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gothcsz · 20 days ago

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Safety Net: Part I | ~13.8k wc | Co-Written with @ovaryacted | Series Masterlist

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Motivated by boredom, Marcus goes on a sugar dating app and lands himself a date with you, the only person that captured his attention.

CHAPTER TAGS: MDNI/18+. NSFW. Modern AU. Sugar daddy Marcus Acacius/Sugar baby reader. Age gap [Marcus is 50/reader is 25+]. SMUT. Plot with porn. Kissing/Makeout session. Dry humping. Premature ejaculation. Oral (f! receiving). Multiple orgasms. Overstimulation. MARCUS THE MUNCH! Sexual tension. Flirting & banter. First date chronicles. Lots of plot & world building beforehand. Takes place in Chicago. Marcus uses a sugar dating app. Reader is explicitly described as a curvy woman of color: darker skin tone, curly hair texture, etc. Reader has feminine characteristics - wears dresses, heels, jewelry, & makeup. Reader is afab and able bodied. Marcus is recently divorced. Marcus comes from old money and is a businessman. Chivalry isn't dead.

A/N: This has been in the works for far too long but finally, we managed to lock in and cook up some straight heat! This is what happens when you put two yapping hoes on a doc, so we hope everyone who feens for Marcus Acacius as much as we do enjoys the fruits of our labor lol. Reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated. Support your BIPOC writers 🖤

Another lone dinner, nothing but the gritty sound of the song echoing from his record player to accompany him.

Tonight was meant to be a small victory. Marcus had enrolled in a cooking class to keep busy after the divorce, and this meal was supposed to put those new skills to use. But as he chopped, cooked, ate and cleaned, the expected satisfaction never came. Instead, a quiet boredom crept in—maybe even isolation.

It was like his body was moving on autopilot, simply going through the motions.

He brings the rim of his glass up to his lips, eyes falling down to the city below. From his penthouse, the skyline sometimes blurs beneath a soft haze of clouds, making the world below look like a dream. The wealth, the view, the opulence—it’s everything people imagine happiness to be. And yet… loneliness seeps into his bones, slowly debilitating his already precarious joy.

He assumed that divorcing from his now ex-wife would help pull him out of this stupor. They were both in agreeance that their marriage had been nothing but one out of convenience—the best thing for the both of them at that time. No romance, no passion, just a practical arrangement that worked. At least, until it didn’t.

Marcus hadn’t expected her to fight for the marriage, but he also hadn’t expected her to fixate on the prenup. One night, in the midst of her moving out, he’d overheard her gossiping on the phone with one of her friends. It would’ve gotten a lot nastier if I hadn’t gotten what I was owed.

The words hit harder than he expected. On some level, he had loved her. Not in the way a husband should love a wife, but in a way that still meant something to him. There had been care, respect, even a kind of tenderness—out of duty, maybe, but real nonetheless. He even enjoyed being a stepfather to her teenage son.

No resentment was held, not when they were about to part ways.

She was entitled to a payout, and he made sure she got it, wiring the full amount before the lawyers could sink their teeth into the process. No use in dragging things out or turning something empty into something bitter.

So they ended it quietly and swiftly. One last dinner as husband and wife, a toast to a chapter closing, and then the signing of papers that made it official.

It has been months since then, and Marcus is right where he’s always been. The same life, the same routine—just without the pretense of a marriage. He’s outgrown the bachelor lifestyle and has no interest in jumping back to it. He’s in fifties with a divorce under his belt, family business in his care, and more money than he knows what to do with.

Most men in his position would see this as a rebirth, an excuse to run wild. He’s seen it plenty—divorcees burning through their wealth to impress women half their age, indulging in recklessness until, eventually, they wonder how the fuck they lost it all.

The thought makes him scoff slightly, shaking his head as he continues to lose himself in his own mind, still gazing over the city.

Ever since word got out that he was single again, the men in his social circle have been relentless. They want him to “get back out there,” find some young thing to do more than stroke his ego and remind him he’s still got it. Their concern isn’t for his happiness—it’s for their own validation. They want him to fall in line, to indulge like they do, to prove they’re all still kings of their own little worlds.

The idea of dating brings a faint migraine thumping at his temples. No way in hell. He doesn’t have it in him to go through first date purgatory of asking the same grueling questions, only to have nothing in common with the person at the end of the night. And his work acquaintances aren’t suggesting anything so conventional, anyway.

He’s lost count of how many times they’ve invited him to strip clubs or proposed outrageous tropical getaways filled with booze and paid company. They aren’t subtle about their misogyny, either. They brag about the escorts they’ve hired, the women they’ve bought for the night, offering him contact information like they’re handing out business cards. In case you get tired of using your fist all the time, they joke.

The detachment of sex is what he finds peculiar. It’s not about pleasure, it’s about seeking validation from other men while putting another notch at their bedpost. It’s why he rarely accepts their invitations. Avoiding their outings, distancing himself as much as he can… but only to a certain degree. Unfortunately, these men are his business partners, and in his world, he wasn’t exactly given the luxury of full separation.

The act of paying for sex isn’t the problem. He doesn’t care how they get their satisfaction, really, it only grates on him when their vulgarity spills into business meetings, when corporate lunches turn into competitions over who had the best night with the most expensive woman.

Take today, for example, when a longtime partner had sidled up to him as he was headed home for the day, practically shoving the phone into Marcus’s hands.

“Met this chick on that app I was telling you about and scored myself a date tonight. She’s hot.”

Marcus resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the way this grown man was waving the information around as if it were something to boast about. He barely glanced at the screen—a woman in a tight dress posing in front of a bar. What the hell was he supposed to say to that? Congratulations?

Before he had to give an answer, the elevator doors opened. A perfect escape. He handed the phone back and muttered a quick, “Have a good weekend,” stepping out and letting the doors shut on yet another conversation he wanted no part of.

Now he’s here, two and a half glasses of whiskey deep with a curiosity that feeds off his boredom. He retreats from his reprieve at the window, walking into the living room and settling on the couch. Flipping mindlessly through TV channels, nothing seems to hold his attention.

His fingers drum against the side of the glass cup before intrigue gives way, slipping a hand into the pocket of his sweatpants. He pulls out his phone, unlocking it with a swipe of his thumb, his whiskey resting loosely in his other hand.

With furrowed brows, Marcus navigates through his phone at an infuriatingly slow pace. He squints slightly, trying to read the small text, and his large thumbs fumble across the keyboard, leaving a string of typos that have him muttering curses under his breath. He misspells the damn thing twice until finally, the name of the ridiculous app pops up in the search results.

The little loading circle spins, downloading the application to his phone. When the prompt to open it appears, he hovers, as if contemplating if this is even worth it. A few seconds pass before the liquor in his system decides for him, opening the app with a tap.

The first thing it asks is if he’s the benefactor or the beneficiary. He huffs, taking a sip of his drink, choosing his role as the sugar daddy before ultimately filling in the blanks needed for an account set up. It all feels ridiculous, but what does he have to lose?

Then he reaches the About Me section and stops. The blinking cursor taunts him, he can’t help but scowl at it, whiskey swirling in his glass as he thinks. What do you say about yourself when you don’t even know what you want?

Marcus A. 50+. Chicago. Business Owner. Not sure what to say here. First time trying something like this. I prefer a strong drink over small talk, but I appreciate good conversation with someone who has something to say.

Not his best work, but he doesn’t dwell on it. He skips through the rest of the trivial questions—religion, favorite movies, hobbies. The longer the list grows, the more tedious it feels.

Then comes the photo prompt. Somehow, this feels like the hardest part.

Marcus scrolls through his camera roll and realizes most of his photos aren’t of him at all—just landscapes from his travels, on-site projects, plenty from his trips back home to Italy, but few that actually put him in the frame.

He settles on a lone one from an important dinner a few years back. It’s stiff, formal, but at least it’s something.

When he’s done, he studies the profile. Sparse. Impersonal. He’s not exactly proud of it, but he’s not here to impress anyone. He’s here to look—nothing more.

The next hurdle? Preferences.

He frowns slightly, finishing off his drink before setting the glass on the coffee table. He sinks further into the couch, glaring at the screen.

He sets the minimum to twenty-five. Mature enough to have lived a little, young enough that he isn’t limiting himself too much. Local, of course. No sense in complicating things.

With that, he’s finally done.

Marcus isn’t sure what he expected, but the more he scrolls, the less interested he becomes.

The app is filled with beautiful women—plenty of soft smiles, sultry gazes, perfectly angled selfies. Glossy, curated versions of themselves, posed just right, filters smoothing away any perceived imperfection. He sees them in designer bikinis lounging on yachts, captions that all seem to blur together. No hookups. Fluent in sarcasm. Just here for the pay pigs.

That last one gets a quiet chuckle out of him.

Nevertheless, it’s all the same. It bores the hell out of him. He swipes left again and again and again…

He’s about to call the whole thing immature bullshit when he comes across your profile.

No forced captions, no excessive filters, no painfully obvious attempts to curate some idealized version of yourself. You have a natural confidence, an ease in the way you present yourself. The way you talk about your interests—travel, food, new experiences—it doesn’t feel like a list of things meant to impress.

And then there are your pictures.

Your hair is thick, wild with curls, framing your face in a way that makes you look like you belong in the kind of old-world paintings he admires when he’s abroad. Your brown skin, kissed with warmth, glows under the soft light of a restaurant where you’re pictured, hands wrapped around a glass of wine, a knowing, almost amused look in your eyes. There’s another shot of you at a market, caught mid-laugh as you react to something just out of frame.

Marcus exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

Damn.

He doesn’t message you. Not yet.

He told himself that this app was just for curiosity, just to look and pass the time. He hadn’t expected to actually come across someone that made him consider.

The whole damn thing feels ridiculous. He’s a grown man, successful, established. And here he is, sitting alone in his penthouse, scrolling through an app designed to find a sugar baby of all things. What the hell is he even doing?

Without thinking about it, he taps the Super Like and immediately closes out the application.

You probably have a dozen other prospects already lining up in your messages, throwing out their best lines, trying to capture your attention. He’s just another name in the mix, another notification you might just skim over before moving on.

So be it, he got it out of his system—whatever that was. Some passing curiosity, a distraction fueled by whiskey and boredom. By tomorrow, he’ll be preoccupied with work, meetings, actual obligations, and the whole thing will be nothing more than a brief lapse of judgment. Maybe he should save himself the trouble and just delete the damn app now, wipe his profile along with it before he even has the chance to regret it.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he sighs, pushing himself up from the couch, stretching out the stiffness in his shoulders before making his way toward the bedroom. His night routine is as methodical as everything else.

Yet, as he settles into bed, he finds himself thinking about you and how for a moment, he had felt something he hadn’t in a long time—intrigue.

The next day flies by quickly for Marcus, swamped with the countless meetings lined up for him at the architectural firm. Overseeing a new development in the city took whatever time he might’ve thought he had, his poor assistants making multiple trips to the coffee shops nearby as the day progressed. He was already greatly familiar with the boost of caffeine running through his veins, growing more on edge with every file that lands on his desk.

By the time he got home, he was damn near slumping against his front door, tossing his keys in the trinket tray by the foyer, tugging off his blazer and throwing it over the edge of the couch while dragging his tired feet to the kitchen. Yanking on his tie and popping it off with one swift pull, he removes his cufflinks and folds the sleeves of his button down up to his forearms, plucking a few of the buttons from his collar to finally allow himself to breathe.

Reaching over to one of the cabinets, he grabs himself a glass, dropping in some ice cubes and taking his favorite brand of whiskey, filling it halfway. The headache building at his temples ebbs away as he gulps down the amber liquid, palms resting on the granite countertop under him. He merely stares at the stone, eyes blank and now deep in thought. A frustrated exhale leaves his aquiline nose, running a hand through his graying curls as the stress of the day radiates through every cell in his body.

He knows he should probably just order something for dinner tonight over cooking, his mind too fried to put together an ingredient list, and the thought of washing dishes was enough to force the decision for him.

Marcus refills his glass and takes his phone to the living room, turning on the TV and leaving the news to play for some background noise as he sorts through his options of what he might be able to stomach.

What was he even in the mood for? Italian? Korean? Chinese? Some lo-mein sounds good, maybe with an egg-roll or two? Yeah, that sounds about fine.

He calls his order in, finding some spare cash and picks it up from the lobby. He didn’t bother to remove his leather shoes when he took the elevator 50 floors down for the handoff, coming back up the same way until he was munching into an egg-roll covered in duck sauce on the couch.

Food long gone and the glass coffee table now cleared of his takeout, the gold watch on Marcus’ wrist reads 10:30 pm when he finds himself weary of the late night news turned mediocre comedy segment. Grabbing his phone and pinning a few emails for him to read over in the morning, he swipes to his apps menu, spotting the new dating application he had completely forgotten about since setting up his profile the night before.

Fuck it, what the hell.

With no thought, Marcus opens the app for a second time, watching the icon load on the screen before he lands on the main page. Swiping to the chats section, his screen explodes with the 99+ Super Likes he had gotten over the past 24 hours. Yet, he could care less of the other profiles he has to sort through. The only match that loads on his screen is from your account, an unread message he had gotten no notification of despite it sitting idly in his inbox for a day. Nervously, he taps at the message box, your icon popping up on the screen along with what you had sent last night.

“So you’re just going to super like my account and not say anything?”

The corner of his lip twitches when he reads that over, his eyes scanning over the sentence more than once with a raised eyebrow. His brain short-circuits as he tries to find a suitable response that doesn’t make a fool of himself. He’s positive he already looks like an idiot by having an account in the first place, but he’s gotten this far, might as well stick around.

After a few minutes of typing and deleting a singular sentence, he triple checks his spelling until he’s satisfied with what he came up with before hitting send.

Marcus A.: “Must’ve missed the chat option when I hit your profile. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting, I’m new to this whole thing.”

His screen updates with the dot under your profile turning green, a sign that you were active again. You definitely saw his message, and the three little dots he notices at the bottom make his pulse spike, anxiously waiting for what else you had to say to him.

“That’s okay. Figured you had other things going on. You look like a guy that has a lot on their plate, Mr. Businessman.”

Now he was smirking.

Marcus A.: “You have no idea.” He typed the reply and sent it, and you responded just as quickly.

“Try me.”

Should he talk about what he has to deal with on a daily basis with his work? Bore you with how he oversees the blueprints of different construction plans throughout the city and has extensive meetings that last all day? So much for a lasting first impression.

Marcus A.: “I wouldn’t want to bother you with work stuff. It’s not all that interesting.”

“I don’t mind really. I’m a little curious to know what takes up all of your time. Must be something serious if you’re all stressed out.”

No harm in being honest right?

Marcus A.: “Well, usually I have a lot of meetings and paperwork to handle while conducting new building developments in the city. But today was particularly hectic, I was swamped all day, probably drank way more coffee today than I had all year.”

Was that good enough? Not too much, not too little. Didn’t come off as petulant or like he wanted pity. This isn’t too bad, at least Marcus thinks so considering you were working on your reply.

“Sounds like a lot of intense work, lots of brain power. At least you have a team to help you out, takes a bit of the strain off your back. Hope you’re relaxing a bit now.”

Marcus A.: “Yeah, got home late but had some dinner. Just watching the news before I repeat the cycle tomorrow. How was your day?”

Bingo. Perfect bait and switch.

“Boring, honestly. Work was alright for the most part, finished a bit early. Ate a few hours ago, and was reading something before bed when I saw your message.”

Oh? Another avid reader?

Marcus A.: “What do you like to read?”

“A mix of things. Non-Fiction, Sci-Fi, History, Romance. It depends on my mood really, but right now it’s Circe by Madeline Miller.”

Marcus A.: “I read that a while back, it’s a pretty good book. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“It definitely has my interest. I hit the halfway mark, so maybe I'll keep you updated once I finish it. :)”

Somehow, he wasn’t opposed to the idea.

Marcus A.: “I wouldn’t mind listening to your thoughts about it.”

The three little dots appear for a second before vanishing. Marcus stares at the screen for a beat longer, hoping it wasn’t just a fluke. Maybe he scared you off? Said the wrong thing, or something finally gave away just how out of touch he was to all of this. At this rate, he might as well get 50 & Divorced tattooed on his forehead in bright red ink.

There was no point in stressing out about this anymore, it’s late anyway, close to midnight and past his conscious bedtime. Switching the TV and lights off in the living room, he quickly showers and rinses the day off. Changing into some fleece pants and a baggy gray shirt, he brushes his teeth and spits out his mouthwash, flicking off the light as he steps into his bedroom.

As he slips into his too-big king sized bed, he untucks the cream sheets and rests his head on one of the many pillows, glaring up at the ceiling with a huff. Turning over to his side, he catches the lights of the downtown area reflecting by the window, trying his best not to think about how cold and empty the other side of his bed remained. With a sigh, he eases into slumber, hoping that whatever tomorrow brings will be significantly better than today.

