bay-

As you silently patched him up, Frank’s eyes were on you the whole time. So were John’s. Watching. Quiet. Heavy. Your hands worked quickly- gloves, antiseptic, gauze. You’d been here before. Putting Frank back together after he’d disappeared for months at a time.

When you finished your last stitch, Frank’s eyes met yours. And you’d forgotten what it felt like to have Frank look at you like that. Like you were a secret he’d buried under his skin. Like he could still taste you in his memory. He reached out and brushed a knuckle along your cheek, eyes dropping briefly to your lips. “I missed you,” he said.

John cleared his throat. “Okay buddy,” he said as he stepped further into the room, “That’s enough of that.” Frank’s eyes didn’t leave yours, but he spoke to John. “Still got a stick up your ass, Walker?”

John laughed coldly. “Of course I do. You still a cocky piece of shit?”

“Of course I am.” Frank said, winking at you before standing up to admire your handiwork in the mirror.

You looked at Walker. John, who you repeatedly trusted with your life on missions; who you daydreamed about like an out of control teenager with a crush; who seemingly had no interest in you… Who was now staring into you in an unusually territorial way. He shook his head subtly and mumbled, “Let me know when the stray is ready to leave, I’ll escort him out.”

“We’re good, Walker.” Frank called out from across the room. “I need a place to lay low for a bit but she knows the drill, she’ll take care of me.” He smirked as he looked at you. “Always does.” John stepped forward, face unreadable. “You’re not welcome here.”

“I didn’t come for you.”

“That supposed to make me feel better?”

You shot between them before something cracked.

“That’s enough,” you snapped. “Both of you. Jesus Christ.”

Frank back off a step, but his expression never changed. He was enjoying this.

John didn’t say another word. But the way he looked at you- tight jaw, flickering eyes, fists clenched at his sides- said plenty.

Later that night, your room-

You were stress-knitting. You stopped counting rows an hour ago.

Frank was here, in the Watchtower. Just down the hall, on the couch.

You weren’t an idiot, you knew that Frank wanted something more than just medical attention. He wanted to pick back up where you left off, like he’d never left. And, just as surely, he’d leave again.

And John? You had no idea what the hell was going on in his head. The only thing you knew was that it contradicted all of your notions of how he thought of you.

There was a knock on your door. Not soft, firm and controlled. You opened it to find John standing there, arms crossed the same way he stood in the field, like he was waiting for something to explode.

His eyes met yours. “You okay?”

You blinked. “You’re asking me that? You two… I mean, it was tense back there.” You walked back to your chair to sit down and picked your yarn back up.

He shifted slightly. “From the sound of it, you’ve got a complicated history with him too. And I know what Castle is like, he gets in your head.”

You leaned against your dresser. “You think I can’t handle that?”

“No, I just think you shouldn’t have to.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

He stepped further into your room, taking a seat on the edge of your bed. Then his eyes dropped to your hands, where you were still mindlessly knitting round after round. A smile broke across his face. “I know you can handle it, but I can tell you’re not handling it well.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “What exactly do you mean by that, Walker?”

He let out a laugh. “Either you’re knitting a sweater for a snake, or you’re spiraling.”

You looked down at your work, and what was meant to be a sock had become a two-foot long tube of frustration. You threw it to the ground and groaned.

He leaned forward towards you, putting a hand on your knee. “I don’t know everything about the situation with Castle,” he said, his voice low and soft. “But you’re not alone anymore, not like you used to be. You’ve got a tower full of people that give a shit. So let me know if, uh…” he hesitated, “if you need someone to talk to about it. I can’t promise I’ll be neutral about it though.”

You glanced down to his hand on your knee, and back up to his eyes, and briefly to his lips before looking away. He pulled his hand back quickly and stood up to leave.

“Thanks, John.” You said. “That means a lot to me.” He turned back towards you and leaned against the doorframe. “Anytime.” he whispered, and then closed your door.

So now, it was your turn to look at John like he was a puzzle. You had a puzzle in the hallway, ticking time bomb in the living room on the couch, and a text message from Yelena that said “What is your bloody sexy man doing here? What happened tonight? Do not withhold details.” 

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt 215 (Back On the Case)

With the chickens off peacefully to the Great Coop in the Sky, Conrad and Heather greeted their friend, the Grim Reaper.

But thanking him for his help getting Ash and Lavender to safety in Sulani wasn't the only thing on Conrad's mind, and he invited the Reaper to chat with him about his biological son, Nyon Specter.

Grim shifted uncomfortably on the sofa in the backyard. "He's my son, technically, but I don't know him as well as you'd think. I didn't raise him. The deal was Olive would raise him as her own. She just went from one old husband to the next and wanted a child."

"Did you have a relationship with Ms. Specter?"

"Not a romantic one. She worked for me for a while and it was wildly inappropriate for me to agree to the whole thing. I was reprimanded with a year digging down from the volcano caves in Sulani. Really helped me know my way around the place."

"Lucky for all of us," Conrad mused. "What do you think Nyon means when he says he senses death? Could he know whether someone's alive or dead?"

Grim nodded. "Probably so."

"Did you help Layne Coffin after his death?"

"This is all treading very closely to things I'm not supposed to talk about with the living, Captain. I can tell you that if Nyon's right and he senses his death, then Layne was probably taken by another Reaper. I have several assistants these days - especially in places like Ravenwood where death is so prevalent. If he died at home, I definitely wouldn't have been there. After they pulled me back up from the Underworld, they told me to stay 100 feet away from the Specter home at all times or the ground beneath it would crumble into the earth."

"Seriously?"

"Would you test whether they're bluffing with stakes that high?"

"Probably not."

Conrad thanked Grim for his insight before the reaper disappeared in a cloud of black smoke. It didn't give him the answers he needed, but it wasn't unhelpful. He went back inside, surprised to find Ash awake in the living room.

"You're still up?"

"I saw Grim leaving and I wanted to ask if I could go to Scotti Holiday's birthday party in San Myshuno next weekend. She wants to check out the Spice Festival and a bunch of our friends are already going. The Holidays are even renting a limo to take everyone there and back; I'll be the only one of our friends who doesn't go if I'm still grounded."

Conrad frowned. "Is there a reason you're asking me and not your mom?"

(Scotti really called to invite him to the Spice Festival and I thought about it because I know he's down bad, but we turned it down.)

"She's in bed already, and she's stricter about grounding me than you," he said honestly. "But I've been good since we got back from Sulani! I'm doing double my usual chores and I help with Iris and Roan all the time after homework."

"You're not going to convince me to go against your mother just because you've done the chores you're supposed to do and then some. You've still got time left on the punishment she handed down."

"It's so unfair!" he scoffed. "I'll be the only one in our whole school who doesn't get to go, and Caiden Huntington will probably eat a ghost pepper and boiled death frog hot pot just to impress her!"

"Boiled death frog?"

"Yeah! Pearl's mom tried some by mistake at the last Spice Festival in the city and she turned into a ghost for a whole day! I told Scotti and everyone at school about it, and then Scotti decided to have her birthday there."

"Do you want to go to the Spice Festival to become a temporary ghost or because it's Scotti's birthday?"

With blush cheeks, Ash forced an anxious smile. "Well...I want to know what it's like for the ghosts I talk to. And you became a temporary ghost once! Mrs. Goth said you haunted their grand piano and broke the F sharp key by accident."

"I was a lot older that night than you are now. And your mother will never agree to cut your punishment short to turn into a ghost in the city. I wouldn't be able to change her mind, and I wouldn't want to."

Ash opened his mouth to complain, but Conrad stopped him. "You've got two weeks left until you're not grounded anymore, and until then, you can hang with Scotti and your friends between classes at school."

"Fine!" said Ash with typical teenage petulance. "But I'm gonna teach Iris all the bad words first if Scotti starts dating Caiden after the party."

Ash stomped up the stairs to head to bed, and Conrad nodded thoughtfully. So that's why he wanted to go so bad. Neither Conrad, nor Heather, worried about Scotti dating someone else, but they couldn't say much with Ash crushing so hard on the mean girl he'd known since they were kids.