The next day in his week was thankfully less hectic, but instead of document packets, his phone had been going off all day speaking to clients, other business partners, and suppliers. And that was only counting Chicago. He got other additional calls from properties in New York, Los Angeles, and now some new construction he’s attempting to get signed off in Miami. He was so preoccupied with his business phone that his personal device was left untouched for the majority of the day.

It was 8:00 pm when Marcus walks through the front doors of his penthouse, repeating the same mundane pattern of tending to his needs and finding something to keep himself occupied until he fell asleep. In the back of his head, he remembers the brief conversation he had with you last night, curiosity getting the best of him as he wonders if you left him something to read over this morning.

Tensely, he opens up the dating app, heading straight to his inbox to click on your unread message from 18 hours ago.

“Maybe I’ll send you a full book review. Put it in an episode of a podcast. I think it would do numbers.”

The circle on your icon is green now, and he rapidly types something so he doesn’t lose this momentum.

Marcus A.: “Forgive me for the terrible response time, I had another busy day in the office, dealing with non stop phone calls this time.”

The three little dots turn up again, and Marcus sighs in relief.

“No worries. You have things to handle, just part of being a working adult.”

If he wants to take his shot, he knows his best chance is to do it now.

Marcus A: “Actually, I’d like to get your number, if that’s alright. Me and this app don’t mix well. I wouldn’t want to give you the wrong idea and make you think you were being ignored.”

You begin typing before you disappear, the green circle now turning gray. He scared you off, maybe even gave you the ick when that was the last thing he wanted. Marcus was just doomed from the start, and getting on this app was a mistake. What would you even really want to do with an old man like him? It’s pitiful really.

Anxiously, he shuts his phone off and storms off into his bedroom, throwing some water on his face and getting into bed once more. He probably should’ve just went to sleep and left you alone, but his hands itch to see if you answered him. Twisting to get his phone from his bedside table and reopening the app, the empty space in his chest flutters when he sees you had left him a very clear yes with your entire phone number, right there for him to take it.

Copying and pasting your number into his phone, he sent you a quick text letting you know it was him, and you reassured him this was no problem, that you hated the app with a burning passion.

“I’m guessing it’s close to your bedtime now?”

Marcus A: “Unfortunately, I’m an old man remember? But, my phone will be on me tomorrow, so I’ll be around if you want to chat some more.”

“Sure thing, I’ll be around too. Don’t want to keep you up so I’ll let you go. Goodnight Marcus.”

He likes the way you say his name, type it out like it’s yours to say. With one last “goodnight”, his phone is off and his face is digging into the pillow underneath. For once, he is looking forward to tomorrow, and secretly hopes that you’d still be interested in talking some more. Maybe, he might just end up lucky.

Marcus quickly realizes he enjoys talking with you; at least when you both had the time to converse with each other, it was better than scrolling aimlessly on his phone. Texting is convenient for the most part when he can, sending little questions about you here and there, and you feed him breadcrumbs, still holding some control over how you want him to perceive you. He doesn’t mind, he’s mostly on your time, and if you want to play the cat and mouse game, he’ll play.

It was actually you that asked to call him the first time, a laconic talk just to hear his voice, to get a feel of him. Marcus didn’t know what to think of how you reacted to the way he spoke, but he knows hearing your voice might’ve been the catalyst to his growing interest in you. The conversation was short-lived, but it was good to hear you on the other end.

He has enough confidence to call you again later on in the week after work, a more extensive recap of both of your days. In the midst of laughing at a stupid joke he’s made, he’s thinking of the best way to formally ask you out. He’d been mulling over it for the past few days as you both tiptoed on getting to know one another, and he knows if he wants to take his shot, it has to be now.

“Out of curiosity, are you free Friday night?” He inquires, holding his phone close to his ear, anticipating every word you say.

“I might be, unless I just happened to forget my plans. Why?”

Shooter’s shot.

“I wanted to take you out to dinner. There’s this steakhouse downtown by Kinzie Street, really nice food, intimate setting, expensive wine or cocktails if that’s your thing. Think it would be a good time.”

“You had me at cocktails.” You both chuckled at that notion. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Does 7 work for you?”

“Make it 7:30. A girl needs time to get ready, Marcus. First impressions matter y’know?” It was his turn to laugh despite his hands sweating.

“Then I’ll come by at 7:30 and pick you up. Unless you want to go on your own, I can arrange a ride for you.”

You hummed on the other end of the line, contemplating your choices. Probably assessing what was the smartest way of getting out of the situation if things were to go horribly wrong.

“A ride to the place might be better. You don’t need to see me full of anxiety so early in the night.”

“Well, I want to see you either way. I’ll have my driver pick you up, alright? How does that sound?”

“Sounds perfect. It’s a date then.” There was no question or doubt from you, and he’s glad you were the one that determined what the occasion was.

“It’s a date. I’ll see you Friday night.”

The call ends, and Marcus missed how intense his heart had been beating in his ribcage the entire time. Setting a reminder to call the restaurant tomorrow to place the reservation, he spots the time on his phone screen blinking 11:45 pm on a Wednesday. Two more days until he gets to meet you face to face, and the thought alone brings an eerie sense of restlessness to his stomach.

He’s made it this far, there’s no way he could fuck this up, right?

Friday night rolls around, and the anxiety that’s been bubbling in Marcus’ gut since he asked you out to dinner rears its ugly head. He spent a significantly longer time getting ready, making sure to fit a haircut in during his lunch break and left some room for a beard trim after his extensive shower. Hyper focused on making the most ideal first impression, he dabbles some scented aftershave on his neck and mixes it in with a few spritz of his signature cologne, double checking to ensure it isn’t too overwhelming.

Sorting through the multitude of suits hanging in his closet, Marcus decides that sticking to what he knows would be the best thing for him. He pulls out a classic black suit set and matching dress shoes, foregoing a tie and leaving the first button undone, the skin of his neck slightly visible from the opening. Clicking his golden cufflinks into their designated slots, he finishes his look for the night with his golden watch on his left wrist and slipping on the emerald signet ring on his right pinkie. Before stepping out the door, he takes the bouquet of long stemmed roses he picked out for you, giving his styled curly hair a look over and walking out the front door.

Regardless of how put together he appears, he is anything but composed. Finding himself way out of his comfort zone, his lack of experience in the dating department catches up with him on his drive downtown. His phone rings with a message from you letting him know you’ve been picked up and will be meeting him soon. It was 7:15 pm when you sent that text, and the lump in his throat worsens his breathing the closer 7:30 pm comes.

He’s been mentally preparing for your arrival for the past ten minutes, repeatedly staring down at his watch or his phone to see if you’ve said anything else to him since your last message. Waiting out front, roses in hand, his mind resets to his default settings of methodical overthinking once it hits 7:35 pm.

Did you stand him up? No, maybe something happened on the commute. Must be sudden traffic, it is a Friday night after all. Or you finally came to your senses and your cold feet convinced you to turn his car around and head in the opposite direction.

By 7:40 pm, the familiar view of one of his Escalades rolling into the driveway quiets his mind, brown eyes focusing solely on the figure that steps out from the vehicle.

He is immediately struck.

The dress you’ve chosen is sinful in its simplicity—long-sleeved, form-fitting black fabric hugging every curve, sculpting you like it was made for your body alone. The light jacket you wear does little to hide your figure underneath it; the dress flows over your hips and clings to your waist, cuts off right above your knee leaving your calves bare for him to admire, not to mention the neckline teases just low enough to show the swells of your breasts.

Your curls are pulled back in a half-up style that showcases your beautiful features accentuated by your makeup, leaving the delicate slope of your neck bare—an invitation, a temptation. The golden accents—your earrings, your rings, and the necklace that rests against your collarbone—catch in the evening light, making your warm brown skin glow like you’re drenched in sunlight.

He swallows hard, his grip tightening around the bouquet in his hand as he watches you step forward, poised and self-assured, utterly unaware of the effect you have on him.

He’s staring. He knows he is, yet he can’t help it.

Because right now, with the city lights flickering behind you and that unreadable expression on your face as you scan the area for him, you look like something ethereal. Like a star that shot down from the sky and landed right in front of him, impossibly real, impossibly his for the night.

He stands frozen in awe of you until your glossy lips move, talking to him in the flesh.

“Marcus, right?” you ask, holding on to your purse with one hand. “I’m so sorry for being late, the traffic was more active than usual. I hope I didn’t ruin anything?”

He finally finds his voice in the next couple of blinks.

“No, it’s alright. It’s a Friday night, I forget everyone else has plans set.” That gets you to laugh, and he exhales at the break in tension. “You look beautiful.” It’s sincere as he says it, and from the way you smile at his words, he thinks he’s doing something right.

“You don’t clean up too bad yourself.” You were a witty one, at least from the tone of your voice and demeanor, he can tell this wasn’t your first rodeo. “You didn’t have to get me flowers.”

“I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I came empty handed. A little birdie told me that first impressions matter, remember?” The corner of your mouth curls up at the way he echoes your words from two nights ago, a light chuckle escaping you. He extends his arm to hand you the bouquet, observing your reaction as he did so.

“They’re lovely, thank you,” your voice softens as you speak to him, a faint warmth settling on your cheeks under your makeup.

“Of course. Ready to go inside?” He suggests, and with a nod you take a step forward to the restaurant’s entrance.

As the hostess ushers you through the restaurant, Marcus keeps the steady weight of his palm on your lower back, just the right amount of pressure to not seem too forceful. You are brought to a more quiet section of the place, a few other dining patrons nearby but limited in number. The setting is intended to be intimate with the dim warm-toned lighting, a mixture of stone and archived pictures of an industrialized Chicago decorating the walls around you.

The hostess steps away once you reach your table, and Marcus swiftly helps you remove your thin jacket, placing it on the edge of your chair and pulling it out for you to take a seat, pushing you in afterward. Now situated in your designated place, the older man steps around you, watching him as he undoes the front button of his suit jacket before sitting down, looking in your direction and offering a gentle smile. Mimicking his expression, you drop the flowers at the center of the table, feeling the delicate tablecloth in front of you.

“Have you been here before?” He queries once you are both settled, a waiter coming by to fill your glasses with water.

“No, I’ve been trying to score a reservation here for months but I heard it’s been booked out way in advance. Not entirely surprised you found a way to grab a table so quickly, but color me shocked.”

“I’m a man of many talents. It’s a good thing you found me when you did.” The same waiter from before returns to pass the menu, prepared to give the tailored list of the chef’s specials for the night. “Feel free to indulge. Get whatever you like.”

As tempting as the invitation is, you are more than conscious of what you order off the menu. Playing it safe with a classic salad, a hearty steak, and two glasses of wine that leave you satisfied in terms of appetite. Marcus surprisingly does a good job of keeping you engaged throughout the night with simple conversation, easing into the comfortably of letting his curiosity speak for itself with the questions he asks. Though, he quickly comes to realize you’re charismatic with your responses, almost trained to know what to expect, how to answer and the tone you should be using.

It’s by the time the entree hits your table and you finish your first glass of wine that you loosen up, flipping his questions back to him, finding out more about his career, who he is, his likes and dislikes. Your grin widens more with every sip of your drink, pacing yourself to be sensible in your consumption while you eat.

Now almost finished with your second glass of expensive red, you swirl the last drops that pool at the bottom of the glass. You glance at him from across the table, eyeing him closely with a hint of mischief. He mirrors your expression, his cheek dimpling as he looks at you from the other end.

“You’re an awfully observant man, Marcus.” You remark, a slight edge to your voice, glossy lips staining the rim of your glass as you finish off your drink.

“When something is deserving of my attention, I have a habit of not cheapening out.” He playfully shrugs, his glass running empty a while ago, declining a refill as he’s taking it easy tonight. “Are you in the mood for dessert?”

Whether he meant the next course or something else, that was for him to know and for you to find out. Though, as enticing the prospect is to take it there, you don’t want to misread the situation beyond what it is.

“I actually don’t think I have room for anything else, the steak did a number on me.” An upbeat giggle pours out of you, and he laughs along with you.

“Then unless you want another glass of wine, I can ask for the check. Or…” his voice drifts off, the suspense grabbing your attention.

“Or?” That’s when he sees it, a spark of intrigue that fills him with a boldness he’s been harboring since sitting down at this table.

“Or you can join me for a drink, back at my place, if you’d like of course. If not, I can drop you off at home before heading back to mine.” Marcus is asking you to go back home with him, at least that’s what he thinks. Yet, it almost seems like it’s more than a suggestion, but a subdued command. Not that you’re complaining, you were hoping he’d ask at some point.

“Sure, I wouldn’t mind another drink.”

He tries to hide his surprise at your answer, but after seeing the faint gleam in your eye, his cheek dimples once more.

With a quick gesture of his hand, Marcus whips out his black card and covers the tab, his palm taking its place on our tailbone as you both walk out of the restaurant together. His tinted Escalade rolls onto the street, and he steps to the side to let you in first, closing the door behind him and setting his address as the next destination. Throughout the ride, there is a comfortable distance between you, stuck on opposite ends in the backseat, throwing each other side glances when looking away from the window, a smile here and there. Still, he keeps his hands to himself, thick fingers thrumming on his lap and you hold your bag in yours, the anticipation of seeing where the older man lived incrementing inside you.

Twenty minutes later and a brief dinner recap, he extends his hand to help you out of the car, faintly squeezing your fingers as he does. He remains steadfast in keeping his touch on your lower back as he guides you through the lobby hall, the doorman greeting you both whilst passing him.

Entering the elevator, he taps part of his key on the scanner and presses the PH button at the very top of the selection, what you assume to be the penthouse. He gives you a knowing look, a gleam in his eyes as you’re sent up higher in this modernized building.

Crossing through the hallway that awaits you once the elevator doors open, you are brought to a pair of double doors. Allowing Marcus to formally unlock the door, you step into his space for the first time, and you can’t help the gasp that slips out of you.

Guided through the foyer of his apartment, you find high rise ceilings and earthy tones surrounding you, hints of creams and metallic accents left everywhere to find. The kitchen is fully decked out with modern stainless steel appliances and light wooden cabinets, a marble island taking the empty space in the middle. The open concept layout allows you to see the living room, sunken into the floor at a lower level, spotting a plush dark brown L shaped couch with smaller cream cushions behind a deep wooden coffee table, paired with a twin set of auburn armchairs and an overarching lamp between them. A fireplace is built into the accent wall, a plasma screen TV seamlessly hanging in contrast to the wooden panels that cover that portion of the room.

You can tell there is probably more for you to discover, another hallway that would allow you passage to an office or his bedroom, but that will be left for another day. What really catches your eye is the wall of books to the farthest side of the room, close to the frosted windows and balcony that grant a perfect view of the Chicago Loop area at night. The shelving carries a catered collection of works that were found over the years, and your curiosity piques to see what titles he might have in there.

The space is gorgeous, surprisingly warm and inviting, simultaneously masculine and calming. A harmonization of colors and textiles all in one space. You envy him just a tad for having such a nice apartment, though you might consider this one to be the best interior you’ve seen so far.

“What do you think? Hopefully it’s not too much,” you hear Marcus utter from behind you, taking off his suit jacket and hanging it off to the side. He offers to take off your overcoat, allowing his hands to lightly caress over your shoulders as he tugs the layer off, hanging it next to his. He also grasps the bouquet you’re holding, setting it down on the table closest to the door to grab later on your way out.

“I think you’re a man of fine taste for both exteriors and interiors.” You continue to marvel at your current backdrop. “Did you design all of this too?”

“Partially. Worked with an interior designer to figure out the dimensions of things, what exactly I needed to achieve my vision. But for the most part, the colors, textures and where everything goes was all me. The sunken living room was definitely my idea, did not sit well with the building managers but they came around.”

“I’m amazed you managed to get away with that.”

“You pick up a few things here and there the more you learn about the industry.” He looks at your side profile for a second before he speaks again. “Do you still want that drink?”

“That depends. What do you have?” You turn on your heel to face him, a coy smile on your pretty face.

“Anything really. Wine, whiskey, I can mix a drink for you if you’d prefer that.” For some reason, the potential of seeing Marcus make a drink tugs at your chest. Taking a second to think of a solid option, you settle on a reasonable cocktail.

“You know how to make a whiskey sour?” You watch the way his face quirks up at your choice of drink.

“Sure do. Make yourself at home.”

Marcus wanders off to the kitchen where he has what looks to be a whole bar built into a portion of the sectioned off room. You walk around the space he’s tailored to be his, running your fingertips over the edge of the couch and admiring the paintings hanging on the wall by the bookshelves. Scanning over the varying book titles, you note the multiple accounting and real estate books, some shelves primarily only having that with the rest filled with classics you recall him mentioning to you in passing.

The sound of ice shaking forces your attention back to Marcus whose focus was primarily in making your drink. From the corner of your eye, you see he has his sleeves rolled up his forearm, his bicep flexing as he holds the shaker in his broad hand, moving it with efficiency, a curl falling over his forehead from the effort. You look away when he pops the top off of the shaker, hoping he didn’t see you ogling him longer than you should have.

Playing clueless, your eyes land on a certain part of his book collection, titles relating to history and the world catching your eye, global wars and conquests amongst other things. You were too busy scanning the spines of the different books to notice Marcus observing you as he walked in your direction with a glass in each of his hands. Turning once you feel his presence by your side, you whisper a thank you and take your drink, tentatively sipping through the small straw he offered you, to taste the perfect mix of lime and aged rye.

“How is it? I eased up on the whiskey, figured you wouldn’t want something too strong.”

“You should’ve done bartending instead of real estate. Bet you would be a hit with the ladies, make a hell of a lot of tips.” Marcus chuckles, a pleasant sound that emits through him.

“Guess the mixing classes are paying off.”

A coltish smirk lands on your face in amusement, tilting your head to the bookshelf to grab his attention. “Wouldn’t take you as a history buff.”

“What can I say? I like learning about the world, the past shaping the present and influencing the future. Plus, it keeps me well rounded as one would say, pairs well with traveling.” You hum with a nod, pointing to a specific title you notice.

“SPQR: A History of Ancient Rome by Mary Beard. I was obsessed with Ancient Rome when I was a kid, well that and mythology. Sort of ironic considering you’re from there, you’d fit in.”

“It’s a special interest of mine, but I’m curious about the history of the general area, besides what’s been passed down by family members.” He states casually, letting you wander around a bit more before heading to the couch in his living room, his hand instantly holding yours as you step down into the sunken floor along the way.

With every sip of your cocktail, you find yourself more entranced by Marcus, your eyes drawn to the muscles in his arm contracting when he takes a gulp of his whiskey. Time flies by as you converse more with him, the ice melting in your glass as you sit your empty cup on the coffee table. Your heels are now somewhere scattered on the floor, legs folded over one another as you lean into the couch on your side, facing your date. He stays seated on the corner of the couch, body angled towards the fireplace and his legs spread with his hands on his leg as he listens to you talk.

“You never mentioned it, you know, why you’re on the app to begin with. You don’t seem like the kind of man to bother with this whole sort of thing.”

“And why do you think that?” He twists his head to look at you, curious in your reasoning.

“You’re too smart to be bullshitting around with anything, and I think relationships are the same. Something happened along the way, no?”

Ah, there it is, the feared question. Why was he on that app? Originally it was a joke, he wasn’t taking it seriously, and yet here he is, sitting on the couch with someone from a sugar daddy app of all places. He could lie to you, say he just wanted some company for the night just to save his own ass. But one look at your face and he knew the last thing he wanted to do was use the usual facade that fed the void in his chest.

He pauses for a beat before finding his words.

“I was married for a few years. The divorce was finalized a few months ago, but feels like it happened way before that.”

“I’m sorry, Marcus.” Your palm flies to his knee in a supporting pat, the action not lost to him as warmth springs from your touch for a moment before taking it back.

“There’s nothing to apologize for. Things just didn’t work out, it wasn’t in the cards.” He fidgets with the ring on his right hand, a nervous tick he’s adopted over time as the air thickens in the room. Moving the spotlight from himself, he flips the question to you. “And what about you? Why were you on the app?”

“Honestly, I forgot I still had an account after doing this a few times, never really worked out in the past. I was about to deactivate my profile when I saw your super like. Didn’t want to pass up the opportunity, so I answered. Besides, I was curious about you.”

“You must’ve had hundreds of profile matches at that point.” You chortle under your breath.

“Oh, please. You open the app and it’s just all up in your face. It’s so…overwhelming. But if it’s any comfort, you were the only account I liked back.”

Marcus’ neck pivots to peer at you, sincere in your confession to him. He fights the urge to have his lips curve upwards, instead he shifts his gaze back down to the floor with a shake of his head.

“You flatter me.”

“I’m serious,” you jest, straightening your back and jokingly slapping his bicep. “You’re sitting here acting like you didn't have hundreds of likes coming out of the woodworks.”

“Seeing that high number took me off guard, I’m surprised my phone didn’t glitch from it and I was spared from getting a headache. But I didn’t really care much for the rest. I liked your account and turned my phone off, called it a day.”

Your eyes bore on to Marcus’ face, staring at him incredulously. “You didn’t.”

“I did. Lots of beautiful women on there, don’t get me wrong. However, I’m more particular about what I like.” He ogles at you, as if he needed to make it any more obvious he found you attractive. The thought brings heat to your cheeks, the alcohol doing wonders to lower your inhibitions.

Your sight detours to his hand where his thumb runs over the emerald signet ring on his pinkie, your curiosity getting the best of you.

“What’s with the ring?” You jut your chin out to point to the shiny piece of jewelry.

“Family heirloom. Been in my family since my grandfather, went to my father, and now passed down to me. Just something I mess with often.”

“Can I see it?” You move your hand towards him, suggesting that you want to see the emerald piece up close.

Marcus offers you his hand, your fingers grazing his palm as you look at the ring. He tries his best not to think too much about the way your touch feels, how your soft fingers sweep his calloused ones as you examine the way the ring circles around his thick digit, running your thumb over the emerald stone at the center.

To his disbelief, you bring his hand to your cheek, his knuckles caressing over your jaw and ear before guiding it towards your neck. The knuckle of his pointer finger rasps the front of your throat and the divot of your collarbone, your fingers circling his wrist and slowly bringing his touch down the middle of your chest. His heart pounds in his ribs when you drag his hand over your midriff before placing it on your waist, comfortably laying on your hip and he gives you a nervous squeeze.

Swiftly, you shift your position on the couch, bending on your knees to crawl towards his lap. Marcus watches you the entire time, leaning backwards and letting you get situated with zero protest. The end of your dress rides up your thighs slowly, your hands on his chest, sensing the tension radiating off of him in waves. He keeps both of his hands on your waist, his head angled back to hold your gaze, concealing the groan that threatens to escape from feeling your body over his.

“Is this okay?” You ask, seeing him nod. “Marcus…” you entice him with a whisper, leaning towards him, the tips of your noses edging together. “I really want to kiss you.”

Marcus’ eyebrows shoot up to his forehead as he gawks at you, slightly tipsy from your earlier drink coursing through your veins. He’s considerate enough to keep his hands on your waist, holding you steady as you stare at him with stars in your vision.

“Can I kiss you? Please?” You press yourself against him, one hand on his chest as your words captivate him. His focus lingers in your hazy eyes, then drifts to your lips, watching how they part subconsciously with every breath. Succumbing to his desires, he nods again, and you tip forward to slot your mouth over his.

It’s the lightest of pecks, brief and sweet enough to not overwhelm either of you, a test of boundaries. You briskly pull away, carefully watching Marcus’ reaction, reading his body language to see whether or not he wants to pause or keep going. He squeezes your waist, and that is all the initiative you need to kiss him again.

With a faint grin, you offer him another peck, then another, and another. After every kiss, the gloss on your lips fades and transfers to his mouth, and by the fourth peck, he pinches your chin and brings you forward to kiss you with more intention. Your body ignites with the prolonged feel of his mouth against yours, the curve in your spine deepens and your hands move on their own.

Marcus lets you lead him into the kiss, following your pace and sighing in content when your fingers thread through the hair on his nape, tugging the strands a little to angle his head differently. A groan rumbles in his chest from your touch, taking advantage of this position and teasing your tongue over his bottom lip, signaling you want to taste more of him.

Granting you passage, his mouth opens to welcome your tongue, curling around his own and keeping your grip on him. Slanting your head to the side to get the right angle, your body inches nearer as your hips press over his. Without much thought, his hands move up your back, the feel of his palms a comfort against your heated skin, trailing lower to cup your ass. The action forces you to gasp, pulling away to find darkened brown eyes staring at you carefully and bringing his hands back to your waist, the start of an apology dying on his lips before you interrupted him. “It’s okay, Marcus. You can touch me.” You coax his hand down to your lower back, fingers intertwined with his and urging him to squeeze your tender flesh. “I want you to touch me.”

He doesn’t need any more convincing, the desire he’s been carrying all night dominates the rest of his self-doubt. Palming your ass with one hand and keeping the other on your side, he swoops in for another passionate kiss, more comfortable in initiating this time around. You simply let him have it, the edge of your dress riding up your thighs as your hips settle over his, the center of you pulsing after another greedy squeeze.

The need for his attention grows more ravenous as you sit prettily over his lap, carding your fingers through his graying strands. Discreetly, your hips hesitantly shift over his hips, feeling the evident bulge developing under your thigh. Marcus bites your bottom lip at your slight movement, pushing his hips closer to yours as his cock hardens in his slacks.

Plucking your lips away from his, you litter kisses over his cheek and the side of his jaw, nipping at the juncture where his jaw meets his neck. He grunts when you finally reach his neck, gliding your tongue over the vein that pulses along with the rest of him. Head thrown back on the edge of the couch, he lets you touch him however you want, kneading your rear with his thick fingers, skimming over more of your bare skin as your dress moves higher up your body.

It all feels too good, the realization of just how touch deprived he is hits him like a ton of bricks. Here you are sitting on his lap, grinding against him in such a way he can feel your heat through his clothes, your scent wafting under his nose with your close proximity. It’s almost too much for him to take.

And he doesn’t want you to stop.

Controlling your movements over him, you adopt a steady rhythm gyrating your body against his thighs, his hands encouraging you with every push and pull. Your panties begin to stick to you, the gluttony enrapturing you growing to new heights as the erection hidden under expensive material twitches the harder you grind. Decorum out of the window, Marcus fantasizes what it must feel like to be between your legs; imagines if you taste just as sweet as you smell, or if your cunt would tighten and clench around him when he brought you to the edge over and over again until the only thing you remembered was his name.

His own imagination paired with your incessant humping forces his body to hit his peak prematurely, shuddering under you with a rasped groan. You’re stunned as his body betrays him, the bump in his pants deflating once the wave of pleasure is done washing over him, his grip tightening around your hips.

The air around you crackles despite the silence, stiff as you observe the man underneath you trying to catch his breath. You can tell he wasn’t expecting this to happen, much less to feel so much he ended up spilling in his briefs from a little bit of kissing and movement. His bearded cheeks are shaded with hints of pink and his eyes distantly off to the side, avoiding your observant gaze.

“Fuck, I am so sorry,” Marcus starts, the self deprecating thoughts running rampant in his head from his mediocre performance.

He curses himself, thinking he should’ve been better prepared for this, maybe jerked off before the date to begin with in hopes he would last longer. This certainly is a first for him, coming prematurely like a fucking teenager was not something he’s known for, and should be reason enough to bury him six feet under from the embarrassment.

“Don’t be. Honestly, it’s kind of flattering,” you affirm bashfully as the last bits of your arousal settle in your gut. “I think it’s hot.”

“Really?” Marcus flexes his eyebrows, seeking your reassurance.

“Feeling so good you just couldn’t help yourself? It’s sexy. I’ll take it as a compliment,” you express, kissing him sweeter than you had for the past thirty minutes. “I can clean you up if you want…”

Your hushed words make his cock twitch again despite already making a mess in his briefs. His mind is going into overdrive, envisioning you on your knees, pretty mouth wrapped around his length and your manicured nails handling the rest.

Next time.

“No, it’s alright. I’d rather repay the favor.” Sure, it might’ve appeared to be a form of damage control, but the reality is he’s developed a craving that only you could satisfy.

“You don’t have to Marcus, it’s fine really. I don’t mind.”

“I’m not the kind of man to leave a woman unsatisfied. Not in my character.” He kisses you again, reviving the same familiar pulse from between your legs. “Let me make you feel good.”

A whimper threatens to slip past your lips, but you swallow it down. From the way he kissed your lipstick off, you wondered what it would feel like to have his mouth on another part of you, granting you something you desperately needed since getting in the car from the restaurant. Reason had already left your mind a while ago, and your body spoke of your intentions before you confirmed them yourself, muttering an airy okay with a nod.

You barely register how smoothly he maneuvers you, the shift so seamless it feels like second nature. You’re sinking into the couch, your back meeting the plush cushions as he takes control.

Marcus doesn’t rush. He never does. Not in business, not in conversation, and certainly not in bed.

But right now, with you spread out on his couch, looking at him like you’re daring him to take whatever he wants, he feels something hungry unravel inside him.

He moves with intention, mouth against yours in a deep, passionate kiss. Your spine arches, breasts pressed up against his chest, fingers ghosting over his shoulders, clenching when he drags his lips from yours to your jaw, then down your neck.

You smell divine.

He lingers at your neck as he inhales against your skin, your perfume an aphrodisiac that disorients him, fogging his mind. It makes a groan vibrate deep in his chest, the sound sending goosebumps over your skin, your nipples hardening beneath the fabric of your dress.

Marcus cups your tits in his large hands, relishing the weight of them, the way they fill his palms so perfectly. He squeezes, kneading the satin-covered flesh, his thumbs dragging over stiffened peaks.

His deep exhale fans over your plump breasts before he continues downward, dragging slow, open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat. His facial hair grazes your skin, a delicious contrast to the softness of his lips.

He licks the swells of your chest, teeth nipping at the supple skin, making you yelp playfully and you can feel the small smirk that pulls at his lips before he moves lower, veiled brown eyes flitting up to your flustered face as his tongue mouths your nipple over the dress, biting down on it softly.

“You like that?” He asks, already knowing the damn answer, the satin dampening beneath his tongue as he flicks and sucks at the hardened bud.

“Yes, Marcus…” The breathy sigh of his name is like music to his ears, neck tilting back as your eyes flutter close when he repeats the action on your other breast, kneading its twin in his large hand.

“You are so gorgeous.”

He shifts again, going lower, pushing the skirt of your pretty dress up until it’s bunched at your waist. His palms are warm and firm as he trails kisses above your mound, teasing you with his descent. Your thighs twitch under his touch, anticipation buzzing through you like an electric current.

He spreads your legs wide, pushing them up to your chest and keeping you in the position he wants by pressing his hands to the back of your thighs near where your knees bend.

The sight of your barely covered sex is more erotic than if you had forgone the undergarment all together. Short, dark curls tease him over the flimsy hem of your panties and his cock stirs at the sight despite the mess he’s already made in his slacks.

“She’s real pretty.” His voice drops an octave, the rasp in it making the compliment sound wanton. Your hips move on their own ever so slightly, a natural reaction your pussy is having to his tone, chasing the sound.

Marcus hums, a quiet sound of appreciation, feeding off every little tic of yours. His lips part slightly, tongue rolling over them as his attention remains on your thong.

Thin black lace, skimpy. Practically useless.

His fingers toy with the waistband, slipping beneath it, testing the stretch. Then, with a little too much enthusiasm, he pulls and it gives, the sound of the fabric tearing setting you off even more.

He almost scoffs. The material of it feels expensive beneath his touch yet it rips so easily. He could easily buy you a hundred of these. Better.

Your eyes lazily find his and for a moment, there’s nothing but a silent exchange between you—a subtle tilt of your head, the slight arch of your brow, questioning. Are you really going to do it?

His smirk is slow, knowing. A dimple dents his cheek.

Yes.

And with that, he grips the lace and rips the damn thing off, throwing it over his shoulder. The ruined panties fall onto the coffee table behind him, forgotten.

Now you’re completely bare, the lips of your pussy spread from how he’s got your legs parted, sex aching and glistening beneath the dim opulent lighting. A perfect, needy mess just for him.

The soft trail of hair that leads down to your pretty cunt has Marcus leaning in, nuzzling his strong nose against you, inhaling the musky scent that lingers there, letting it invade his senses and seep into his bloodstream like an intoxicant.

His tongue follows next, broad and slow, dragging up the length of the strip, savoring the contrast of coarse curls against the slick warmth of his mouth. The taste of you spreads across his tongue, earthy and sweet. You let out a drawn out moan, palms sinking into the couch as you attempt to ground yourself amidst the sensation.

“Shit,” the curse word is muttered, barely audible as you feel delirious from feeling him so close to where you need him. You don’t remember how long it’s been since you craved the touch of a man like this, and it doesn’t help that the alcohol you’ve been consuming all night is amplifying your lust.

Your pussy flutters involuntarily, a fresh trickle of sweet arousal slipping lower, trailing down to the curve of your ass.

Marcus is enraptured, taking in your exposed, creamy flesh, how your smell infiltrates his nose and it’s like his eyes gloss over with a carnal desire to devour you, eat you until you’re crying and begging him to stop.

He needs to reel it in, remind himself that it’s only the first night. He can’t overwhelm you too quickly, scare you away before he’s able to show you what he’s truly capable of. Of how good he can actually make you feel.