Conrad stayed up to clean the dishes; he never liked waking to a dirty sink. It helped him clear his mind, and let him think about Ash and Scotti. No one could tell Conrad that Ximena was bad for him until he knew it himself - and it's not like Scotti was running drugs for a cartel. They'd have to let it all play out, no matter what happened.

While Conrad readied for bed, his work phone beeped with an incoming dispatch. With fatigue pulling at his bones, his spine straightened when he read it.

Ophelia Nigmos Specter had been found in San Myshuno, living under an assumed name with her infant daughter, Willow.

Conrad knew his slumber would be short and he'd be back to the city the next day, but now he might finally get answers to Layne Coffin's mysterious disappearance. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 2.1 Summary | Gen 2.2 Summary

Gen 1 Start | Gen 1 Summary

[lllunaverde]

𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐀𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 | 𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐝

𝐈 - Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3 ๋࣭ ࿐࿔ 12, 444k wc. main masterlist

๋࣭ ࿐࿔ 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞'𝐬

"Patrol has been quite well these days, hasn't it?" Alfred spoke, seeing as there were no single scratch on them, uniforms still as they were worn before they went to work. 

"Boring, you mean." Jason huffs, though he wasn't to deny Alfred's baking night. Bruce cleared his throat at this, he would say that.

"Just as it has been these past few days...some muggers, bank robbers, car theft. It's rather...quiet." Damian cautiously says, all of them agreeing except Alfred and Bruce, unfazed they were by the sentiment. Used to how the natural things are in Gotham.

Dinner started and they went on with their usual night. The manor was now sleeping, well of course, except for Bruce and usually Tim, probably Cassandra as well. But Alfred was still fixing himself up to go to bed, all from after cleaning the kitchen and tending to whatever they needed. As he got out from his bathroom, freshly showered and already dressed up. The telephone on his table, rang. He picked up the phone and spoke, "Good evening, who am I speaking to?" On the table, there was a picture of his parents, another frame was Bruce and him along with his children. The last frame beside it was a picture of his friend and a little girl from his long home.

"Alfred….it's me, Y/N." The voice of someone he hasn't heard for a long time, surprised him.

"Y/N?" He questions, a bit shocked and confused.

"Yes, yes, it's me" She chuckles, although Alfred noticed that her voice sounds a bit off.

"I'm really sorry to call so suddenly," She started.

"Don't be, my dear, you know you can always call me anytime. Is everything alright? How is your mother?" Alfred asks, fear starting to arise in him as he puzzles everything; late at night, she calls suddenly, her sounding distraught.

"Alfred," she breathes, deep, long and trembling breathing could be heard at the end of his line. "She...she got mugged, three men on drugs-" a gasp breaking softly from her by saying it.

Alfred has always felt the feeling of his heart dropping every time something bad happened to his people, he could never be used to it, but now it felt like it was the first time again. "They stabbed her, before she got taken to a hospital, she was already gone."

Every words heavy from how she said it and quiet. Alfred lost his composure, putting his hand on his forehead, his legs shuddering that he merely staggered to hold on the table to steady himself, disbelief all over him. Words couldn't be formed. So he stayed like that, processing the dreadful news, he struggled to. While he has always been the wisest and prepared to what to say in trying times, right now, he was lost. But he needed to be there.

"How is everything? How are you?" He asks, trying to collect his breath as he forces his weakened limbs to move, heavily sitting down on the edge of his bed.

"It happened last night, I've only called you now because I was busy too much fixing all whatever needs to be done. Her attackers have already been arrested—they left one of their pouch with drugs in it and one of their fingerprints. Her friends have helped me with everything. The funeral is in two days-"

"My dear...how are you?" Alfred asks again, not wanting to hear more of it. She manages to laugh a little, getting his tone.

"Everyone has been here…dreadful but they're here. My mother's friends and mine. I'm trying." She says, Alfred nodded, glad she was not alone. There were a lot unsaid words that needed to be said but both thought it was best left for later .

"I'll be there, my dear, I'll be there" Alfred tells, assuring her. For now, that was everything to be known.

His room was filled with silent cries. Feeling his heart so heavy, as if it was eating itself.

.

.

Never mind that pain took over his night, the morning he woke up from the restless slumber he barely got, he chose to be there for the child of his friend. To not lose himself.

As he was preparing for the day to begin, with him cooking in the kitchen. His mind brought him back to the past. One which where he was young when he met his friend, a friend who'd be so dear to him, who'd be so far from him.

He needed to tell Bruce of the matter, as well something that came to him just now. He knocks on the door of Bruce's bedroom and entered himself to find him already awake.

"Good morning, Master Bruce. I'm glad you're already awake. I need to discuss something with you." He tells, closing the door and handing the coffee he made to Bruce.

Bruce furrowed his eyebrows, confused as to why Alfred looked too serious on a fine morning. He thought if he did anything that could put him into trouble. Before he could speak as he sat on his chair, Alfred did while walking to the windows.

"I received a call last night, Y/N, the daughter of my friend, Amelia. Her mother.'' He sets straight and not beat around even while still grasping the reality. "Amelia....she passed away two days ago. She got mugged and stabbed," Alfred trailed. There was anger in him as he thought of it but he didn't show it.

Bruce, shocked, he leaned forward on the chair. "How..how are you?" He asks unsurely. Bruce knew of his friend, Alfred had mentioned her a time before, but he knew little yet still know the woman is special to him.

Alfred only smiles barely, "Grieving, I suppose. I'm having trouble grasping it," Alfred replies, telling only the truth.

"And what of her daughter? How is she?"

"She has her friends and the friends of her mother with her. She is only doing good, I hope. The funeral is in two days, I need-"

"We'll go with you, all of us." Bruce cuts him off before he could finish. Alfred nodded, solemnly smiling. He hasn't stepped away from the window, still looking outside.

"What is it, Alfred? Tell me, is there anything I could help with?" Bruce asks, sensing there were more for Alfred that he wants to say.

"It's been so long since Amelia and I have seen each other," Alfred says, he chuckles, turning to Bruce. "I have never actually told you about her, haven't I?"

Bruce met his tone, agreeing, "No, I remember you only telling me that she's your friend, you met when you were both young, that was it."

Bruce can still remember the fondness in Alfred's face when he was speaking of her, even for only a short moment.

"It was a year, the time we had together before I left England….Such a short time it was but we had the most good times. It was difficult to say goodbye but we did." He sighs, his fingers gnawing at the end of his gloves, swallowing deeply, "…Years after, we drifted apart, just like that. I still thought of her but I was young, I didn't think much of bonds and connections back then. When I came back there, I wanted to find her, that I did, she had her child then, Y/N. We reconnected, I suppose, as if nothing has changed. When I left it was years after that I came back there again, that was a year now. But time to time, we still talked" Alfred says his story, the fondness that once Bruce saw back then, now on his face again.

"I loved her like a sister." He says softly, Bruce smiled at him, happy that he spoke of someone special to him.

Alfred looks at his watch, knowing some of the kids will be up from their beds. "If you follow me, I still have something to talk to you of," he said, walking out of Bruce's room and headed to the kitchen, Bruce follows.

"I'll ask boldly, Master Bruce. I haven't been in contact with Y/N for a while but now that her mother is gone, I know she'll be living alone, it has always been Amelia and her living together," Alfred begins as they walk together.

Bruce nodded, getting where the conversation gonna go. "You want her to stay here for a while?" Bruce asks but it was more of a conclusion rather than a question.

"Precisely. It has been quite some time since we've seen each other and she has said before she always wanted to visit me, so-"

"Alfred, it's okay. She can stay here, you both need each other. She'll stay here for as long as you both need." Bruce assures, and they arrived in the kitchen. Bruce thought it was the least he could do for him, after all he knew of the pain of losing someone.

"Thank you," Alfred says as he begins to do what he needed to do for breakfast. "I have yet to talk to her about it but I hope very much so she'll agree...I do miss her." He confessed.

"I'm sure she does, too." Bruce patted his shoulder as he sat down on a chair.

"I didn't mean to eavesdrop but you two seemed to have a serious conversation, so I might have heard things more than I should have." Appearing out of nowhere was Damian, looking already cleaned up. He was always one of the few to wake up early.

Bruce rolled his eyes at his son, knowing he did mean to listen to them. "I'm sure you didn't mean to, young master," Sarcasm and tease in Alfred's voice as he starts to prepare Damian's food.

Damian tried to hide that he was caught, he tried. "So, who is this person that's going to stay here?" Damian asked bluntly, Alfred only smiled at his curiosity, he heard Bruce sighed before speaking up.

"And good morning to you too, Damian. We'll all talk about it later after breakfast." That was all Bruce told him and continued to eat, ignoring the frown of his youngest beside him. Both the parental figures were glad Jason stayed for the night as he usually doesn't.

It was normal, them bickering back and forth, few yellings, but despite Alfred's usual ritual, they have noticed he was quiet, all except Bruce, of course, sensed there were something wrong. With Damian's mood sour than usual, they all confirmed that there is something going on.

Damian who had enough of his curiosity eating him and with everyone done, spoke up.

"Now that we're done eating, can you tell us now?" Damian demands as he crossed his arms over him. All their conversations was broken up by this and turned to Damian.

"Tell us what?" Tim asks his younger brother, his eyes followed Damian's which was on Bruce, the others did too.

Bruce sighed again because of his youngest as he put down the newspaper he was reading. "This is no place to discuss such things but since you needily insists." He eyed Damian and turned to Alfred, looking apologetically at him.

Alfred muttered a small "nonsense" under his breath and prepared himself. "A dear friend of mine, Amelia Y/L/N, she passed away two days ago. She was mugged, unfortunately, she was stabbed too." Alfred maintained his composure but distress was heard in his voice and shown in his face. There was no need to hide this.

And so that's how their morning went, Alfred telling of what needs to be said. Damian felt guilty that he pressed the subject earlier. Seeing their beloved butler, more so their grandfather in a sad state, more gentle than he is, they felt little. When Bruce spoke of the possibility of Y/N staying in the manor for a while, they were hesitant of the idea, they stood quiet for a moment, Alfred then opened up more about it to which of them understanding the situation. Then it was agreed they were to fly to London together.

The night took over again. When they got home from the patrol, Damian ran straight to the kitchen, he found Alfred and jumped to him. Hugging him so suddenly that the plates in Alfred's hand almost fell, confused he was but hugged the boy back. Everyone then followed, Dick was the second, squeezing both of them to Alfred laughing. With all the kids hugging Alfred, Jason was the last as for Bruce, he was by the door, watching them so adoringly.

"We're here, Al." Jason speaks, each still in their hold. They all muttered, whispered, nodded to the same thing. Alfred swells at their gesture and comfort.

Dinner was more lively than usual.

.

.

In Alfred's room, he dialed Y/N's number, his telephone rang and she answered, "Y/N?"

"Al? I was just about to call you." She says, chuckling a little.

He laughs as well, "How are you anyway, my dear?"

"Still the same, trying. You?" She asks back     

Alfred sighs, sitting down on his bed. "I...I still find it difficult to believe." Ever since Y/N called, the tragedy hasn't left Alfred's mind, it was not as he refused to believe it, he just couldn't take a hold of it.

"A lot of us are. Just one moment, I was cooking with her, then the next thing I knew, I was at the hospital bathroom…a mess....I think it'll always be hard to believe."

Barely nodding to himself, "I suppose it will be."

It was quiet then after as Y/N hesitates to speak again but she did. "I've been thinking, can I stay there in Gotham for a while? It's been a bit long since we've seen each other and I just want to be able to spend some time with you, and I've always wanted to visit Gotham." She finishes, her voice sounding hesitant.

Alfred laughs, confusing Y/N, "Oh, my dear, we keep thinking the same thing. That is why I actually called, to talk to you about this. I wish for you to stay here, in the Wayne manor. I do want to spend time with you, too." He tells.

"What-uhm, what? In the Wayne manor, but that's where you live and work?....I could just stay in an apartment or hotel, I don't want to be a bother to you and the Wayne family." She rambles. Sure, she always wanted to go to the infamous house of Wayne's, ever since she found out Alfred was living there, but the actual thought of possibility, intimidated her.

"You wouldn't be a bother, dear, we've talked about it and they agreed. And I would not allow you to stay in an apartment or hotel, it's not usually safe here in Gotham especially if you're new, they wouldn't either. You'd be welcome here."

She thought about it for a moment. Being in the same roof with a lot of people she didn't know made her uneasy, but then again, this family, Alfred has been living with them for a long time. She knew the Wayne family was bound to Alfred as well. If Alfred insists her, then what was the reason for her to deny? It would be rather great for the both of them to be with each other for a while. She needed it and wanted it as well.

"Okay...okay, I will but only if you promise it's really okay and it wouldn't be a problem or what," Y/N worriedly says, sounding serious.

Alfred couldn't help but smile again at her fret. Their night ended with them talking of the details of her staying and what they dreaded, the funeral.

๋࣭ ࿐࿔ 𝐁𝐲 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡

Two days later, they found themselves in Bruce's jet plane heading to London. Everyone of them dressed in black. Alfred was holding a bouquet of red roses, ever so gentle with it.

Few more hours then, they arrived at the cemetery. Thankful they were as they notice they were not late but a little early. As they walk almost where it was held, a woman in a black dress came into view, walking to them. Alfred recognizes them and immediately smiled.

"Alfred," Y/N beams when they were near enough and hugged him. "I thought I saw someone familiar and here you are." Y/N tells as she stays in their hug. "Oh, Alfred, how long has it been?" She whispers but enough to be heard.

"Too long, my dear, too long," He replies, now looking at each other. The exchange was watched deeply by the family, without even trying, Alfred's fondness came to their front, of how he talked about her then, it was there.

They let go of each other and Y/N turns to the family, feeling little to their gazes.

"These are for Amelia." Alfred hands the bouquet to her and Y/N held it.

"She'll love this, thank you."

They heard a cough and it came from Dick, who encouraged Damian to step out as he was now holding each of their roses they got for her. Y/N smiled down at the boy, waiting for him to speak.

"These are for you, from us." Damian speaks but looking down on the ground as he held out the flowers.

"My lovely, they're beautiful," She gently traces his face with her fingers—yet cautiously, not wanting to make the child uncomfortable. Damian looked up to see her smiling, his face flushed and looked down again, making the others chuckle to themselves.

Before she could say thank you again, Bruce speaks up, "These are for you, too." He offers, smiling a little. Y/N, taken back, laughs as her hands were now full with their flowers. If they thought her smile couldn't be bigger, they were wrong. "Thank you...for these beautiful flowers, for being with Alfred here today...for being here, thank you." She nods to them, trying her best to look at each of them. They wonder, for someone who just lost their mother, how could she have the strength to smile like she does.

They took their place as the ceremony started. Alfred was beside Y/N, their hands held from the beginning as to its end. Dealing with loss is a roller-coaster when you're surrounded, you have to put up with pretenses even though it's genuine and then the next you'll never feel so empty, staring at the coffin as they lay it down deeper until it was not to be seen. She stand motionless, just there, not hearing anything, where she didn't feel Alfred's hold anymore. So painless it was so painful.

Alfred didn't miss a beat of her state, he felt for her, differently the same pain they were having. Even in front of it all, he still couldn't believe it, he couldn't believe he was there now, above the grass, the coffin going down, the tombstone, the priest, everything, he couldn't believe it. His heart was still eating itself.

Grief comes in his door again. Unprepared.

.

.

Laughter. Laughter could be heard as they enter a house. They felt uneasy, seeing how bright the house was with curtains and windows open, vases with flowers in every corner, a soft melody of piano playing in the background, and one which confused them more; there were more than enough people smiling and laughing together.

They knew of death, and none of them had a good thought of it, no one does and should anyway. But this, this was not death they were familiar with and it hit them like a truck. The air was bright. It was not what they had expected to be.

Y/N can be seen walking back and forth to her visitors, offering foods and drinks, talking to them, and smiling with them.

She sees them enter and walk over. "Hello....please, make yourselves at home," she stops, putting a hand on the sideof her face. "I'm sorry, was that a weird thing to say? I dont-" As she laughs at herself, not knowing what to say further.