“So wet,” he mutters as he maps wet, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs. His fingers sink into the soft, pliant flesh, squeezing, kneading—reverent in his touch. He drags his lips closer, his breath ghosting over your messy cunt, teasing but never quite giving.

“Hard to hold back when you’re spread out like this,” he murmurs, nosing against the sensitive crease where your thigh meets your core. “But fuck, sweetheart… I don’t think I want to.”

“Didn’t get the impression that you could hold back.” The timbre of your tone makes him pause, pulling away slightly to look at you properly.

“If I really let you have it…you’d already be begging me to let you breathe.”

The glint of amusement that flickers through your gaze is gone in a blink, replaced by unguarded desire.

“I can handle it.”

His smoldering stare rises to meet yours, narrowing just slightly, a silent challenge passing between you. His thumbs press into your skin as if testing the truth of your statement.

You’re bracing yourself beneath his touch, muscles tensing in anticipation, as if proving to him that your words aren’t just bravado. You mean them. You want this. You want him.

Good. He wants you to need this as badly as he does.

The first swipe of his tongue is slow, savoring, as if he’s tasting something forbidden, something he’s been denied for too long. But patience? That doesn’t last. It shatters the second he gets his first real taste, and the groan that rumbles deep in his chest is downright filthy.

Marcus is gone.

He buries himself into your pussy, tongue dragging flat up your slit before going taut and flicking up to your clit, testing what makes you gasp and elicit more of those sweet noises that fill his ears.

“Oh Marcus, just like that.” It’s as if he flips a switch that has your words pouring out. “You’re doing so good.”

Your praise melts into him, impassioning him. He’s been craving this kind of lust for years. It’s been too fucking long since he let himself indulge in his roaring sexual appetite.

He swirls your sensitive nub around with his tongue, sealing his lips around the pert flesh. He suckles on it, making out with your pussy, having you wail out like an aching woman.

Marcus thrives off the way your hips rock toward his mouth, groaning like he’s savoring a meal far more decadent than the dinner from earlier tonight.

Your heady and potent taste drowns his taste buds, clit pulsing against his tongue—all of it is enough to make him lightheaded. His big hands curl around your thighs, pulling you somehow closer, the friction of his nose and beard rubbing against your pussy making you keen and further lose yourself in the pleasure he is giving you.

“Fuck don’t stop, oh my god.” Your sounds turn pornographic, tugging at his hair while your other hand moves up to palm your own breast, the fabric of your dress slipping until your chest is exposed, nipples sensitive to the cool air.

The hand at your left thigh traverses up, nudging your hand out of the way and you let him grab a handful of your tit. The growl he emits vibrates against your sex as his fingers begin to roll and pull at the perky bud.

Marcus’ tongue then slips inside your fluttering entrance, fucking into you as his aquiline nose rubs your slick pearl.

The obscene sounds of his mouth working you over fill the room��sucking, slurping, the guttural groans that rumble from his chest every time he dives back in like he can’t get enough. Because he can’t. He’s drunk on you, addicted after only minutes, and the more you writhe beneath him, the more he loses himself in it.

Marcus. Marcus. Marcus. His name becomes a hymn as your orgasm looms, taunting you, threatening to end this beautiful, salacious act despite you wanting to live in this pocket of pleasure for the rest of the night.

You did not expect him to be this good or fucking eager. Most men treat a woman’s pleasure like an afterthought, something to be checked off a list before they roll over and chase their own release. But not him. He’s eating like he’s never going to get the chance again, showing you with every flick of his tongue, every messy, open-mouthed kiss to your cunt, exactly how much he enjoys this.

Your hand moves on instinct, covering his where it grips your breast, your nails raking over his knuckles and the sleek face of his expensive watch, dragging down until you can feel the veins running beneath his skin. His tongue doesn’t slow, doesn’t falter, even as you babble through a desperate plea.

“I’m right there, mmm don’t stop, please.”

You gyrate against his handsome face, claiming him in the messiest, most unceremonious way, coating his chin, his nose, those full lips that have been driving you insane all night.

He can feel your desperation in how your fingers clench his hair or how your other hand moves to grip the back of the couch, back arching high off the cushions. You’re unraveling for him, and fuck, that just makes him want to push you further.

Marcus doesn’t need his fingers to make you come. Just his mouth. Just his tongue plunging into you, curling, lapping up everything you give him, working you until you’re trembling—until those soft gasps turn into ragged, broken moans.

And when you finally finish, when you sob his name like it’s the only thing you know, Marcus still does not stop.

He takes your orgasm, drinks it down, tongue still lapping at your sex as your thighs snap shut around his head, as if you’re trying to pull him deeper, to keep him there. And he lets you smother him, lets himself drown in you.

It’s overwhelming. Your vision blurs, lashes wet with tears, streaks of mascara and eyeliner running down your cheeks. You’re coming apart under the relentless assault of his mouth again, your second orgasm stretching, rolling, growing into something bigger than yourself.

“I—I—” The words tangle in your throat, lost in the heat of it all, stolen by the wicked, practiced flicks of his wet muscle. When he pulls back, it’s only to drag his tongue over his bottom lip, hollowing his cheeks and spitting filthily onto your throbbing cunt.

“Thought you could handle it?” He taunts before diving back in, both hands returning to keep you firmly against his face.

You can’t think straight, thoughts slipping through your grasp like water. “T-Too much, oh—” you attempt to pull your hips away, body writhing as if you were a possessed woman, the overstimulation of it all feeling like you’re burning from the inside out in the best way possible.

But Marcus keeps you locked down tightly, staring intensely up at you, letting the edges of his teeth graze along your sensitive clit. A white-hot jolt of sensation rockets up your spine and makes you scream so high-pitched, you’re sure the windows of his penthouse rattle from the force of it.

Your back bows violently, stiffening as the pleasure crashes over you, unexpected and devastating. Your release gushes out in a messy, sinful rush, soaking the lower half of his face. Marcus groans deeply, slurping it, shaking his head against your cunt to smear it all over, the primal feel of it all only intensifying with each drop of yours that he tastes.

Only when you finally slump against the couch, spent and trembling, does he ease up, pressing lingering kisses to your clit, enjoying how your pussy twitches from coming so hard. A thin string of your essence clings to his lips as he finally—reluctantly—pulls back, breathing heavily, dragging the back of his hand across his slick beard.

The blissfully wrecked look on your face is one that’s going to be burned into the back of his eyelids for eternity. It’s in this moment; as he takes in your swollen lips, ruined makeup, and your ravished body, that something in him clicks. It makes Marcus recognize that whatever this is sprouting between you two is something he wants to continue to chase.

He flashes you a lopsided smirk, one that deepens when the single curl falls onto his forehead. Kisses are placed on each quivering inner thigh in an attempt to soothe the tremors still running through your body, before he begins his ascent, reversing the path that led him to the heaven between your legs.

The skirt of your dress is smoothed down with careful hands, his large fingers tugging the fabric into place, covering you as if he’s tucking away something precious. Then, with the same tenderness, he draws the neckline back over your chest. But his lips don’t stop their journey. They find your neck, trailing up to your jawline, the corner of your mouth—teasing—before finally claiming your lips.

The smell of your pussy clings to him as he kisses you passionately, making you taste yourself. It makes the kiss filthier, his mouth moving against yours with the same fervor he’d shown between your thighs. You whimper into him, feeling the lazy roll of his tongue as he takes his time with you. Neither of you wants to break the moment.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, still kneeling between your legs, his hand coming up to cradle your face, thumb grazing your cheek before tugging at one of the curls that’s slipped loose from your updo. “Taste so good, too.”

Your smile comes naturally—not coy, not calculated, but soft, bubbling over, breathless. There’s a twinkle in your eyes, and Marcus feels himself get lost in it, entranced by the way you look at him. If this is what he’s rewarded with every time he makes you come, then he’ll gladly do it over and over again.

“Thank you for not holding back,” you finally manage, your voice still wrecked, but carrying that teasing lilt. Your fingers weave into his curls, tugging lightly as you take him in—his dark, blown-out gaze, the shine of your slick still glistening on his beard. “Even if it looked like I was tapping out there for a second. You’ve got real magic in that mouth of yours.”

Marcus huffs out a laugh. “Thanks.” His brown eyes soften while he wipes the streaks of your makeup away with his thumb. You could stay like this all night, just looking, feeling, letting the attraction simmer until it boils over and you’re tangled in his sheets with his name on the tip of your tongue.

But you both know better. This is something to savor and let breathe, allowing chemistry to take the lead.

“Did you enjoy yourself tonight?”

“More than I anticipated.”

The answer strokes something deep in his chest, an ego he rarely lets get the better of him. But with you? He allows it, just a little.

“I’d like to keep seeing you. If it wasn’t obvious.”

You sigh, still reeling from his ministrations, tilting your head, unable to stop drinking him in. “Same here. You are a very intriguing man, Marcus.”

“And you are a very fascinating woman.” He gently takes the wrist of the hand in his hair, bringing it to his lips, placing a kiss on your palm. It makes your heart stutter. “I’ll call the driver to take you home if you want to go freshen up.”

You raise an eyebrow, teasing, “Oh? You’re kicking me out?”

“If you want to stay, be my guest.”

The invitation lingers in the air between you, heavy with temptation. And it is tempting, yet despite the fact that he had his mouth buried between your thighs not even five minutes ago, you don’t want to lay all your cards on the table just yet.

“I’ll get out of your hair. My bed beckons me.”

Marcus stands, offering his hand as he helps you to your feet, pointing you to the direction of the master bathroom. You feel the intensity of his gaze as you walk away, aware of how his eyes track the intentional sway of your hips. You can’t help but smirk.

Only when you disappear behind the door does he exhale, rubbing a hand down his jaw, feeling the sticky remnants of you still clinging to him. He glances at the ruined scrap of lace on the coffee table, sporting a smug smile of his own, grabbing his phone to call the driver.

Once your ride is handled, he moves around the space to gather your things, adjusting himself in his pants, cringing at the reminder of the mess that’s there.

You emerge a few minutes later, face wiped clean, hair slightly more composed yet just as gorgeous, your legs carrying the delicious remnants of euphoria in every shaky step.

“Mailing you my doctor bill if this problem doesn’t go away anytime soon,” you joke, sinking onto the couch to slip your heels back on.

Marcus smirks, shaking his head as he watches you, holding your gathered belongings in his hands. “Think of it as a souvenir. Something to remember me by until we see each other again.”

“Yeah? And when will that be?”

“You tell me.”

You hum, pretending to consider as you rise to your feet, your body brushing just close enough to tempt. “I’ll have to check my schedule and get back to you.”

You reach for the delicate scrap of lace left abandoned on his coffee table. “You owe me a new pair, by the way.”

He chuckles, helping you slip into your jacket, then handing over your things. “That thing was on its last thread. Surprised it didn’t just dissolve off you with how soaked you got it.”

You roll your eyes, biting down on your lip as warmth creeps up your neck at the memory. He watches the way you react, the way your body still responds to him even now, and it only cements his need to see you again.

Guiding you out of the penthouse, he keeps conversation light, the easy chemistry between you both lingering like an unspoken promise. But the moment you step into the lobby, you feel the burn of the doorman’s knowing stare, his amusement barely concealed as he tips his head in greeting.

“Have a good night, miss,” he says, and you fight the urge to duck your head in embarrassment, thanking him quietly.

Outside, the cool Chicago night air wraps around you as a sleek black Escalade idles in the porte-cochère, waiting. Marcus, ever the gentleman, steps ahead to open the car door for you.

You stop just before getting in, looking up at him, your voice soft. “Thank you for tonight. I had a wonderful time—you’re great company.”

He grins. “Likewise, beautiful. I’m glad you didn’t deactivate your account when you did.”

Your heart flutters at that, and before you can second-guess it, you lean up on your toes, pressing a series of slow, lingering kisses to his lips. He hums against your mouth, his hand naturally finding its place on your waist, the metal of his ring grazing the fabric of your dress.

“Let me know when you make it home, alright?” he murmurs against your lips.

“I will.”

One last kiss, then you pull away, climbing into the backseat. You share a final, lingering glance through the open door.

“Good night, Marcus.”

“Good night, sweetheart.”

You smile, and with that, he shuts the door. The SUV pulls away, disappearing into the city streets, swallowed by the skyline. Marcus watches until you’re gone, your touch still burning against his skin, your scent still clinging to his shirt.

He exhales heavily, running his fingers through his hair before turning back toward the building.

“Have a good evening, sir?”

Marcus smirks, the memory of your body, your taste, your voice still fresh in his mind.

“The best I’ve had in a long time.”

#pedro pascal #marcus acacius smut #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x woc #gladiator ii #marcus acacius fic #marcus acacius fanfic #woc reader #poc reader #sugar daddy au #ovaryacted fics #⋆♱ nic works ♱⋆

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dearlenore · 1 month ago

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THE FIRST, FIRST LOVE COMPLEX • S.REID • PT2

SUMMARY: after revealing the shocking truth of Spencer Reid’s first, first love, the team does as the unsub instructs, retracing his steps all the way to Las Vegas.

PAIRING: fem!reader x spencer

tags: reader is a cutie pie, reader wears sun dresses and bikinis, reader is flirty bombshell, mentions of eating disorder, mentions of death, stalking, etc

a/n: i finally wrote part two please don’t hurt me

w/c: 4.8K

PT1

TAGLIST: @miyah-kaulitz @celestial-dome @lqu91s @ningeology @anthropsych @kore-of-the-underworld (sorry if I couldn’t tag u angels🥹💋)

The BAU’s jet touched down in New York just past noon, the sky a dull, unbroken sheet of grey. Heavy clouds clung to the tips of the city’s steel giants, muting the sunlight and casting a somber haze over the skyline. The low hum of the engines faded, but Spencer’s mind continued to race — fast and relentless — like a needle skipping on a broken record.

He sat rigid in his seat, shoulders tight and posture stiff. While the others moved with calm efficiency, gathering their bags and briefing one another quietly, Spencer remained frozen. His fingers drummed a frantic rhythm against his knee, each tap betraying the nervous energy buzzing beneath his skin.

She’s out there somewhere.

The thought looped through his mind like a mantra — or a curse. Every worst-case scenario unraveled in his head, each one more suffocating than the last. His last memory of you played over and over, taunting him. Your bright smile had been framed by golden sunlight, hair tousled by a lazy breeze as you lounged on a park bench with a book balanced in your lap. He remembered the way you’d tucked your hair behind your ear without looking up, too engrossed in the pages to notice him watching.

She’s safe like this, he had thought at the time. Happy. Warm. Free.

But now? Now you were somewhere in the heart of a city too vast, too unpredictable — a place that swallowed people whole. And Spencer had no idea where you were or what the unsub’s next move would be. That uncertainty clawed at him, tightening his chest until breathing felt like a conscious effort.

“Reid.”

Hotch’s voice cut through the spiral of thoughts — calm yet commanding. Spencer blinked, suddenly aware that the others were standing near the exit, waiting for him.

“JJ and I will handle this,” Hotch said firmly. “You stay here and go through the evidence again.”

“I should be there,” Spencer shot back, his voice too sharp, too fast. His breath hitched. “If he contacts her, if there’s a pattern I missed—”

“You’re too close to this,” Hotch interrupted, tone steady but unyielding. “We need her calm when we find her, not terrified because you’re pacing like you are now.”

Spencer opened his mouth to argue, but no words came. Hotch was right — Spencer knew that — yet the logic did nothing to quiet the gnawing panic threatening to consume him. His mind refused to slow down, cycling through probabilities and variables, imagining scenarios he couldn’t control.

“We’ll bring her back safe,” JJ added softly. Her hand squeezed his arm — brief, warm, and grounding. “I promise.”

Spencer swallowed hard and nodded, but the tension coiling in his chest refused to loosen. As Hotch and JJ disembarked, Spencer stayed behind, staring blankly at the clutter of files spread across the table.

His gaze fell to the photograph at the top of the stack — your face, mid-laugh, eyes crinkled with warmth. The memory of that moment blurred with his anxiety, twisting the image in his mind. What if this unsub had already—

No.

Spencer inhaled deeply, shakily, and forced himself to refocus. He grabbed a pen, determined to find something — anything — that could lead them to you before it was too late.

The law firm’s reception area was sleek and imposing — marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, towering glass walls that seemed to stretch endlessly upward, and a front desk staffed by a sharp-looking receptionist whose tailored blazer was as precise as her clipped tone. She barely flicked her gaze up when Hotch and JJ approached.

“We’re here to see Y/N L/N,” Hotch said firmly, flashing his badge with practiced ease.

The receptionist’s eyes barely lifted from her computer screen. “She’s assisting Mr. Connelly in a meeting,” she replied flatly. “I can leave her a message.”

“It’s urgent,” JJ pressed, her voice calm yet underscored with quiet insistence. “It’s a matter of her safety.”