"Don't be, it's fine." Bruce uttered, Y/N breathes, collecting herself, "We have foods and drinks in the kitchen, if you're hungry, please help yourselves."

Dick, Cassandra, Tim, and Duke didn't need to be told twice and head straight to the kitchen. Wanting to be distracted and away. Y/N chuckles as she sees them. She notices Jason, as someone who were the tallest among them after Bruce, with a white streak on his hair, she remembers his name from what Alfred has told her before, Jason— had been quiet or visibly uncomfortable ever since they have arrived at the cemetery. But who can blame him, Y/N thinks.

"Lovely children you have, Mr. Wayne." She says, walking with Alfred, following Bruce, Damian and Jason. Alfred smiles at her statement, couldn't help but felt proud of himself and for Bruce.

"Just call me Bruce, and yes, they are. Handful often but they are." Bruce replies, Damian was heard grumbling by his father's remark and this made Y/N giggle.

"Don't you want to eat with them?" She asks him, matching his pace so she could be beside him.

"I'm a vegetarian." Damian says firmly.

"Oh, that wouldn't be a problem. We made foods that you can eat, do you want to come with me?" Y/N offers her hand to him, Damian looks at it, hesitating, and remembering he needed, or rather wanted to be on his best behavior for Alfred, and with Y/N being as she is, Damian couldn't decline.

They were quite taken back as she held Damian's hand, when they entered the kitchen, the others were too. She took a minute to getting Damian's food and gave it to him. He mumbled a small thank you, taking a seat besides his siblings and started to eat.

"You have a lovely home," Duke speaks up over the silence that was starting to be heard. Despite not knowing them, she felt their sincerity.

"Thank you," she smiles, but then realizes she needed to get back to her guests. "If you'll excuse me." She nods, before walking out the kitchen.

After going here and there to her guests, she notices a tall figure out on the porch. She goes outside, wanting to check up on them. As she stands beside the person, she saw it was one of Bruce's son, the man with the white streak.

"Hi, I don't mean to bother but are you alright?" She asks unsurely, glancing at him. Jason was leaning his arms down on the banister, tightening and unclenching his grip on it, staring ahead but much aware of her presence.

Jason breathed out from his mouth, uneasy. "I...I'm not too fond of funerals." He mutters. Jason didn't have a particularly good thought of death and everything that comes with it. Too many haunting memories that continues to prey him. It scared him, feeling as if he was on the edge of being back where he was haunted.

After their discussion two days ago, Jason was tense. Bruce knew of this and had a talk with him. Alfred did as well, ever so they were concerned for their boy but to which again dismissed by Jason, telling them that he wants to be there and that he can handle it. Which he did handle, but it started to overwhelm him since he stepped foot in the house for the funeral reception.

The atmosphere of the place, it was as if they welcomed death so gracefully, if they knew of it even. He thought to himself if the people were faking it, putting up a front, but it was too real that he was starting to believe it. It couldn't be true. And Y/N, he saw how her face lit up when she saw Alfred, how tender she was at the time, how she emitted light at such time they were now. If they didn't know anything, no one could guess that she had lost her mother. He didn't understand it and it bothered him.

"No one is anyways," she laughs softly, and there it was again, Jason notices as he looked at her. Had he no heart, he would have blatantly asked her if she was faking it but he didn't have the guts to. Cruel it would be, he thinks.

Silence fell between them, hesitating to speak or ask what was on their mind. Y/N erased her lingering thoughts and turned again to the man.

"Wouldn't you like to eat? My cakes are not as good as Alfred's cookies but rest assured it can live up to its taste." She offers, catching the gleam in his eyes when she mentioned the famous cookies of Alfred as she smiles, Jason found himself doing the same thing, he didn't realize the tense in his body he was holding wore off as he follows her to the kitchen.

Few hours later on the reception ended. Although, there were only a few guests, her mother's friends, a few of hers and the neighbors, it seemed and felt like it was a lot. Y/N was more than grateful.

She sees Alfred in the empty kitchen, standing mindlessly in the middle of it. She enters with a quiet knock on the door. "It bleeds of her, doesn't it?"

Alfred breathes, closing his eyes after reeling the place in. "It does," he whispers, with now eyes opened, he sees a vision, a memory of Amelia, him, a little Y/N there in the kitchen, baking, they were laughing. Him and Amelia as if they were dancing while working together.

"It's good to see you, Al." She says walking to hug him, "I missed you," she mumbles against his shoulder.

"As have I, darling," he breathes, feeling his tears for the first time today, his heart tugging its nerves. Though her heart pounds heavy against his, breath ragged, she hold onto him more firmer, trying to fight her tears.

"As have I." They hold onto each other longer the time can give them.

.

.

Much to her demise, when she started to clean and fix up things, Mrs. Ford, her neighbor, the closest friend of her mother, stopped her before she could do anything. Alfred had told her they were gonna be picked up for at least half an hour, so she got her things from her bedroom. To her surprise, Jason was already in the middle of the stairs, waiting to get her things to help her, flustered as she thanked him. The exchange didn't go unnoticed by the family and smiled to themselves.

Her people knew she was gonna go away for a while, and they all supported the idea. So now here they were, Mrs. Ford, promising her to take care of their home and to take her time, others ushering the same notion to her.

Although Alfred was beside her throughout the time, her doubts still lingers in her of her staying with the Wayne family as they were now driving to the airport. Things were happening fast. She had thought about it thoroughly even after she agreed, at least in some way, her mind was distracted somewhere else. She was more than inclined to thought about other things. But now that it was happening, now that the car pulled up in front of a jet, had her heart thumping.

Alfred sensing this, puts his hand on top of hers, bringing her back. "My dear, I know you already have agreed, but are you sure you want to do this?" Alfred tried not to curse at himself for not seeing it before, how careless it might have been of him to persuade her to go, too focused to comfort her at the time that he forgot to consider most of her peace.

And Y/N realizes this and felt bad as he was. She shakes her head and squeezed his hand, "No… no, it's fine. I'm fine—I want to.. just a bit worried."

Alfred sighs as his doubts goes away, smiling, "I assure you, again, you'd be welcome there, and I'll always be with you." He promises and Y/N nodded. They head into the jet, sitting in front of each other once they're all settled. It was quiet once again, it wasn't uneasiness nor dreadful but just silent.

A book in her hand, just looking at it from time to time, with a picture of her mother between the pages. She looked up from her book as she realizes the youngest of them, had just sat beside Alfred, sneaking a glance at her.

She smiles, putting the book in her lap. "Hello, I've never got to ask your name earlier." She says softly, which made Damian looked at her. She did know his name, and everyone's, but she just wanted to do so, and thought maybe that could warm up the child to her.

"It's Damian," he mutters.

"Beautiful name." Y/N compliments, Damian felt the heat on his cheeks and sinks in his seat. Dick, Cassandra, and Duke, who were across them, was watching them with amusement, specifically their little brother that keeps being flustered. As well as Jason and Tim in front of them, still having a view to look at them, as for Bruce, who at the back of Alfred, listens to them intently.

Y/N nodded for Damian to go on as she hints he wants to say something. Damian blows out a breath, nodding to himself and speaks. "I want to ask you some questions and I...can you answer honestly?"

Y/N raises her eyebrows, not expecting that but smiles at the child none the less. She mouths an okay and waits for him to speak. The others were too, anticipated, or scared even.

"I have noticed your eyes, from the looks of it, you haven't been crying. I find it very odd, and why is that?" Damian went straight for it, taking everyone by surprise. Alfred threw her an apologetic glance and Y/N dismisses it with shaking her hand a little.

She leans back on her seat, now looking down at the book on her lap. "It does seem like that, doesn't it?" she laughs and thinks for a moment, if she should say her truth, especially to a child, especially to a family she had never been with before. But she supposed she should be honest as the question was evident in everyone, she was much observant just as the child.

"….I have been. When I arrived at the hospital, I was immediately met with the news of her not making it, I cried just as I received of it, and every night since then, I have been. But I made sure it couldn't be tell that I was, I didn't want anyone to worry," she says, feeling the dryness of her eyes. "But I think that made some of them worry more by doing so," chuckling, remembering a few of her friend's worried faces. "And my mother...she had always disliked it when I cried, so I try my best not to." Y/N finishes, with her pursed lips smiling a little. Thankful that with time, she had learn to have control over her body, emotions, to prevent her from crying at such subjects. Had she not, she would have been sobbing by now. Anyone would have been.