The receptionist’s cool façade faltered, her gaze flicking from JJ to Hotch and back again. For a moment, she hesitated, clearly debating whether to push back or comply. Finally, her professional demeanor gave way to uncertainty. “I… let me get her.”

Moments later, you appeared from the hallway — heels clicking crisply on the marble, posture sharp and poised. A sleek blazer framed your figure, lending you an air of effortless confidence. Yet despite your composed appearance, warmth still lingered in your eyes — a warmth that flickered brighter the moment you recognized JJ. She was Spencer’s co worker, the one you were convinced he would be with once you were gone.

“JJ?” you greeted, surprise softening your features. “What are you doing here?”

JJ’s smile was brief, weighed down by something heavier. “Can we talk somewhere private?”

The concern in her voice dimmed your initial excitement, and you nodded, gesturing for them to follow you into a quiet office down the hall. The room was simple — modern furnishings, a tidy desk, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city. As soon as the door clicked shut, JJ’s warm expression shifted to something more serious.

“We believe someone’s been following you,” Hotch said, his voice low and firm. “We have reason to believe your life is in danger.”

Your smile faltered, confusion knitting your brows. “What? Why?”

“We think it’s connected to Spencer,” JJ added gently. “He didn’t want to scare you, but… we need to get you somewhere safe.”

“Spencer?” His name felt foreign on your tongue — distant yet familiar all at once. Your expression softened for a brief moment before unease crept in. “I haven’t seen him in… God, years.” You paused, your mind scrambling to piece things together. “Wait… is this about those weird letters I’ve been getting?”

JJ’s gaze sharpened. “Letters?”

You nodded, moving to your desk and retrieving your purse. “I thought they were just from some weird admirer, but… yeah. They’d show up in my mailbox — poems, quotes about angels and music. It was sweet at first, but then they started mentioning things about my past.” Your fingers drifted to the delicate chain around your neck, absently toying with the pendant — a nervous habit you hadn’t shaken. “I figured it was just someone from high school who remembered me.”

Hotch’s expression darkened. He exchanged a grim look with JJ, and the silent weight of their concern settled over you like a cold shadow.

“Those letters are likely from the person targeting you,” Hotch said, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

You blinked, the air suddenly feeling too thin. “This has something to do with Spencer?”

“We believe the unsub’s fixation started with him,” JJ explained carefully. “But somewhere along the way, they became obsessed with you.”

The weight of her words pressed heavily on your chest. Memories of Spencer stirred — late-night conversations whispered across shared coffees, the warmth of his hand on yours when he thought no one was looking, the way his gaze softened when you laughed. He had always been cautious with you — overly protective in a way you didn’t fully understand at the time.

Maybe now you did.

“I need to get my things,” you said quietly, your voice thinner than you intended. You reached for your purse, suddenly aware of how exposed you felt — the glass walls, the polished floors, the endless corridors all seemed too open, too vulnerable.

“We’ll walk you out,” Hotch said firmly, his stance shifting slightly as if preparing for the worst.

JJ offered you a small smile — one meant to reassure — but there was no hiding the tension that hung in the air.

The moment you stepped back into the reception area, the city’s distant noise seemed louder — sirens wailing faintly in the background, muffled conversations humming just outside the glass walls. As you walked between Hotch and JJ, their presence was comforting yet unsettling — a constant reminder that someone, somewhere, was watching.

And you had no idea what they were planning next.

Spencer barely looked up when Hotch and JJ returned to the station with you. He was pacing near Garcia’s workstation, phone in hand, scrolling through messages for any missed calls. His fingers trembled slightly against the device, his mind spinning in frantic loops.

When he finally noticed you walking in, relief flooded his face — but the tension in his body didn’t ease. His anxiety kept him rooted in place, shoulders rigid and breath uneven.

“Spencer…” Your voice was soft, almost hesitant, yet it broke through the buzzing noise in his head.

“You’re okay,” he breathed, his voice tight. “Thank God.”

You crossed the room quietly, your steps measured. Your hand found his arm — gentle, barely a touch — yet steady enough to pull him from his spiral.

“I didn’t know what was happening,” you said softly, your fingers curling slightly against his sleeve.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer said, his eyes flicking between yours like he was trying to memorize your face all over again. “I should’ve told you sooner — I should’ve kept in touch. I—”

“You’re here now,” you interrupted quietly, your voice steady but tender. “That’s enough.”

Before Spencer could say more, Penelope’s voice broke the moment.

“Spence… you need to see this.”

Her fingers hovered above her keyboard, her usual brightness dimmed beneath a layer of unease. The screen displayed a new email — subject line: “For My Angel.”

With shaky hands, Spencer clicked the message open.

The letter was written in the same looping script as the others:

She saved my life once, your angel did.

Her music was like light — soft and warm — and she never knew I was listening.

She’s everything pure in this world, and you’re tainting her.

I’ll take her away, away from you, and give her the peace she deserves.

She won’t need to suffer anymore.

Attached were two video files. Spencer clicked the first.The screen filled with a sunlit beach — the camera shaky and handheld. You stood near the water’s edge, the breeze teasing strands of your hair loose from their pins. The fabric of your bikini clung to you as you laughed, warm and carefree, before playfully splashing Spencer.

“I’m serious!” Spencer’s voice laughed from behind the camera. “You’re gonna get cold.”

“The water is nice, come on!,” you teased, your smile softer than your words. The sound of your voice — light and fond — was enough to hollow out Spencer’s chest.

The video cut off.

The second file played — a dimly lit restaurant this time. You sat across from Spencer, your fingers slowly tracing the rim of your cocktail glass. Your gaze flicked downward as you stirred the straw absentmindedly, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you murmured without lifting your eyes.“Like what?” Spencer’s voice countered.

“Like you’re profiling me,” you said quietly, finally glancing up.

“I can’t help it,” Spencer’s voice returned, quiet and certain. The look on his face — the love in his eyes — was undeniable.

The video ended.

“That’s enough,” Spencer muttered, stepping back from the screen. His chest felt painfully tight, like he couldn’t draw in a full breath.

“Why would they send this?” you asked softly. Your voice didn’t tremble — it barely rose above a whisper — but the unease was clear in your eyes.

“He’s fixated,” JJ said carefully. “Not just on Spencer — on you. He’s convinced that somehow… you saved him.”

“Saved him?” you repeated, your brows knitting together.

“In high school,” Spencer murmured, piecing it together. “The music, the kindness — you must’ve done something that he clung to.”

You lowered your gaze to your hands, your fingers loosely fidgeting with the chain of your necklace. “I used to play my flute in the park,” you said quietly. “There was this boy… I didn’t know his name, but he was always sitting alone. I played because… I don’t know, I thought maybe it’d help.”

“That’s it,” Hotch said grimly. “You gave him something to hold onto.”

“And now,” JJ added, “he thinks he’s saving you in return.”

For a long moment, you were silent — your fingers still absently twisting the necklace chain.

“We need to find him before he gets that chance,” Spencer said firmly. His voice was low, but the urgency behind it was unmistakable.

You gave a small nod, your fingers tightening around the delicate chain. The air in the room felt heavier than before — thick with unspoken fear — but when Spencer’s hand found yours, you let him hold on.

Quietly, you let yourself believe that somehow, despite everything, you’d be safe.

The morning air was cold — the kind that clung to your skin and sank into your bones — and it carried with it a weight that pressed heavily on Spencer’s chest. He stood beside Hotch and JJ, his fingers twitching restlessly against his side, the unease winding tighter with every breath.

The plan had seemed secure — two officers stationed with you, experienced and reliable. Spencer had reviewed their backgrounds twice, grilling Hotch on their credentials as if he could force some kind of guarantee. But it hadn’t been enough to quiet the gnawing panic in his chest.

He’d argued. Begged, even.

“She should stay here,” Spencer had insisted, voice rising despite himself. “Or— or somewhere safer. A hotel, one with security, or maybe—”

“I just want to go home,” you’d interrupted, your voice quiet but unwavering. “I can’t breathe in here. I need to feel normal again.”

Spencer’s protests had faltered. He’d hated that he understood.

He knew that suffocating feeling — that desperate need to reclaim some semblance of control after fear had robbed you of it. He knew what it felt like to want your space back, to convince yourself that normalcy could be enough to keep you safe.

So he’d let you go — but not without hesitation.

He remembered standing by the station doors, fingers clenched at his sides, feeling like there was something more he should’ve said — something that might’ve changed your mind. When you turned back for him, your gaze softened, and suddenly he couldn’t hold himself back.

He’d closed the distance in an instant, arms wrapping tightly around you. His fingers curled into the fabric of your coat like he could anchor you there with him.

“Please be safe,” he whispered into your hair. His voice had wavered, barely audible even to himself.

“You’ll see me tomorrow,” you promised, voice soft yet certain. “Bright and early.”

But Spencer had held on just a little longer, as if he knew that promise might be one you wouldn’t get the chance to keep.

The apartment felt foreign — like someone else’s home disguised in your own familiar comforts. The faint scent of lavender still clung to the air, and the pastel throw blankets you’d folded just the night before lay neatly across the armchair. Yet none of it felt real. It was like you were standing in a stage set, where everything looked familiar but nothing felt safe.

You’d brewed a cup of tea — something warm and calming — but your fingers barely touched the mug. It sat untouched on the counter, steam curling lazily upward.

Detective Alvarez and Officer Greene moved with quiet diligence, checking the locks for the fifth time that morning. Their presence should have been reassuring, but instead, it only deepened the unease gnawing at your chest.

“We’ve got this,” Alvarez said, flashing you a confident smile. “No one’s getting in.”

You tried to smile back, but it felt thin, forced. The words didn’t stick.

Your gaze kept drifting to the windows. Each shadow seemed to stretch too far, each silhouette in the corner of your eye felt like someone lurking just out of sight.

You turned on the TV, letting the dull hum of the morning news fill the silence. The voices blurred together — static, muffled — but you kept the volume high, hoping to drown out the noise in your head.

Then there was a knock at the door.

“Miss L/N?” Greene’s voice called. “It’s me.”

You frowned, setting your tea down. “Didn’t you just check in?”

“Just want to update you,” he answered. “Everything’s clear outside.”

Something felt off — the words too casual, too light. You hesitated, fingers curling around the door handle. Still, you turned the lock and opened the door just a crack — enough to see Greene’s face.

He smiled, but something was wrong. The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes — too tight, too forced.

And then you saw it — the smear of blood just beneath his collar.

Your breath caught.

Before you could react, he shoved the door open. The impact sent you sprawling backward, your shoulder striking the wall and your head slamming against the sharp corner of your bookshelf.

“W-What…?” Your voice barely broke the air, slurred and thin as dizziness clouded your vision. The room spun, shadows warping and shifting.

The man standing above you wasn’t Greene. His uniform hung loose on his frame, and the dark glint in his eyes twisted your stomach with dread.

“Im sorry it had to be this way,” he murmured, voice low and venomous.

The street was a blur of flashing lights and frantic voices when the BAU arrived. Spencer shoved past the officers crowding the sidewalk, ignoring the calls for him to slow down. His breath hitched when he reached the threshold of the building.

Two bodies.

Detective Alvarez lay crumpled in the stairwell, his chest dark with blood. Officer Greene’s body was slumped near the front door — his badge still clutched tightly in his hand. Blood smeared the floor like a cruel map of what had unfolded, but none of it mattered.

You weren’t there.

“She’s gone,” Spencer whispered, his voice barely holding together. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts. “He took her…”

“We’ll find her,” Hotch said firmly, placing a steady hand on his shoulder.

“He has her right now!” Spencer snapped, his voice breaking as he turned sharply toward him. His breath stuttered again — this time more ragged, more desperate. “Right now…”

“Spence…” JJ’s voice was softer as she approached. “We found something inside.”

Spencer barely heard her. His gaze remained fixed on the bloodstains, the smeared footprints leading away from the doorway. His mind kept looping back to the last thing you’d said to him.

“You’ll see me tomorrow. Bright and early.”

But tomorrow had arrived — and you were nowhere to be found.

The living room was a wreck — papers strewn across the floor, cushions gutted and tossed aside, the coffee table shoved halfway across the room. The scent of overturned candles and stale air clung to the space. Yet none of it mattered — not the mess, not the chaos.

What stole Spencer’s breath was the envelope on the coffee table.

His name was scrawled across the front in jagged, uneven letters — the ink pressed so hard into the paper it had nearly torn through. His fingers trembled as he reached for it, dread coiling tightly in his chest.

“Spence…” JJ’s voice was soft, but it barely registered.

With shaky hands, he tore the envelope open. The paper inside was rough beneath his fingertips — thin and cheap, like something torn from a notebook.

“I trusted you to keep her safe. How could you let her suffer like this?

She’s perfect — but she’s broken.

You never even noticed. While you smiled and held her hand, she was starving herself just to stay small enough for you to love her.

She’s an angel… my angel.

I’ll fix her now. I’ll save her from you.”

Spencer’s breath faltered, his fingers tightening around the paper until it crumpled in his grip. His vision blurred as the words seared themselves into his mind.

“What… what does he mean?” Spencer rasped, his voice thin and uneven.

JJ stepped closer, her expression carefully composed yet unmistakably concerned. “Spencer… did she ever mention struggling with food?”

“Yes.” His voice broke on the word. “She’s… she’s always smiling, always full of life…she got better…”

But even as the words left his mouth, memories began to surface — disjointed and sharp.

The quiet way you’d push food around your plate, always insisting you weren’t that hungry.

The faint tremor in your fingers when you were tired — or when you thought no one was looking.

The way your dresses sometimes seemed a little too loose, like they didn’t quite fit the way they once had.

Moments he’d brushed off as nothing — little things that felt insignificant at the time but now twisted painfully in his mind.

You were hurting… and he hadn’t seen it.

“Oh God…” Spencer’s breath hitched, and his knees buckled. He sank onto the edge of the couch, the crumpled letter still clenched in his fist. “I didn’t see it.” His voice broke, raw and strained.

“It’s not your fault,” Hotch said firmly, stepping into his line of sight. “This unsub is projecting his own obsession — twisting it to blame you.”

“No,” Spencer choked out, shaking his head. His voice faltered, barely more than a whisper. “I should’ve known… I should’ve noticed.”

JJ knelt beside him, her hand resting gently on his arm. “Spence… you love her. That’s what matters right now.”

But Spencer barely heard her. His mind spiraled, looping back to the last time he’d seen you — the softness in your smile when you’d promised him “bright and early.”

He thought about the way you’d hugged him a little longer than usual — how fragile you’d felt in his arms.

You needed him… and he hadn’t seen it.

“I can’t lose her,” Spencer whispered, his voice breaking. “I can’t…”

“We’re going to find her,” Hotch said firmly. “But we need you with us — thinking clearly.”

Spencer forced a shaky breath and wiped a trembling hand across his face. He clung to the only thing that mattered now — the promise he silently made to himself as he stared at the crumpled letter in his hand.

He would find you.

He wouldn’t fail you again.

The room was silent except for the furious rhythm of Garcia’s fingers flying across her keyboard. Spencer hovered beside her, too restless to sit. His breath came in shallow bursts, his mind cycling through worst-case scenarios on a relentless loop.

“Come on…” Garcia muttered. “Come on, you sick freak… give me something…”

The seconds dragged painfully on — each one tightening the coil of panic in Spencer’s chest.

Then — ping.

“Got him!” Garcia cried. “A security camera caught him heading toward an abandoned warehouse five miles outside the city.”

Hotch was already barking orders, agents scrambling for their gear. Spencer didn’t wait — he was out the door, heart racing.

The warehouse reeked of mold and rust, the air heavy with dust that clung to Spencer’s throat. The floorboards groaned beneath his steps, each creak splintering the silence. His pulse pounded in his ears — too loud, too fast.

Then he heard it.

A faint sound — soft, stifled sobs.

His chest tightened.

“Y/N…”

He followed the sound, moving faster now. His heart nearly stopped when he saw you — slumped against a metal pole, wrists raw and bruised from the rope that bit into your skin. Your hair clung to your face, damp with sweat, and your breathing was shallow.

“Y/N…” Spencer’s voice broke on your name.

Your head lifted weakly. “Spence…”

Before he could reach you, a figure emerged from the shadows.

The unsub.

He was wiry, face gaunt and eyes wild. The knife in his hand gleamed under the dim light.

“You didn’t deserve her,” the man spat, his voice shaking with rage. His glare locked onto Spencer, burning with venom. “You let her suffer, and you didn’t even notice.”

“Please…” Spencer raised his hands, voice tight but steady. “You don’t have to hurt her.”

“I would never! She’s not safe with you,” the man snapped. “She’s too kind — too good — and you didn’t even see how much she was hurting.” His voice wavered. “But I did.”

Spencer’s heart twisted painfully. “I know you believe that,” he said carefully. “But you’re not helping her this way.”