Damian took a few seconds, taking in what she said. From the moment he saw her, her eyes was the first thing he noticed, clean and not a mess. It did make sense she would appear appropriately, but no evidence of her misery was shown, that is what everyone got thinking.

"At the funeral reception...everyone seemed to be fine. Isn't funerals normally unbearable and dreadful?" Damian warily says, speaking out loud of what everybody had been questioning again.

"Clever boy," she grinned at him, he glared at his siblings across him for hearing them laugh quietly.

It was no surprise that even a kid asked this; an elephant in the room, so she expected that question was going to be asked, one way or another.

"I have never been to a funeral before, only now. Nor, ever experienced loss…But you're right, I suppose, it's usually unbearable and dreadful. Understandably so.'' She agreed. Odd the situation was for the others, even at the back of her mind, she finds it so as well. But she was thankful that the reception was how it was.

She quietly breathes deeply, "But my mother…she was kind. Happy, she radiated sunshine." She looks out the window, closing her eyes for a second. "Every Saturday, she and her friends would go out or just have tea together. On Sunday, with her friends too, we'd go to church and eat together after." Y/N smiled to herself, memories playing in.

"… Her death was so sudden and tragic. I'm angry still, I think I'll always be." She pauses, trying to maintain her composure. Her fingers finding the picture of her mother in her book, tracing it gently.

Anger and grief, no one can understand it better than everyone who was with her right now.

"But I, all her people, know she was happy with her life, fulfilled. We know she wouldn't want us to be miserable. She left us beautiful memories, I suppose we didn't want to taint that, we wanted to hold on to it. All of her people are hurting, we'll always be, but back there, everything was genuine, hurting but happy still." Y/N declares, turning her gaze to Alfred, both of them reach for each other's hand.

"Because of her love and our love for her. And she had a brother who always knew she was loved truly by him." She said, tightly holding his hand, as if she knew he needed assurance, she did and he did.

And just like that, they understood it. Although, her and her perspective, not entirely. Had their parents been killed with being as they are at the present, if they had the same loving bond as the mother and daughter did, it would have been rampage of blood spilled, blind red. Vengeance. Nevertheless of their promise to never cross a line they couldn't go back from, something that would have to give.

Damian stared at her, utterly baffled despite he kept his eyes nonchalant. She smiles at him, "We all grieve differently, love. Death hits us never the same." She speaks, hoping to make sense. He nodded, flustered again. He threw his siblings a threatening glance as he stood up and sat beside again his father.

"How you've grown, my dear." Alfred expressed, his other hand now cupping her face, she leans to his hand, now she can feel her tears threatening her.

"Do not make me cry," she hisses quietly, laughing at herself for doing so as tears fell on her cheeks. She catches herself a few seconds after. Though she was well aware it had not only Alfred and Damian whom she spoke to, but the entire family too, it hits her, and felt shy over again. Leaning back to her seat, with fingers fumbling.

And from her peripheral vision, she was aware too of the stare of the one with the white streak. Y/N finally looks at him, no change in his face as she did, but when she smiled, his expression softened and found himself smiling once again because of her.

Maybe it was because he heard how gentle her voice was when she first spoke to Damian, her sincere gaze when thanking them for being there. Maybe it was because he observed how she was at the cemetery, he knew of the state, numb, lifeless but then when he entered their home, he saw how she easy was with people, when he heard her giggle, or very much odd enough--how she made Damian little and adorable under her gaze. How at the front, she made it seem so easy.

Surely, Jason was curious.

.

.

The manor was as she expected to be, grand. It stood its glory. It looked like it had seen hundreds of storms but it mirrored novel. If she was already astonished by only the front of it, she knew to prepared herself by what lies inside.

"Do you want to have dinner with us or shall I just bring it to your room?" Alfred asks Y/N as he walks beside her in the manor, following Bruce. All except the three walked behind everyone who parted ways.

She didn't need to think about her choice. The family was back in their home, but she felt there was a missing piece to it. They were silent, evident that they were cautious. And she knew it was because of her. But who could blame them anyway.

Though the family was well familiar of the situation as they had been in it quite enough concerning times, this was different...

So she didn't want to be a burden more on, or at least that was what she felt. She shook her head but smiled, "I...I think I just want to rest now." She looks at Alfred with pleading eyes, hoping he could see her thoughts and he did.

"Very well, let's get you to your room." He nodded as he lead her on the long, wide hallway. At the end of it, was an elevator, Alfred walked to it with her things. Before she followed him, she turned to Bruce.

Trying not to be interested anywhere but his eyes, she spoke, "Thank you...I can't thank you enough for letting me stay here, I hope I don't become unbearable to you guys here, but thank you." She tightly grips the bag she was holding, feeling little.

It took him back to the times when his children walked in the manor for the first time, so different from each but still the very same they were; hesitant, doubtful, scared, shy—young.

He lays a hand on her shoulder, softly, meeting her gaze. The same way as he did then, gentle, wanting to emit safety which always delivered. "You won't be. You're more than welcome here. Take your time, Alfred will always be here for you and us if you need anything." Bruce assures her, he had no doubt she and Alfred already had the conversation but he was glad he got to speak about to her of it.

Unable to held his gaze anymore, she stared down, and nodded, uttering a last and small thank you and head to the elevator. Bruce smiled to himself and head to his own place.

It had been a long day for all of them. As Y/N's night comes to an end, theirs was just the beginning. In their element, Gotham in its own—dark, but bright with city lights, dangers that always spilled in nights. They had never forget why they do what they do, but today reminded them of it again, each of them with lingering thoughts of what happened today as they do their job. With minds sharper than it always is, some punches were pulled, some went to hell with it. They were not gonna go back home not unless they made sure tonight that no one was gonna end up like Alfred or Y/N.

๋࣭ ࿐࿔ 𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭

Quietly groaning, she tossed in the bed she was in. Eyes flickering, she sees the ceiling, this was not her room and she remembers—she was in the Wayne manor. Sitting up, she felt her body was sore, throat was dry and as her eyes. Dry from all the crying she done last night, but that was it, she just cried, cried until she fell asleep. Y/N went in the bathroom with the intention of erasing any evidence that she did. She splashed, rubbed, drown her eyes with water, looking in the mirror from time to time, to check if her eyes was still swollen. From her tries, it did work, though it looked red now from all that. That could go away in a few minutes when she fixes herself.

She went back to her room, going to her luggage to get some new clothes and take a bath. Looking at the grandfather clock, it was only 4:13 a.m. She had more than enough time to sober herself before the day starts. She took her time under the shower, hoping to wash away any pain that can show later on.

She dressed up in a floral black flowy skirt, a white shirt, tucked underneath, and a white ballerina shoes. Although, it was only morning, she didn't want to appear not so clean on her first day in the manor, in the family of the most influential man in the city. And that's where her nerves started to kick in again as she walks down the long hallway. Paintings on the wall, passing by a sculptures , then again and again as she reached the middle of it, where the staircase was.

On the wall, was a huge portrait of the family, including Alfred. She smiles as she stares at it, all of them had a smile painted on their faces, their stances still but relaxed. It didn't look like it was long before as she notices their features was still the same to now. It looked new and they looked happy.

Her eyes found the man with the white hair streak, Jason. A few little scars and marks healed on his face, visible still. He stood tall second from Bruce, large build almost equally to their father as well, a smile on his face. She remembers that smile of his from yesterday.

"Beautiful." She muttered to herself.

"Up early, are we?"

"Jesus!" Y/N screams quietly, hands to her chest, breathing rapidly, and turned to Alfred who was in the end of the stairs.

Alfred laughed as he walked up to her, "Good morning, my dear. Terribly sorry to frighten you, I forgot how much jumpy you were." He says, standing beside her.

She huffed a laugh, he was right, she was always jumpy, and easy to be scared. Being in a huge manor with wide, endless ways didn't help her nerves today either. "Good morning, Al. You look posh as always." She compliments as she took in his attire. How he always wear that kind of clothes while doing his work with no problem is a never ending wonder to her.

"Thank you and I should say the same to you." Alfred compliments, she just nodded and turn back again to the frame.

"Quite the family you're taking care of, huh" Y/N remarks.

Alfred smiles, looking at the frame as well, "Although, yes, I mostly take care of them, we take care of each other too." Y/N smiled at his answer, glad that he seemed happy.

"You must never be bored here then?" She questioned. She can only imagine the chaos of these people living under the same roof together.

If Alfred wasn't reserved as much as he is, he would've yelled a loud "HA!"

"Oh, believe me." He says lowly that made Y/N turn her gaze to him. Eyes widening and just nodded.

"So...I was thinking...because I didn't attend dinner last night and I feel so terrible now—though, I doubt it's a bother to them. I want to make it up, just so I could be at ease. I thought of cooking of breakfast for them...or is it stupid? Do you think it's stupid?" Y/N rambles with her hands. After declining dinner last night, just as she was in her room for the whole night, she felt guilty the entire time. But she couldn't bring herself to face them either, she was too shy.

Alfred gets a hold of her hand and spoke, "Y/N, it's not stupid. And it wasn't a bother to them, they asked of you last night, I just told them you needed to rest. You can cook, I'll only allow you because I know you won't burn down the kitchen. Come now, my dear. Don't want you getting lost already."

She wanted to ask more of what they asked last night, but she thought best that she shouldn't, so she just followed him. They arrived in the kitchen after a minute of walking. "Damn." Y/N whistles as she roams her eyes in the place. There were a wide window where it shows the field of the hill, the sun starting to rise, making the kitchen look more beautiful with its morning light. Brown rustic cabinets, all around the kitchen, a cabinet table with marble top, and the counter was marbles as well. A fridge that she figures that can hold a stock of foods that can last for longer than three months, but then again, with the amount of people in the house...

What she could describe the manor was, despite being only in two rooms for now—huge and grand. She was sure everything in the place was. "You could cook everything in here," She says, though not yet seeing all what the kitchen can offer, she guesses they had everything in there.

"I believe so, yes. Now what do you have in mind?"

In their own pace and silence, they worked. Chopping, pouring, mixing, here and there. Making sure everything was prepared and cooked perfectly.

"Well, I must say...It's been a bit of time since I prepared this big breakfast, I do have missed it." Alfred states, in the middle of their cooking.

Y/N furrows her eyebrows, confused. "You don't always do this?" She asked.

"Breakfast like this, rarely I do. As sometimes, the young masters, except Master Damian, often does not sleep here, busy with their own agendas and all that." He answered and Y/N hummed in understanding. That was the truth though. Just not all of it, of course.

.

.

As Jason walks almost close to the kitchen, he stopped as he heard voices and things moving.

"Alfred, come on," he recognizes the voice of Y/N. He leaned on his back on the wall and listened closely.

"No. You won't not attend breakfast with them." Alfred firmly said. Jason was confused by this. Last night at dinner, he didn't expect that she was not gonna show up and honestly, he was surprised that he was expecting in the first place. Nonetheless, his siblings wasn't the only one who had concerned looks when Alfred told them. Although, he did understand why she wasn't, he couldn't help but wonder what might be the reason this time.

"You can't do this to me." She whined and got no reply. "Alfred, I'm...urgh..too shy and I'll probably just annoy them or what." She groans.

"I most certainly can, my dear. And you were the one who proposed and did cook for them, it's only right if you join them as well. You are gonna be here for a while, so I suggest you begin to stop your worrying." Alfred demanded. A smile crept up to Jason. It was always fun to hear Alfred scolding someone.

"Fine...I'm so stupid being so worried over this."

"Y/N." Jason had to purse his lips to prevent himself from laughing.

He decided then to show up his face with walking in but making sure it didn't seem that he was eavesdropping before he was caught. Casually, which he hopes it does look like it, he walks to the fridge. Both of them were still working, all the smell that he was aware of earlier got stronger and all the food that was done and still cooking, smelled all great.

"Good morning, Master Jason." Alfred greets as he sees the man, he was much aware that the boy, at least in his eyes, that he was listening to them. The kids of the home had a few similarities, they tend to eavesdrop enough concerning times, but he suppose it was normal to them now.

"Good morning," Y/N says a bit quietly but she looked at him, smiling. Shyness, is what Jason noticed quickly from her. It was different from what she was yesterday, but then again, he just heard what she said to Alfred.

"Morning," he nods to them as he fills his glass with water. "Alfred's cooking already spoil us, if you help him more, we'll be spoiled to rotten." Jason remarks and finished his drink. Few freshly baked breads, vegetables, and all the fillings to be paired with it. Scones and different flavors of jams. Even a few different pastries that they managed to create with their given time. Eggs, hotdogs, and bacons. He eyes the food and her, a grin starting to form on his face.

"Well, I hope so then," Y/N replied, meeting his tone and same grin. Jason, although his hair is a bit still disheveled, his white shirt and pajama as well—he looked good. And the sunlight behind him did a great deal too, along with his morning voice that couldn't be ignored. At least, that's what she thinks anyway.

Alfred had turned his back to them after he greeted Jason, though that, his eyebrows now raised because of the two. He just smiled to himself. "No doubt you children already are." He spoke, busy with the dishes.

That they knew too well.

"You rarely prepare a breakfast like this, Alfred. What is the reason for?" Damian appears, scaring Y/N a little as she flinched when he appeared out of nowhere. It didn't go unnoticed by the brothers as Damian turns to her. "I apologize for scaring you, it was not-"

"No, no, it's okay..." she laughs, shaking her hand. "I'm very frightful, very, I can tell you." A hand to her chest, cursing at herself for being the way she is right now.

Damian nodded, both of the sibling took note of this, the distress on her face was quite indelible.

"Y/N wanted to prepare something for you, so she did." Alfred tells simply, now done with the few dishes.

Damian and Jason looked at Y/N and she looks down, keeping herself occupied with cutting fruits. Flustered, she tried, "And Alfred did tell me you're all here, so..."

"You will eat with us, won't you?" Damian asks her, this makes her falter and looked at the child. Y/N breaks into a smile again. "I will," she nods.

Hesitations left Y/N from Damian's question, clear that he wanted her to. And she didn't have the heart to deny what the child was implying.

"Master Damian, if you come with me to wake the rest of them up. We wouldn't want to let these food go cold now. And Master Jason, help Y/N to prepare the food on the table while we're at it." Alfred announced and it wasn't much of a suggestion but rather the two knew of that tone, where they couldn't say no for an answer, so they followed.

Now left alone was Y/N and Jason. Quietness laid as she was still not done with her doings, he leaned back on the counter, eyes on her. He thought if he should ask her of she was doing, he almost laughed at himself for thinking such a thing, that was not his best suit, let alone to a someone he just met yesterday. Points for wanting to try, he thinks.

"I suppose you get use to him calling you guys like that, huh?" Y/N starts.

Jason huffed, "Suppose we do, still odd at times but I guess that's that." Y/N laughs a little, she supposed that was normal for Alfred.

Now done with everything, she started to carry a tray to which Jason followed with carrying a tray as well. "Damian is a beautiful boy," Y/N says, as they walk towards the dining room.

"A brat, really," he said before he could think to and Y/N laughed again.

Only a day has passed since he met her and yet she already made an impression of her being full. The sound of her was starting to become familiar to him.

"But he is." He agreed, though he would not say that directly to Damian.

They reached the dining room, Jason went ahead her to open the door for them, showing no struggle of holding the tray with his one hand as he made way.

Plates clanging together, they arranged the table quietly, few glances couldn't help to be stolen from them. With another glance, her eyebrows furrowed as she sees the side of his left forearm with a long strip of tape like bandage on it. She didn't see that earlier.

Without hesitation, "Is your arm alright?"

Now they look at each other. Jason looked down on it and grazed his forearm with his fingers, recalling the events that happened last night.

It shouldn't have happened. He should have been fast enough, better. In his mind, that is. Whether his mind was focused or clouded, that he was not sure of, all he know was he was angry and confused at the time.