“I can fix her!” the man barked, his hand tightening around the blade.

“By starving her?” Spencer’s voice rose, breaking with emotion. “By scaring her like this?”

The unsub flinched as if Spencer’s words had struck him. His grip faltered, the knife dipping slightly.

“I wouldn’t starve her! I- I’m not like you.” The unsub held his head with his free hand, waving the knife about. It went quiet for a moment.

Then your voice broke the silence.

“Hey…”

Both men froze as you lifted your head. Your voice was soft — weak yet unwavering.

“Hey,” you tried again, a little stronger this time — gentle, soothing, like you were speaking to a frightened child.

The unsub’s gaze flicked to you. His face twisted with confusion. “You… you don’t have to be scared,” he stammered. “I’m saving you.”

“I know,” you said quietly. “I know you think you are.”

Spencer’s breath caught. He wanted to move — to reach you — but he knew better than to push.

“I remember you,” you said, your voice steady. “From high school… you used to sit on the far bench by the fountain.”

The unsub blinked rapidly. “You remember?”

“Of course I do,” you said with a faint smile. “I used to play my flute there… and you’d always listen.”

“You… you played beautifully,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You don’t know what that meant to me. I was… I was going to kill myself that day. But then I heard you playing, and I thought… maybe there’s still something good in the world. You were that something.”

Tears pricked your eyes. “I’m so glad you didn’t,” you said softly. “You deserved to find peace… to heal. But this isn’t the way.”

The knife wavered in his hand.

“I know you think I’m broken,” you continued gently. “But I promise… I’m okay now. I’m trying to be.”

The unsub shook his head fiercely. “No, no… you’re not okay. I saw you — barely eating, wasting away. He let you hurt yourself.” His eyes flicked back to Spencer, sharp with blame.

“I know,” you said carefully. “But that wasn’t his fault.”

Spencer’s breath hitched.

“I was sick,” you explained gently. “The weight loss… it wasn’t my eating disorder. It was my medication.” Your gaze shifted to Spencer, soft and unwavering. “He’s always been there for me. And right now… I need him.”

The unsub’s face crumbled. His fingers slackened around the knife.

“You’ve been carrying this pain for so long,” you said softly. “But you don’t have to anymore. Let me help you now, the way you once helped me.”

The blade clattered to the floor.

“I just wanted to protect you,” the man whispered brokenly.

“I know,” you murmured, eyes kind. “But it’s over now. You protected me.”

The team rushed in, Morgan and Hotch seizing the unsub before he could react. The man barely resisted — his gaze stayed locked on you, his expression crumpling as tears streaked down his face.

“You saved me,” he mumbled as they dragged him away. “You saved me back then… and you saved me now…”

“And you saved me,” you responded.

Later, after you’d been checked over by paramedics, you found Spencer sitting quietly outside the ambulance. His head hung low, wrists encircled by handcuffs — protocol after crossing into the scene without waiting for backup. His fingers twisted anxiously, his breathing uneven.

“Hey…”

Your voice pulled him from his thoughts. When he looked up and saw you standing there — bruised but smiling — his chest caved with relief.

“You’re okay…” His voice broke, and he blinked rapidly.

“I’m okay,” you promised. “Thanks to you.”

“I… I should’ve known,” Spencer stammered. “About the medication… about everything. He was right — I didn’t see it.”

“You couldn’t have,” you soothed. “But you’ve always been there when it mattered.”

Spencer swallowed hard. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if—”

“You don’t have to think about that.” Gently, you reached for his hand, your fingers threading through his.

Spencer exhaled shakily, eyes flicking downward.

“Do you remember…” You paused, smiling softly. “When I used to play for you?”

His gaze lifted, brow furrowing slightly.

“I’d still play for you someday,” you offered. “If you want.”

Spencer let out a breath — a faint, tired laugh — and nodded.

“I’d like that.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #x reader #spencer reid x reader #fanfic #criminal minds fluff #cm #fluff #request #criminal minds angst

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valeisaslut · 1 month ago

Text

⭒࿐COLLIDE - c. four

credits for the fanart: nramvv - edited by me

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑

𝐒𝐇𝐄.

← 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝘩𝑟𝑒𝑒 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒𝑟 →

listen to the song linked for a better and more realistic experience, hope you like it and think it fits them as much as i did <3

⚢ pairing: Rockstar!Ellie Williams x Popstar!Reader 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ synopsis: Trapped in a carefully crafted illusion, you and Ellie have spent the past month playing the perfect couple for the world to believe. But in the quiet of a hotel room, away from the world’s gaze, a song takes shape between you. A melody that feels too raw, too real, like something neither of you meant to reveal. And as the music flows, so does the unspoken truth—this isn’t just an act anymore. 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ word count: 7k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ content: fluff, LOTS of tension, nothing big acc happens but is SUPER important for the story and plot, shows my undying love for music, fake dating, cursing, modern au, mention of cigarettes, alcohol and drugs, afab!reader, multiple part series, MEN AND MINORS DNI, likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated 𖥔 ݁ ˖

The past month had been nothing short of chaos—an intoxicating, inescapable kind of madness. A whirlwind of flashing cameras, endless headlines, and a public that simply couldn’t get enough of you and Ellie.

The entire world crowned both of you as Hollywood’s latest and most interesting It Couple. Your names trended daily, your faces plastered across billboards, magazine covers, and endless Twitter threads dedicated to analyzing the tiniest details of your interactions. Every stolen glance, every accidental brush of fingers, even a single shared breath in the same frame was magnified, dissected, and spun into theories.

You expected the attention. The speculation. But what you hadn’t expected was for it to stick. To grow. To spiral into something much bigger than the both of you, something neither of you had full control over.

But Rachel was right—relationships, real or not, fueled careers. Publicity was a currency, and right now, you and Ellie were cashing in.

Overnight, you had become a rockstar’s girlfriend, an effortlessly cool counterpart to her reckless charm. Your name carried a new kind of weight—more intrigue, more edge. Meanwhile, Ellie’s past scandals and messy headlines were wiped clean, replaced with a precisely curated narrative of stability, of mistery wrapped in romance.

Both of you had the press wrapped around your fingers, feeding the public’s insatiable hunger, heightening the anticipation for your upcoming albums.

Everything was working perfectly.

Well, almost.

This romance was an act, a carefully crafted illusion designed to sell a story. But as more fake dates passed, as more carefully orchestrated appearances blurred into late nights, it stopped feeling like fiction. The teasing, the banter, the way she’d lean in just a little too close when she whispered in your ear, the way her fingers would slip under your clothes when no one was looking—it wasn’t just for the cameras anymore.

And the way she looked at you… that was the worst part. Because when the flashes faded and the crowds disappeared, when it was just the two of you slipping into the quiet of a hotel room, a dimly lit backstage greenroom, a late-night car ride with the city stretching out endlessly beyond the tinted windows, the lines blurred.

And the “rules”?

They weren’t just bending anymore.

They were begging to be broken.

Now, another morning. Another hotel room. The remnants of last night lay scattered like evidence—a familiar, beautiful kind of mess.

Whiskey glasses half-empty, a bottle of wine tipped over on the nightstand, clothes draped over furniture, carelessly discarded in the haze of lust. The air was heavy, thick with the remnants of cigarettes and the musk of sweat and sex that clung to the skin and the sheets.

Sunlight spilled through the massive windows, casting lazy golden streaks across the tangle of limbs and the mess of unruly hair. It traced the curve of bare shoulders, the rise and fall of slow, steady breaths—turning the remnants of the night into something almost soft, almost tender.

In the hush of the morning, it was easy to forget.

Easy to sink into the illusion that outside these four walls, the world wasn’t waiting with cameras and microphones, ready to twist something as simple as a glance into another headline.

Here, time moved slower, suspended in a half-conscious state between dreams and reality.

Just her.

Just you.

And whatever the hell this had become.

You stirred against the pillows, consciousness creeping in at the edges, reluctant to pull you from the weightless comfort of sleep. The bed was warm, the space beside you still faintly imprinted with Ellie’s shape, but empty.

A few feet away, perched at the edge of the mattress, she sat with one leg drawn up, the other resting on the floor, hoodie slung lazily over her shoulders, sleeves pushed up to her elbows. The loose fabric did nothing to conceal the way her tattooed back muscles flexed with each movement, her fingers untangling the mess of wires at her feet.

She hadn’t noticed you were awake yet.

Her auburn locks were an absolute mess, sticking up in odd places, and for just a fleeting moment, she looked younger, softer. There was something achingly familiar in the slope of her shoulders, in the easy way she just existed in the quiet.

As if this wasn’t a hotel room in some foreign city. As if you hadn’t spent the past month pretending this thing between you was just an act.

You watched her through heavy-lidded eyes, letting yourself look at her—really look at her. Before the world demanded smirks in place of softness, sharp words instead of silence, half-truths masked as teasing. Before the world could steal this version of her away from you.

And then, as if drawn by some unspoken force, she turned.

Her gaze found yours, soft with sleep, yet sharp in its awareness. Something flickered in those green eyes, quiet and unreadable. She didn’t smirk, didn’t tease. She just looked at you, studying your face like she was trying to etch every detail into memory.

Slowly, carefully, her fingers reached out. The backs of her knuckles ghosted over your cheek, featherlight, tracing the curve of your jaw before tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The touch was barely there, but it sent a shiver down your spine, a warm sensation you tried—and failed—to ignore.

Her thumb lingered at your temple, just for a second. A hesitation. A silent question neither of you dared to voice.

And then, as quickly as she had touched you, she was gone.

She turned her attention back to the wires, fingers deft and practiced as she untangled them, as if the touch had never happened. As if she hadn’t just traced the shape of you like you were fragile, something worth remembering.

The spell broke. The world righted itself.

But your skin still burned where she had touched you.

The gentle clink of a guitar cable against the amp, the soft click of knobs turning. A second later, the first note filled the room—unhurried, each strum rolling into the next.

You groaned, cracking an eye open fully. "Really? First thing in the morning?"

Ellie barely spared you a glance, her fingers drifting into a slow, steady rhythm.

"Sorry babe…" she muttered, exhaling as if she had been holding her breath too long. "I just… have this fucking melody in my head. I don’t wanna lose it."

You made a noise of protest, throwing an arm over your face. "You’re insufferable."

She smirked at that, plucking another note, her voice dipping into something lower, amused.

"And yet…" she murmured, "you keep ending up in my bed."

Your lips parted for a retort, but you swallowed it down, pressing your arm further into your face instead. There was no point in denying it.

Because she was right.

You always did.

A few seconds later, you eased your arm to peek. Her head was tilted down, watching her hands move over the fretboard with effortless ease, like the chords were something she was pulling out of the air itself.

There was something intoxicating about watching her like this—completely lost in it, focused, unaware of how fucking good she looked in the lazy light of morning. The sound lingered, like the kind of melody that only existed somewhere between a dream and a memory, slow and hypnotic. Almost intimate.

Your brows pulled together.

"That’s… actually really good."

Ellie finally looked up, an eyebrow raised. "You think?"

You pushed yourself up on your elbows, hair falling into your face as you listened, really listened. The way the chords lingered, how she let the last note stretch a second longer than expected, the slight hesitation in how she moved between them—it felt intentional.

Words and lyrics began to swirl in your mind, floating effortlessly like they were born from the melody Ellie was playing. They felt right, like they belonged perfectly to the rhythm she’d found without even trying.

"Keep going." you murmured.

Reaching blindly for the notepad on the nightstand, your fingers brushed across the edge of the pages before curling around the pen Ellie stealed from god-knows-where.

Without thinking, the words spilled out, falling from your lips as if they had been waiting for this moment.

"She… she lives in daydreams with me…"

It was barely above a whisper, unpolished, something that shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did.

The moment it left your mouth, it did.

Ellie’s head snapped up, fingers pausing on the strings.

"She’s the first one that I see…" you continued, voice steadying, gaining weight. "And I don’t know why… I don’t know who she is…"

A slow grin spread across her face. Not her usual cocky smirk, not the teasing half-smile she threw when she was trying to get a rise out of you—something softer, something real.

"The fuck was that?"

You shrugged, heartbeat a little too fast, face warming up.

"I don’t know. It just… came."

Ellie nodded towards the notepad.

"Write it down."

Your stomach flipped. You bit your lip, then did exactly that.

Ellie’s eyes never left yours as she continued to play, her body moving instinctively with each chord. The muscles in her forearms flexed and relaxed as she adjusted the pressure on the fretboard, focusing entirely on the music.

You tapped the pen against your thigh, your gaze on her fingers, watching the way they moved. More lyrics began to unravel in your mind, slipping past your thoughts.

“Nine in the morning, the man drops his kids off at school...” you hummed, voice soft, testing the air around you as if searching for the right words.

Ellie snorted, fingers momentarily slipping on the strings. “What man?”

You blinked at her, confused.

She looked at you, brow raised, guitar still going. “The guy in the song. The fuck are you talking about?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to keep the irritation from your voice. “Just a random guy I saw across the street yesterday. But imagine this—this song isn’t about him. It’s about someone else entirely. A girl from a fantasy.”

Ellie paused for a second, considering your words, her expression softening with a thoughtful nod. “Huh. Alright. Go on, Shakespeare.”

You shot her a playful look before continuing to scribble words down, humming and trying to find the perfect ones to describe the concept you just found.

“And he’s thinking of you...”

“Like all of us do…”

Your last words were a whisper, barely audible, almost too honest. Like a confession.

"Sends his assistant for coffee in the afternoon," you murmured, scribbling the line down, "around one-thirty-two. He knows what to do"

Ellie groaned dramatically, shaking her head. “Fucking hell. You’re fast with those lyrics.”

You glanced up at her, raising an eyebrow. “What? It’s just how I work. Now keep playing.”

Ellie exhaled, a small, impressed grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Fine, ma’am,"

You let the words tumble out, the melody weaving itself around the lyrics in perfect harmony. Everything around you seemed to disappear, as if nothing else mattered but this—the music, the words, and the space you shared.

"She… she… she lives in daydreams with me…" The first line left your lips again, now fitting perfectly against Ellie’s steady melody.

You didn’t miss the way her gaze lingered, her fingers tightening around the neck of her guitar.

"She… she’s the first one that I see… and I don’t know why… I don’t know who she is…”

Ellie let the last note hang in the air for a moment, the room thick with the sound.

She hummed in approval, her gaze steady on you.

“That’s really sick”

Then, she tilted her head, her eyes narrowing playfully as she caught your gaze.

“But it’s kinda lesbophobic of you to write this about a man”

You groaned, covering your face with one hand in mock embarrassment. “Oh, shut up, it slaps. And i already told you, it’s about a girl.”

Ellie chuckled, setting the guitar down just long enough to stretch, her muscles shifting beneath the ink that covered her arms. The sight of it made your breath catch, just for a second. She glanced over at you, her voice a little lower now, as if the air between you had thickened.

“Gotta admit…” she murmured, her eyes dark with something unreadable “your raw singing voice is amazing.”

You swallowed, heart thudding against your ribs as you forced out a casual, "Yeah, well… don't get used to it."

Ellie huffed a quiet laugh, but there was something else there now, heavier. Her fingers flexed against the body of the guitar, like she wasn’t sure whether to pick it back up or let the silence settle in.

You looked down at the lyrics scribbled across the notepad, the ink slightly smudged from where your palm had rested against the page. The song was unfinished, hanging in the air between you, waiting.

Waiting for who?

Waiting for what?

Ellie broke the silence first.

"This fantasy girl… who is she?"

Your hand stilled over the notepad.

Ellie tilted her head, something sharp—knowing—lurking behind her curiosity.

You swallowed. "I don't know."

A lie.

Ellie didn’t know what the hell was happening to her.

She’d looked at you a thousand times before—across dimly lit restaurants, over the neck of her guitar, through the haze of cigarette smoke and exhaustion after a long night in the studio.

But this? This was different.

The weight of her gaze settled in your chest, thick and pressing, making it hard to breathe. You weren’t used to her looking at you like this—open, unguarded, as if she was actually seeing you.

Not just the version of you she joked with, not just the version of you that the world saw, but the real you. The one who wrote in hotel rooms at ungodly hours. The one who overthought everything. The one who kept getting tangled in something she didn’t have the words for.

And maybe that was what scared her the most. That you—this raw, unfiltered version of you—had somehow become the thing she kept chasing. The thing that was lingering in every corner of her mind, bleeding into every song she played, every lyric she wrote, every melody that lived rent-free in her head.

You shifted slightly, the fabric of her shirt slipping further down your shoulder, exposing warm skin to the low light. And for some reason, that was the thing that made her stomach twist. Not in the way she was used to. Not in the way that ended in tangled sheets and careless goodbyes.

No, this was something else.

Something quieter. Something that had been building, slow and unrelenting, creeping in through the cracks she hadn’t even realized you’d left in her.