Five thugs surrounded him, armed, builds and stances bold enough to seem they were skilled. This was not on their list for their patrol, but a report came through, stating that a small but known jewelry store was being robbed. And everyone was busy finishing their task at hand and Jason was just done with his, so he did the only rational thing; he ran to it without asking or saying anything. All he heard in his ears was the hesitations and warnings from his people.

A knife cutting through his suit, slicing his forearm was how he ended up in the batcave with blood dripping from him. The cut was not so deep but enough to make it hurt and create another scar yet. To ran straight to the enemy without any resolves was not usually in him, but he was sure at the back of his head, was the face of Alfred and her.

"She was mugged, unfortunately, she was stabbed, too."

"All of her people are hurting, we'll always be."

Those words ringing in him as his body did the work.

She starts to walk towards out of the room, the tray in her hand. And he follows her, seeing as he was done with his part. He breathed out a chuckle, "It's fine, I was fixing my bike and ended up grazing myself," he said no more than that. He heard a small 'oh' besides him as they walked together, but her worried eyes stayed.

"Happens more than a lot, I tend to hurt myself when doing things." As if reassuring her, or it was a good excuse for the soon injuries and anything that was to come inevitably. But he smiled nonetheless, appreciating her concern. He sees the sincerity of her eyes again.

"Alfred did say you guys were quite handful. I suppose that's one of the perks." She chuckled a little as they stepped in the kitchen again

He meets her tone, how could he not? "One of the many." He grinned and she just shakes her head, laughing. This time he found himself emitting the same sound, though subtle, it was there, and it was genuine. He felt it.

She gathers the plates and utensils in the tray, Jason follows suit with the pitchers and glasses, and there they were again headed to the dining room. Y/N couldn't help but smile at the moment, it was comfortable. The feeling was starting to crept up to Jason as well. Mundane and easiness.

The same few minutes repeated laced with silence but the sounds of porcelains. Footsteps and voices can now be heard get nearer too.

"One day, the affect of caffeine can no longer affect you, Master Tim, with the way you abuse it, that's what I'd call it and it would be a terrible day to us all." Alfred appears in the room, venom in his voice lingers. With a sleepy Tim following behind him and Damian. Stephanie who just arrived and the rest behind the three.

"Only for him, one could hope." Damian says and Tim grumbled as they sat beside each other.

Y/N laid down the empty tray at the end of the table, seeing as they were now all there. She stood there, a hand holding her other wrist on her back. "Hi, there. Good morning." Dick greets, walking to her and pulled out a seat for her besides him. She smiled at his gesture, "Good morning," she greets back and sat down.

"Quite a breakfast, Alfred." Bruce says as he eyes the food and took his seat at the end of the table. The others started digging in, seeing the food wanting to be devoured with how appetizing it appeared.

"Indeed, it was Y/N's doing." Alfred says once again. She though it to be inevitable but still she got flustered from their gaze again.

"Uhm...I felt bad that I didn't join you last night, so I wanted to make up for it by this. I hope it's to your liking." She managed to say the last part despite seeing them already enjoying her cooking, she huffed out a smile, in her mind at least.

Bruce smiles, "Well, I'm glad you've joined us today and I'm sure all of this will be to our liking." He gestures towards them who were mainly Tim, Duke, Stephanie, Dick and Jason already gobbling their food down.

Y/N nodded, laughing a little and started to fill up her plate. "So, we haven't been formally introduced yet. I'm Richard Grayson, but I go by Dick." Dick speaks up, the enthusiastic tone of his, shows. Though Tim and Jason snickered, hearing this, she pursed her lips to prevent a laugh. Much aware of his siblings teasing, he didn't spare them a glance but only smiled at Y/N's reaction.

"HI! I'm Stephanie Brown!" Stephanie said rather loudly before Y/N could speak with a wave of her hand. Y/N gave the wave back with a spoon in her hand, smiling. 

"Duke Thomas." He raised a hand and smiled at her.

"I'm Cassandra Cain." A calm voice spoke, poking her head out besides Dick and smiled lightly at her.

"Timothy Drake." Tim said, sitting beside Stephanie.

"Jason Todd." Jason nods at her and she returned the gesture, not missing the certain feeling in her as they looked at each other again.

"And Bruce and Damian Wayne." Bruce cuts off his youngest before he could speak. Damian rolled his eyes and scoffed. "She knows who you are, Father. Everyone does, it's ridiculous."

"Oh? I didn't know it was wrong to be polite to a guest." Bruce remarks at his son, the others just rolled their eyes or shook their heads, the usual banter of them.

Y/N laid a hand on her chest for a short second, feeling a fluttering in her heart from all the commotion. She took a deep breath from her mouth and smiled to herself.

All the while they were introducing themselves, Bruce watched the scene unfold as he ate, with the same feeling of Y/N. He was more than glad to see her visibly at ease with them, despite being fresh out from her mother's passing. And his own too, he knows his children felt uneasiness of the situation but despite that, he could see that they were trying.

"These tarts are great. Are you a pro or something?" Dick asks her as he took, from what he gathers his thrice piece now.

Y/N giggled, eyes widening, "No, far from it actually. I'm still learning to be better at it." She replied, shaking her head.

"What are you talking about? These scones are so great and these fillings!" Stephanie groaned, she shakes her hand with the one holding a scone.

"You must be on the field of cooking." Duke speaks up, impressed he was as well.

"No, actually but I did take cooking and baking classes back then. My mother was also a great baker, so I tried my best to learn from her. And I have learned a few things from Alfred too." Y/N answered, quite abashed at their assumptions but nonetheless basked the joy of it. Seeing them enjoy her food helped her to be at ease and calmed her worrying nerves.

"You humble yourself so." Damian remarks with nothing of offense in it but the observation of his.

"I dare say you could equally level to Alfred." Bruce says.

"Oh wow," a hand ghosted her lips, laughing a little and looked at Alfred beside her. "And rightfully so, Master Bruce." Alfred declares, patting the hand of Y/N on the table.

Alfred had the same sentiment as Bruce. Still expectedly, remain worried of her. But for now, he set those aside and let himself be present there.

In the middle of their growing conversations, Dick speaks up. "Any plans you wanna do here?"

"I'm not sure yet, actually. Explore, I suppose, if there's much to do so such as that, that is." She answered, filling her cup with tea. Truthfully, all she had in her mind was to spend time with Alfred and focused on her works, but of course, she didn't want to be a let down. And as the minute passed by she was starting to grow fonder of them.

"Oh! If you want, we could accompany you to the art galleries here, or amusement parks, or museums." Stephanie perks up, her tone not changing and Cassandra nodded to that with small smile.

"There's a beautiful botanical garden here as well and an opera house, if you're into that." Tim said after.

"It might not be that too different from London, but I guess it can count new since we can go with you?" Duke says unsurely. Y/N smiles, her head tilting at him as she feels flattered from his words, the fervor from the rest as well.

"I would love that...thank you," Her mind changed once again.

"So..." Stephanie drummed her fingers on the table, smiling cheekily and leaned in. She looked like an excited child, it made all of them looked at her. "Any significant other?"

Y/N laughed immediately, shocked by the sudden question, as so Dick, Tim, and Duke. "None at all. I'm too busy with my works and was occupied with my people back there as well. So, no." She said

"Well, isn't that a loss for a lot of people." Stephanie grinned and made Y/N laughed more that she covered her mouth, eyebrows raised at her.

"It's what they say, one's loss is a gain for another one." Dick retorted as he winked at her. Y/N now covered her face and shake from her laughing. Another undeniable antic of Grayson brushed it off with laughs. In the middle of her laughing fit, she removed her hands from her face and raised her eyes and found Jason's. His gaze already on her, amusement in his eyes and a smile starting to show. She stopped herself from laughing and bit her lip, a giggled managing to escape her mouth still.

Bruce opened the newspaper that Alfred handed to him earlier and breakfast still went on. All aware of it, their morning basked in sweets and savory, smiles and laughter, just like from what they witnessed yesterday. What pain in them, remains, but the comfort was above of it all, trying its best to keep afloat. They tried their best.