And then Ellie moved again, fingers finding the guitar with effortless familiarity. The melody resounded again, but now softer, like she was testing the waters.

She could feel it in her hands before she even processed the thought—fingers moving, plucking at the strings without hesitation, as if the melody had been there all along, waiting to be carved out.

It came effortlessly this morning, guided by something unspoken, something just out of reach. The way you looked at her, the way you bit your lip absentmindedly, the way the light caught on your cheekbone. It was music. You were music.

And before she could stop herself, before she could even think, it was spilling out of her again.

"She… she… she lives in daydreams with me…"

Her voice humming your lyrics—low, raspy, barely more than a whisper—wrapped around the words like a confession, rough yet impossibly gentle. It sent something sharp curling low in your stomach, dangerously close to longing.

"She… she’s the first one that I see… and I don’t know why… I don’t know who she is."

The song lingered in the space between you, settling into the quiet like a secret neither of you were ready to confess.

But in that moment, you didn’t have to.

Mid-strum, she let out a slow breath and rolled her shoulders.

Then, almost out of nowhere, she said, "I told you that I learned to play guitar from Joel, right?"

You nodded, surprised by the shift in topic and feeling the weight of the legendary name. "...Yeah, you did"

She nodded, her fingers still idly plucking at the strings, like she needed something to anchor herself.

“He never cared about playing things the ‘right’ way. Wasn’t about that for him.” She exhaled, gaze distant, like she was somewhere else. “He always said music wasn’t just about the notes—it was about feeling it. Living it. That if you played it right, it could make sense of things that didn’t.”

You watched Ellie carefully, seeing a side of her you hadn’t expected. The way she spoke of Joel, the way her fingers tightened on the guitar like it was a lifeline.

“You ever miss it?” you asked softly, not even sure what it meant—Joel, music, or something else entirely.

Ellie let out a breath, tilting her head to the ceiling before shrugging. But it wasn’t casual—it was heavy.

"...Yeah" she admitted, voice quieter than before. "I’ve been kind of a dick to him, honestly."

You didn’t say anything, just let her talk.

"He made everything feel easier. Even the shit that wasn’t." She huffed out a small laugh, shaking her head. "When we played together, it was like... I don’t know, like none of the bullshit mattered for a little while."

Her fingers stilled on the strings.

"He used to tell me, ‘There’s no wrong way to play a song, Ellie. Just how you feel about it.’" She smirked, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Guess that’s why I never cared about music theory or technique or whatever. Just wanted to feel it."

You nodded, understanding more than you expected to.

The weight of the moment settled between you, pressing into the space where words didn’t need to be. For a second, it wasn’t about the song you were working on—it was about the simplicity of what music meant to both of you.

“Guess that’s how this song came out, huh?” you said, your voice almost teasing but with a note of sincerity. “No wrong way. Just… feeling it.”

“Yeah, exactly. You just... you just let it happen.” Ellie caught your eye and grinned, a mischievous glint in her gaze. “Pretty deep for a song we wrote in a hotel room, huh?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t expecting this to turn into some big existential moment, but here we are.” You chuckled, shifting on the bed to get a more comfortable spot. “Maybe it's the afterglow”

Ellie let out a short laugh, shaking her head. "Oh yeah? That what we’re calling it now?"

"I mean, think about it—" You gestured vaguely, a teasing edge to your voice. "The post-song haze, the melody and lyrics basically coming out of nowhere. It’s the artistic equivalent of afterglow."

Ellie hummed in consideration, tapping her fingers against the body of her guitar. "Okay, fine, I’ll give you that one. But music’s kinda like that, y'know? It creeps up on you. You think you’re just messing around, and then suddenly—bam—you’re confronting shit you didn’t even realize was still in your head."

You felt the weight of her words settle, the vulnerability that was so rare for her, but so real in that moment.

“Yeah, it does. Like, maybe this song wasn’t meant for me to write by myself. Sometimes, it’s just... the right person at the right time that makes it all click.”

Your words resounded in her head.

The right person at the right time that makes it all click.

You were that person.

Ellie tilted her head, murmuring low as her fingers never stopped their movement on the guitar.

“Maybe it was meant to be something we did together.”

A silence fell between you again, but it wasn’t awkward—it was comfortable, filled with the understanding of something bigger than both of you. Something beyond.

Like it had a life of its own.

Ellie broke the silence, her voice light but knowing. “You know, I never thought I’d be sitting here, writing a song like this with anyone.”

“Why’s that?” you asked, genuinely curious.

She shrugged again, her gaze flickering to you, then back down to her guitar. “I don’t know. I guess I thought I’d just write songs with Jesse, Dina, and nobody else. But it’s... it’s amazing, doing this. With you.”

You reached for the notepad again, feeling the weight of the next line coming to you. “Then let’s make it count. Let’s finish it.”

Ellie smiled, the familiar spark returning to her eyes. “You got it.”

And with that, the room once again filled with the sounds of the song, both of you lost in the music, pushing and pulling at the notes, the chords, and each other—creating something new.

The next hour, the room was still filled with the soft hum of Ellie’s guitar strings, each note careful as she played the song you two had crafted over and over. It was still raw, still finding its final form, but with every repetition, it felt more real. More polished. And it was really good.

You sat cross-legged on the bed as Ellie played, her fingers moving over the strings with more confidence each time. But you couldn’t help but watch her and wonder what the hell was going through that unreadable mind of hers.

She shifted, sitting back slightly, guitar still resting on her lap, letting out a long, almost frustrated sigh.

“Alright, so we make this entire song in the span of an hour, and now what? Do we just let it die here?” She nudged the notepad towards you with her foot, the corner of her mouth pulling up in that mischievous grin you’d come to know far too well.

“We don’t have to record it,” you said, your voice a little too steady. “I mean, we didn’t even plan to write it, right? It was just… something that happened.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Something that happened?”

She leaned forward, eyes narrowing slightly, still holding that knowing look. “Come on. You’re telling me you’re not at least a little curious about how this sounds with some actual production? Not just… us in a hotel room?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just better left as a thing we did for ourselves,” you said, attempting to sound casual. "Not everything needs to be recorded."

Ellie clicked her tongue, clearly not impressed. She tapped the neck of her guitar rhythmically, glancing over at you. “That’s a nice idea, but you and I both know you’re lying to yourself right now.”

You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah. You're not the first person to get all deep and philosophical about a song only to end up recording it.”

You stared at her, then laughed despite yourself. “You really think I can’t just not record it?”

“Please,” she scoffed. “You’re itching for this to be out there. You wanna hear how it sounds with a full band behind it, don’t you?”

You shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether you were more frustrated with her or with the fact that she was right.

“Maybe…” You trailed off, giving her a small smile. “But it’s not like it has to be something big.”

“Big, small, whatever. The point is—" She paused, leaning in just a little closer, the air between you crackling with tension. "We’re making something that feels real, something that’s ours, and it deserves to be heard.”

“I don’t know…” You exhaled slowly, looking away for a moment. “This is very different from my music. I’m not sure how it’ll translate.”

“It’s very different from my music too, but it’s just that fucking good.” She was almost daring you to argue, like she was waiting for you to backpedal.

“I’m not arguing that it’s really good. But it’s… soft. You know?”

Ellie chuckled, crossing her arms. “Soft, huh? That’s how you’re gonna describe it?” She shook her head, almost in disbelief.

You crossed your arms, matching her defiance. “It’s just not what I’m used to. I don’t usually write this kind of stuff.”

Ellie tilted forward, her gaze steady. “Look, I get it. You’re afraid of doing something different. It’s not a big, loud anthem. It’s a quiet, real song that means something.”

You couldn’t argue with that. Not completely.

You fell silent, feeling a mix of dread and anticipation building in your chest. This was it. It wasn’t just the song anymore—it was you, stepping into something new.

“So what, we just go into the studio and see what happens?”

“I mean, yeah. Why not? What’s the worst that could happen? We both make a hit? Break the internet with your beautiful voice and my amazing solo?” She said, grinning like she’d already won. “Or maybe we just have fun. Either way, I’m in.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “God, you’re relentless.”

“Yeah,” she said, eyes glinting with something you couldn’t quite place. A challenge? A plea? Or maybe deeper, but you weren’t ready to name it.

“We’ve been through a hell of a month—don’t you think it’s time to do something that actually has meaning? Something that’s actually real?”

The words hit harder than you expected.

Because she was right.

Nothing in your life was real. Your smile, your image, your carefully curated personality that just existed for the cameras. Every interview rehearsed, every appearance staged. Even this so-called relationship was nothing more than another performance.

But music?

Music was the only thing that had ever been real. The one unshakable, non-negotiable truth of your existence. The thing that kept you tethered when everything else felt hollow. The one part of yourself that hadn’t been twisted, edited, and repackaged for consumption.

And Ellie knew it.

She saw through all of it. Past the script, past the headlines, past the bullshit. And maybe that was what scared you the most.

Your breath hitched, something inside you shifting, clicking into place like a puzzle piece you hadn’t realized was missing. It was time to stop caring about how the world wanted to frame you.

Because if nothing else, at least this—whatever the hell this thing between you was—could create something real. Something honest. Something that actually mattered.

“Alright. Fine. Let’s do it,” you muttered, exhaling like you were about to regret it. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you when it turns out all weird and experimental.”

Ellie let out a sharp, triumphant laugh, her fingers already tapping an impatient rhythm against her knee. “Hell yeah. That’s the spirit.”

You shot her a look. “And don’t get any ideas—I’m not doing this for you.”

“Oh, please.” Ellie’s grin was all teeth, smug and satisfied. “You totally are.”

You rolled your eyes, but the truth was, it didn’t really matter anymore. Because the second the words left your mouth, you knew it was already done.

And as much as you told yourself you should be careful—as much as you tried to ignore the feeling curling low in your stomach—something inside you, quiet and reckless, was already looking forward to whatever came next.

The studio was alive with a hum of anticipation, the faint buzz of equipment and the subtle echo of footsteps as you adjusted the mic stand, your fingers brushing the cool metal. The engineers had already set everything up, the recording equipment primed and ready.

It was just you and Ellie now, standing on the edge of something that felt too personal yet impossible to keep hidden.

You took a steadying breath, rolling your shoulders as you positioned yourself in front of the mic. Ellie sat off to the side, her guitar resting against her knee.

She had already laid down the instrumentals, the soft hum of her melody wrapping around the space like a thread holding it all together.

Now, it was your turn.

You inhaled slowly, eyes closing as you began to sing. The words of the song slipped past your lips effortlessly. It was the kind of moment where it felt like the music was taking control of you, and everything else melted away.

Your voice stretched into the space, the words slipping into the quiet between notes. There was something raw in it, something that cracked through your usual performance.

You could feel Ellie’s gaze on you, her focus unwavering, but her usual teasing smile was nowhere to be found. She was listening—absorbing the emotion you were putting into the song.

You held the notes a little longer, the emotion building as you sang. It was simple, something you had done a million times, but in this moment, it felt different.

You kept singing, the lyrics still scrawled messily across the notepad in handwriting so illegible only you and a pharmacist could decipher it. As the final note hung in the air, fading into the quiet of the room, you exhaled, fingers loosening on the mic.

Almost instinctively, you turned to Ellie, searching her face for something—anything—that would tell you what she was thinking.

Her eyes were wide, mouth slightly open, her expression unreadable. For a moment, she didn’t speak. Didn’t move. It was like she was trapped somewhere else, still feeling the weight of it.

And then, without a word, she reached for her guitar.

The familiar chords rang out softly at first, her fingers moving over the strings like a whisper, hesitant yet sure. She played softly at first, almost as if testing the waters, letting the sound of her guitar blend with the tail end of your last note. The rhythm was soothing, a gentle echo.

But then, just as you thought she was going to ease into it, Ellie’s fingers shifted, and the solo erupted into the room. Like she just got a divine inspiration.

It wasn’t just music. It was something alive, untamed, filled with unspoken emotions. Her hands flew across the fretboard with the kind of precision that only came from knowing exactly how to make an instrument sing.

Knowing exactly how to make an instrument say something she couldn't.

The sound built around you, sharp and electric, filling every inch of the space like a storm breaking loose.

The engineers behind the glass exchanged glances, nodding along, clearly impressed. But you couldn’t look away from her. She was just so lost in it, eyes half-closed, completely in sync with the music, her body moving with each note.

The final note rang out, vibrating in the air before fading into silence. Ellie exhaled, letting her hands drop from the strings, her chest rising and falling from the energy of it. The studio was still, the only sound the distant hum of equipment and your own uneven breath.

You stilled there for a moment, breathless, still processing what had just happened. Ellie looked at you, a small, satisfied grin tugging at the corners of her lips.

"Well…" Ellie murmured, voice still slightly hushed, as if she didn’t want to break whatever was left of the moment, "that felt pretty damn good."

You let out a soft chuckle, shaking your head. "You weren’t kidding about that solo."

"Told you. Guitar’s like a second language."

The night had settled in by the time you and Ellie finally sat back, the last echoes of the song still lingering in the quiet of the studio. The rest of the team had packed up and gone home hours ago, leaving just the two of you in the dimly lit space, surrounded by empty coffee cups, the lingering scent of guitar polish, and the faint hum of the amplifiers still cooling down.

Ellie stretched her arms over her head before slumping back into the couch with a groan. “Jesus, I think I just aged ten years.”

She let her head tip back against the cushions, exhaling loudly. “If this shit doesn’t at least get us a Grammy nom, I’m gonna start throwing hands. Nominations drop in a month—let’s just drop it next week and shake things up.”

You smirked, rubbing your tired eyes. “Oh yeah, because that’s why we did this. For the awards. Not for, you know, the love of music or whatever.”

Ellie scoffed, lifting her head just enough to shoot you a look. “Hey, I love music. I also love validation. Sue me.”

You smirked, stretching your arms over your head. “So we just randomly drop this track like we’re Beyoncé?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, because you and my band are exactly like Beyoncé.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I’m just saying, the timing is perfect. This song hits, it gets people talking, then—boom—albums drop next month, and we ride the wave.”

You hummed, pretending to consider it. “Or we just look like we’re trying too hard.”

Ellie scoffed, sitting up straighter. “Okay, first of all? Rude. Second? That’s the game, babe. Build hype, get streams, make money, and do it all over again.”

She smirked. “You know, the thing we’re really fucking good at.”

You couldn’t argue with that. “Guess we’re really doing this, huh?”

“We always were. We just finally caught up to it.”

Your gaze flickered to her, but she wasn’t looking at you. Instead, she reached for the remote, pointing it at the soundboard. “Anyway. Let’s hear it again.”

With a lazy press of a button, the track began to play through the speakers. The first soft notes filled the room, wrapping around you like a familiar embrace, yet somehow new. You exhaled slowly, sinking into the sound.

Your voice wove through the melody, steady yet raw, laced with something unspoken. Then came Ellie’s guitar—rich, electric, sharp in all the right places. The solo hit, wild and untamed, yet perfectly in sync with everything else.

But Ellie suddenly frowned.

“Nope. No, no, no. I need to fix that part.” she muttered, already reaching for her guitar. “That transition into the bridge? It’s good, but it could be better.”

“Ellie, we’ve been at this for hours. It sounds perfect.” you protested, but she was already plugging back in, tuning absentmindedly as she muttered to herself.

“Just one more take,” she insisted, brushing her fingers over the strings, testing the sound. “I swear, just one. Then I’ll be done.”

You sighed, shaking your head with a tired smile. “Fine.”

She started playing again, her fingers moving effortlessly over the fretboard, chasing perfection. The solo filled the space between you, between the rise and fall of your breath, between the erratic thrum of your heartbeat and the tightening in your chest.

But the music wasn’t what had you frozen in place.

It was her.

Ellie played like she always did, because she didn’t just know the guitar—she was a part of it. Every note came effortlessly, pouring from her like something inevitable, a feeling too strong to hold back.

And you watched her, not just in passing, not just because she was there, but because you couldn’t not look. Because something about this moment, about her, held you captive.

The way her eyes fluttered shut as she let herself get lost in the music, the soft crease in her brow when she leaned into the heavier notes, the way her fingers moved—confident, sure.

The way the muscles in her forearms flexed with each shift, veins peeking through the skin as she held down the chords, calloused fingertips plucking the strings like she was pulling something straight out of your ribs.

Like this whole song was about you.

Like she had done this for you.

Something inside you twisted, sharp and breathless. A flicker of recognition sparked at the edges of your mind, something old and undeniable, that had always been there but had never made itself known.

Your throat went dry. Your heart stuttered. Your hands felt too still, too heavy in your lap. And you panicked.

Because this wasn’t new. This wasn’t sudden.

This had been there all along.

It had been buried under layers of denial, tucked beneath every sarcastic remark, hidden behind every casual touch and lustful night, sitting between the lines of late-night high conversations. It had been lurking in every stolen glance, every fleeting moment where the world felt just a little too small when she was near.