"Thank you for that great breakfast, Y/N. You should know we'll be looking for it more." Bruce says to her as he stood up from his seat. Y/N laughed, remembering what Jason said to her earlier.

"And I'm looking forward to do it again too." Y/N replied reassuringly, as she helps Alfred in gathering the dinnerware in the trays while the others did theirs too. 

"I'm afraid I'm already needed in my work, I should get ready." Bruce announced as he stared down at his phone, all the while he was walking out. "Take care!" He yelled out the hallway. And Y/N figured that to be normal of him.

"He's a busy man, huh." Y/N says to no one. A few sounds came out from them.

"Too busy for his own good actually." Dick retorts, all of them knowing Bruce had to meet with the League rather than to his usual business.

"The lot of you are, don't say so differently now, Master Richard." Alfred cuts off Dick as he passed by the said man with a sharp look in his eyes before walking out the room.

"And once again, Alfred is right." Dick nodded, knowing better than to disagree with the old man. His siblings uttered a bunch of agreements with him. Y/N took note that she was sure an exchange like this was always to happen.

"That he always is." Y/N agreed with him as she hold a tray, following Alfred short after. She arrived in the kitchen, with Alfred starting to wash some dishes again already. She stands besides him, placing the dinnerware on the side to be washed.

"Bruce wasn't kidding when he said we'll look for more of your cooking." Dick says as he walked in the kitchen with Jason behind him and Y/N walks toward the counter, to help him store the remaining untouched foods.

"And I was definitely serious when I said I look forward to it." Y/N replied, a thought occurred to her and chuckled. "Besides Alfred, is there anyone who could cook here? Because he said earlier, he allowed me to cook only because I won't burn down the kitchen."

Dick made a loud "HA!" and threw his head back. Jason only shook his head, "Besides him, it's me. Steph is not so bad, Bruce, surprisingly isn't too, though he can only do so little. I'm better than them, that's that." Jason nodded, a smug look on his face as he eyed his older brother and Dick just scoffed at him.

"I can vouch for what Master Jason said." Alfred speaks up and it made Y/N huffed out a laugh.

"But I'm sure I can say that yours is better than mine." Jason chimed before he could stop himself, he wouldn't have said something like that so easily but the taste of her cooking could not be humbled.

Y/N smiled widely, though her gaze was not on him, rather down as she places the untouched pastries on containers.

Jason caught her smile anyway, he couldn't deny to feel glad that she did.

"I'm happy to hear you say that, but please, you guys are putting me on a pedestal. I'm sure there's things I can learn from you." Y/N says so, shaking her head. A thought of them being in the kitchen learning from each other. A tug on her heart at this.

"When you all join together to cook, now that would be a feast." As if Dick read her mind.

"And I'm certain we'd have that someday." Alfred spoke. The thought of it was rather hopeful to them.

Before silence could have been placed. "Well, me and Jason have some place to be. So, we'll be leaving you two now. And thank you again, Y/N for your breakfast, you too, Al." Dick puts a hand on Jason's shoulder, no doubt that his brother will get the hint.

"Yeah, we should." Jason muttered, looking down. "Oh, take care then." Y/N bids as they walked out of the kitchen—again, surprised he was of himself. He knew what Dick meant, Y/N needed some time alone and with Alfred as well.

As they walk in the hallway, with a fixed plan for their hours of detective works. Jason tried to cut off the feeling of disappointment starting to crept in.

.

.

Bruce admits, at least to himself that he agreed to Alfred almost immediately. But that didn't mean a few things didn't cross his mind that time. He agreed because he wanted to help Alfred. Even when they are there for him, he was positive it would be better if Y/N is with him and the same goes for her.

"I agreed to let her stay here for a while." If it weren't for Alfred, they'd be already yelling at him. He was sure of that.

"Have you considered the dangers of it?" Dick asked.

"I have." Bruce answered shortly and looked at Alfred.

Alfred took a breath from his mouth before speaking, "Amelia... Amelia is a sister to me, her daughter Y/N, I consider a family as well. She's dear to me as much as you are to me. It's been long since I last saw her, she asked me if she could visit me here since she always wanted to. And now with what happened to her, to me.... She proposed to just stay at a hotel or an apartment but I don't want that for her... " Alfred tells tirelessly as he rubbed his forehead. Sighing, "I know I ask too much from you but I hope you could understand, I understand this is frustrating, no one alone but I can comprehend that, no one can blame you.... Y/N, she might be old enough to be on her own but right now, I don't want her to be, no one needs to be.... We are both grieving, I think it'd be best if we are together. But if you surely disagree with all this, then this discussion is done."

Loss is a feeling they all share and carry to this day. Heaviness, frustration, longing, they all know too familiar. It was all that could be heard and seen from Alfred.

"Before you think about it... She will stay far away from our whole bearings, and that's that." Bruce spoke, hoping that was enough.

"Just like that?" Jason asked bluntly, his gaze on the floor, he couldn't make his head look up. He couldn't bear to feel Alfred's demise, he felt for him, so much. But exasperation gnawed in him. Haunting possibilities violently colored his mind.

"I can't promise that she'll be safe from the risks here in Gotham, but I share that responsibility with Alfred in trying our best to make sure she'll be unharmed." Bruce declared, fleeting hope to fulfill those words.

"And what if she finds out?"

"I will take her back home." Alfred said clearly.

.

.

Jason closed his eyes as he looked up at the sky, erasing his thoughts from two days ago. He stepped down from his bike and walked towards his oldest brother.

"You know this is given... But I hope she doesn't find out, she's really nice, wouldn't want her to be sent back to London that fast." Dick says. While Jason wouldn't say he was just thinking about the same thing, he wouldn't deny it either.

"You're saying that as if "when" she finds out and not "if". It hasn't been even a day." Jason retorted, eyeing his brother.

But...

"Come on, Jaybird. I know you're thinking it, hell! we all are. She's gonna be staying in a place where where vigilantes live in and out for a while, one way or another she's gonna know."

Jason remained quiet until they reached a ragged door and he busted it down immediately with a strong kick.

He never hoped so much for his brother to be wrong.

"And I may or may have not seen your lingering gaze on her," Dick laughed as he took out two men without effort.

Grayson, of course, he'd be the one to say something like that. Grunting when he stopped a punch from hitting him, "Then you should get your fucking eyes checked."

He was wrong, he should have hoped more for his brother to be wrong.

"Well, surely my eyes are fine because her smile to you can't be mistaken." Dick said, all the men in the room but them laid unconscious.

Despite not putting an ounce of effort just earlier, he started to feel his heart fluttering. Maybe it was just from his brother's teasing, he supposed that was it.

"Fuck off." Jason threw, starting to investigate the place. Dick smirked as he did their routine. He knows he's getting somewhere if he was pissing off his younger brother.

"Ok but at least enlighten me-"

"I already have been." Jason chuckled dryly.

Dick rolled his eyes, releasing a 'tsk'. "Tell me, what do you like about her-

"And why would I?" Jason knew that Dick knows what he meant.

"Because you know I will just bother you with this, even if it takes a whole day." That was his big brother he knew too well.

Jason scoffed and clicked his tongue. While Dick smiled, enjoying the sight of Jason clearly struggling. That was his family, successful in tactics and whatever they're skilled at, but always struggled with the kind of situation like now that he started.

Dick was not gonna let him live this down, he knows much of that. But he can write a list of the things he's had much worse. He figures to tell the truth, or at least, just admit it to himself.

"Her smile and her laugh." His mouth betrayed him.

"My god," Dick laughed with hands on his knees, crouching a little as he stared at his brother with disbelief. "And as you said, it hasn't been even a day."

Once again, he was wrong. Nothing could be worse from his brother's teasing. He didn't want to give an answer that needed an explanation, so he picked something far more simple and truthfully did like. But what he said, clearly, he realizes this; was much more. So much more.

"I should have gone with B," Jason muttered, walking out the room.

Dick threw his head back as he laughed. He did went somewhere with him if it lead to his younger brother wishing he chose their father. He followed Jason to another room, "But I'm serious,"

"I understood you the first time."

"Yeah, then let's hope she finds out not too early." For once at this time, he agreed willingly with his brother.