You had fallen for her.

And really fucking hard.

From the very beginning, and you hadn’t even realized it. From the first time you saw her, slouched in that goddamn booth, whiskey glass hanging lazily between her fingers, looking at you like she already knew something you didn’t.

From the first time she whispered in your ear, voice low and teasing, meant to make you squirm—and it did. From the first time her fingers grazed your skin, casual but charged, a warning and a promise all at once.

From the first time you went to that damn hotel room with her.

You had told yourself it was just sex. That it was nothing. A transaction between two people who found temporary relief in the heat of a moment and then walked away unscathed.

But that was a lie.

Because that first night? That first night ruined you.

You still remembered the way she kissed you, rough and desperate, like she was trying to drink you all at once. The way she had stripped you down, piece by piece, until there was nothing left between you but the raw, undeniable truth of it all.

You pretended it didn't mean anything. You got up. You got dressed—in her clothes—and then walked out of that hotel room like you hadn’t just left a piece of yourself behind. Like you weren’t already unraveling at the seams.

And you didn’t know, couldn’t have known, that decision would alter everything. That it would pull you into something much bigger than the both of you—a whirlwind of blurred camera flashes and endless headlines, of fake emotions that didn’t feel so fake, of rehearsed appearances that started to feel too real.

That morning, you thought you were walking away.

But really, you were stepping straight into something you’d never be able to escape.

Straight into her.

Because it was just that easy to get lost in her. In the way she moved, the way she touched you, the way she made you feel like the only thing that mattered in the world for just a little while. And the more you gave in, the harder it became to pretend you weren’t already gone.

But that wasn’t supposed to happen.

Not with her.

Ellie was untouchable. A heartbreaker. A groupie-fucker. She burned through people like cheap lighters, flicked them open, used them until they ran out, and tossed them aside without a second thought.

She didn’t do love. She barely did attachment. You’d heard about it. Hell, you’d even seen it.

She was reckless and shameless and easy with her affections—until she wasn’t. Until she got bored. Until she found someone else to light up and burn out just as fast.

And somehow, without even trying, she had done the same to you.

And now, sitting across from her, watching her get lost in the music, feeling the weight of everything that had led you here, it all slammed into you so hard it made your head spin.

Ellie struck the final note and let it ring out, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Okay,” she breathed. “Now it’s perfect.”

She turned to you, eyes shining with that stupid, infuriating confidence of hers, and it made your stomach drop. Because she had no idea what she’d just done to you. No idea that in fixing one tiny flaw in the song, she had broken something irreparable in you.

With a casual press of the button, she played the song again. And this time, it was different.

Not because the notes had changed. Not because the mix was better. But because you knew. Because there was no turning back from this. Because suddenly, every lyric felt heavier, every chord sharper, every second more fragile.

She leaned back, kicking her boots onto the table, stretching like a lazy cat. “Alright, verdict?”

You forced yourself to speak, to pretend like your entire world hadn’t just tilted on its axis. “Eh. Could be worse.”

She gasped, scandalized. “Excuse me? Could be worse?”

“I mean, I dunno. Feels like the guitar is a little… show-offy.”

Ellie looked genuinely offended. “Show-offy?”

You shrugged. “Just saying, it’s a lot of wailing.”

“Babe, that was one of my best solos. That was—you know what, you don’t deserve to hear my genius ever again.”

You kicked her lightly with your foot. “I’m kidding, relax. Your little wailing session was nice.”

“Nice?” Ellie clutched her chest like you had physically wounded her. “Unbelievable. I pour my heart and soul into this song, and all I get is ‘nice’?”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, okay, fine. It was—what's the word? Transcendent?”

She narrowed her eyes at you suspiciously. “Damn right it was.”

Then she smirked, reaching for her drink, the ice clinking softly against the glass. And you let yourself laugh—let yourself sink into the moment, into the ease of it. Let yourself pretend, just for a little longer, that everything was exactly as it should be.

Pretend you weren’t drowning in something you were never supposed to feel.

But there was no escaping it now. No undoing the realization that had cracked through you like lightning splitting the sky. No unknowing the way your heart beat differently when she looked at you, no taking back the way her presence had rewired something fundamental in you.

This was the point of no return. A moment so sharp, so irreversible, that it changed everything in its wake.

Because from the very start, you and Ellie had been heading straight for impact—drawn together by something neither of you could fight, totally inevitable.

And It had all begun the moment you collided.

← 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝘩𝑟𝑒𝑒 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒𝑟 →

taglist (tysm for supporting, hope you enjoy <333): @st0nerlesb0 @willurms @vahnilla @mancyw1214 @rxreaqia @laceyxrenee @antobooh @annoyingpersonxoxo @haithone @lofied @sunflowerwinds @xojunebugxo @reidairie @piscesthepoet @elliewilliamskisser2000 @pariiissssssss @mxquelo @elliesbabygirl @xx2849 @kiiramiz @mikellie @brooks-lin @kaykeryyy @lovely-wisteria @marscardigan @elliesanqel @lovelaymedown @gold-dustwomxn @ilovewomenfr @seraphicsentences @mascspleasegetmepregnant @raindroprose23 @creepyswag @jujueilish @elliesgffrfr @kirammanss @liztreez @catrapplesauces @livvietalks @furtherrawayy @thatchosen1 @kanadadryer @littlerosiesthings @eriiwaii @firefly-ace @redlightellie @elliepoems @sabrinathewitchh982 @shady-lemur @jubileexoxo

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ OMFG GUYS. THIS DUMBASSES FINALLY FUCKING REALIZED WHAT WE AAAALLLL KNEW SINCE THE BEGINNING!!! GOD SAKE NOT EVEN MYSELF CAN WAIT FOR CHAPTER FIVE. I did like 30 proofreads, but there might still be a few grammar mistakes here and there—sorry in advance, english isn't my first language and I will be happy to receive constructive criticism!.

Please leave a comment if you’re interested in being on the permanent taglist for this series!

see ya'll soon, stay tuned ;)

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moongirlcleo · 8 days ago

Text

Undone

❤︎ tags and content: pining, wall sex, oral (f!receiving), aftercare, fluff, smut ❤︎ author note: check out all my fics by searching #moongirlcleo or on AO3

🔞NSFW content - Minors DNI 🔞 Dividers: @/omi.resources Fic: @moongirlcleo

Zayne was always the composed one. The one with careful hands and quiet eyes, with a voice that cut clean and never wavered. But one dinner, one dress, and one look too long was all it took to unravel years of restraint.

You never expected the man who held himself back for so long to kiss you against the wall like he meant to worship and wreck you all at once. And when control finally breaks, it doesn’t happen gently—it happens on the floor, in the dark, with silk around your hips and his voice shaking as he says your name.

Maybe he was never in control to begin with.

Evening descended over Linkon in its usual fanfare—city lights winking awake one by one like stars born beneath skyscrapers, the pale haze of dusk giving way to the electric hum of nightlife. The air pulsed with energy, sleek hovercars zipping past mirrored buildings, street-level bars exhaling laughter and jazz into the open air. It was the kind of night made for private booths and clinking glasses, for eyes that lingered too long and strangers who didn’t ask for names.

Zayne stood just outside the restaurant’s glass doors, one hand tucked into the pocket of his slate-black overcoat, the other absently adjusting the cuff of his shirt beneath his suit jacket. He was dressed in quiet elegance—charcoal-gray three-piece, collar sharp, a glint of silver from the watch at his wrist. His glasses caught the glow of the neon signage behind him, reflecting streaks of blue and red across his unreadable expression.

He checked the time—again—not because you were late, but because he was nervous. Not that he’d admit it. Not even to himself.

Then the crowd shifted. And he saw you.

You stepped out of the car like a secret finally revealed, the city’s lights catching on every shimmer of red that clung to your body like liquid fire. The dress was sleeveless, backless, dangerous. It hugged your curves with intention, falling just past the thighs with a slit that made even passing strangers pause mid-step. The neckline dipped low, not scandalously, but enough to be remembered.

And remembered you were. People were staring. He was staring.

Zayne’s breath caught in his throat—a small hitch, barely noticeable to anyone but himself—but it was enough. His composure faltered for half a second, pupils dilating just a touch behind his lenses. He stood straighter, as if his body betrayed what his mouth would never say.

You smiled when you saw him. Not the practiced kind you wore during press events or missions, but something softer. Warmer. Like you already knew what you were doing to him.

Your heels clicked against the pavement as you crossed the distance, the scent of something warm and floral brushing past him like a whispered sin.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” you said, eyes catching the glint of surprise still flickering behind his calm exterior.

“You’re not late,” he replied, but it came out rougher than intended.

You tilted your head. “You sure? You look like you’ve been holding your breath.”

Zayne didn’t answer right away. His eyes swept over you—once, deliberately—before he looked away, jaw tightening beneath the low halo of city light.

“I’m fine,” he said, but his hand flexed in his pocket, like he was trying to steady something beneath his skin.

You offered your arm to him with a mischievous little curve of your lips, the night glittering against your dress as if the city itself couldn’t help but follow your movements.

“Well then, Doctor,” you teased. “Shall we?”

He hesitated—half a breath, no more before he stepped beside you and slipped his hand into the crook of your elbow. Warmth flooded between you from that single point of contact, restrained and formal and absolutely not trembling.

But inside?

Zayne Li was already burning.

The restaurant was carved from marble and glass, its floor-to-ceiling windows casting a view of Linkon’s skyline that sparkled like spilled stardust across the night. Soft piano music drifted through the air, threaded delicately beneath the low hum of conversation and clinking silver. The lighting was subdued and golden, diffused through suspended crystal chandeliers that turned the entire space into a dreamscape of warm, refracted glow.

A hostess escorted you both to a corner table overlooking the city, tucked just far enough from the crowd to feel intimate. Zayne said little as she spoke, but you noticed the way his gaze remained fixed on you when he thought you weren’t looking, the faint clench of his jaw as another man across the room turned to watch you pass, his eyes lingering just a second too long on the curve of your back, the shimmer of your dress catching every flicker of light like a magnet for desire.

He didn’t say anything then, but when he pulled your chair out, his fingers brushed your bare shoulder in a way that felt neither accidental nor routine. There was no apology in the touch, only awareness.

You sat, legs crossing with practiced ease as you reached for the menu, though your attention drifted not to the food but to him. Zayne adjusted his glasses, his expression schooled to its usual quiet restraint, though there was something tighter about the line of his shoulders now, something more deliberate in the way he sat across from you with one arm resting on the table, fingers lightly drumming against the edge of his crystal water glass.

You leaned forward slightly, elbows brushing the fine linen, and the neckline of your dress shifted just enough to draw his gaze downward. He caught himself a moment too late, eyes snapping back to yours with that familiar flicker of controlled tension, one that seemed to worsen the longer he was forced to hold still and pretend.

“You’re quiet tonight,” you said, tilting your head with a subtle smile, the red of your lips matching the dress like a secret spelled out in silk.

Zayne’s response was a breath delayed, his voice lower than usual, as if pulled taut by something he couldn’t quite name. “It’s loud in here.”

It wasn’t. Not really.

But you allowed him the excuse, watching as the waiter arrived with wine, pouring it carefully into tall-stemmed glasses that gleamed in the candlelight. Zayne thanked him politely, his gaze shifting only once to the bar, where the same man from earlier still sat with his attention casually cast in your direction. You turned slightly, following the line of his sight, then returned your focus to your glass, letting your fingers trace the rim in a slow circle.

“He’s not being subtle,” you murmured, amusement laced behind the observation.

Zayne didn’t look at you. “No,” he replied quietly, his voice calm but flat. “He’s not.”

You took a sip of wine, savoring the subtle dryness before resting the glass down with measured grace, watching as Zayne reached for his own, though his eyes no longer lingered on the menu. They lingered on you.

There was a moment then, brief but electric. His thumb traced the condensation along the side of his glass, your knee brushing his beneath the table as you shifted, the friction light but unmistakable. His fingers stilled. Yours didn’t.

You let your hand drift forward, brushing a nonexistent speck of lint from the sleeve of his jacket, your touch featherlight, innocent in appearance but loaded with every unspoken invitation you’d buried over the last few weeks. His gaze dropped to your hand, unmoving, eyes darker than before and unreadable behind the glint of his lenses.

“Is this why you came to dinner?” you asked softly, voice low enough to be heard only by him, your tone rich with curiosity and something sweeter. “To glare at men across the room and pretend not to look at me?”

His mouth twitched, but no smile came. Instead, he reached for his wine, sipped, and set it down with the precision of a man redirecting a thought that threatened to unravel him. When he finally answered, the words came slow, carefully measured, like each one had been chosen and then stripped of emotion before being allowed to speak.

“I joined you,” he said, “because I wanted to spend time with you.”

Your breath caught—not because it was shocking, but because it wasn’t what you’d expected. Not from him. Not from the man who guarded his glances like state secrets and kept his compliments locked behind layers of protocol and distance.

You felt the burn of the wine in your throat, warm and pleasant, chased by the slower, hotter ache that settled beneath your skin as Zayne’s gaze returned to yours, no longer pretending.

Outside, the city glittered with its thousand artificial stars, but you barely noticed. Not when the man across from you was already undoing you, word by deliberate word, look by silent look.

The wine deepened in color as the bottle emptied by half, its ruby hue catching the low candlelight like a secret confession left unsaid. Silverware clinked gently against porcelain, the muted bustle of the restaurant swirling around your table in a blur of linen and laughter, but none of it truly reached you- not the way Zayne’s gaze did, not the way his silence began to coil like tension in the space between his words.

You had been talking. Half-laughing, recounting some disaster of a Hunter briefing that had gone wildly off-course thanks to Caleb and his apparent allergy to authority. However, it was evident that he hadn’t responded in several minutes.

Not really.

He sat across from you like a man carved from ice and intent, his knife idly skimming through the untouched portion of his entrée, the prongs of his fork resting forgotten at the edge of the plate. His shoulders were set, the line of his jaw just slightly tenser than before, and though his eyes never fully left you, there was something deeper pulling at them now. Something that said his focus was not on your story, or the food, or the passing murmur of the waiter asking if everything was to your liking. It was on you.

Not your words. You.

You paused, letting your fingers trace the edge of your wine glass once more as you watched him. “You’re quiet,” you said softly, not teasing this time—curious. Observant.

Zayne blinked slowly, and for a moment he looked as if he hadn’t heard you. But then he inhaled, shallow but sharp, and gave the smallest shake of his head before murmuring, “I’m listening.”

And he was. You believed him. But not in the way that meant he could repeat your words back to you. No, he was listening the way someone watched a storm rolling in from a distance, knowing the moment it broke would drown everything in its path.

You leaned your elbow onto the table, propping your chin on your hand as you studied him, the candlelight dancing across the smooth planes of his face and the glint of his glasses. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“That thing where you go completely still, like if you so much as move, something will slip out that you can’t take back.”

His lips parted, just slightly. The breath he took was measured, painfully so.

“I don’t do that,” he said eventually, though even his tone had gentled, losing its usual clinical edge.

You smiled slowly, eyes flickering down to the curve of his mouth, then back up. “You do, actually.”

He didn’t respond. Not this time.

You picked up your fork again, letting the silence stretch between you as you took another bite, chewing slowly, your gaze never leaving his. The food was good, but you couldn’t taste it. Not really. Not with the weight of his attention pressed against your skin like heat through silk.

“I didn’t think you’d say yes to dinner,” you said after a while, your voice softer now, almost introspective. “I half-expected a polite decline and a few hours of radio silence.”

Zayne’s gaze dropped then, as if the tablecloth had become momentarily fascinating. His hand flexed slightly where it rested on the stem of his glass, but he didn’t lift it.

“I almost didn’t,” he admitted.

That caught you off guard more than anything he could’ve said. You straightened slightly. “Why?”

His eyes met yours again, and for a moment, something flickered across his face—longing, maybe. Frustration. Or perhaps just the barest glimpse of vulnerability breaking through the cracks he kept so carefully sealed.

“Because I knew what it would do to me.”

He said it plainly, voice even and devoid of dramatic flourish, but it hit like a confession all the same. A sharp, clean incision laid bare across the linen and candlelight between you.

You didn’t answer right away. There wasn’t much to say, not when the air between you had grown so thick it could be carved like butter with the edge of a spoon.

The rest of dinner passed like that: your words slower now, chosen more carefully, and his replies fewer, quieter, less frequent until they dwindled entirely. But it wasn’t discomfort that stole his voice. It was control—fading, fraying, slipping one moment at a time the longer he sat across from you, his every breath weighted by the knowledge that you were there in red silk and firelight, your skin bare at the shoulders, your lips wine-slick and shining every time you lifted the glass to your mouth.

He looked like a man unraveling. Quietly, invisibly, beautifully.

And you could feel the pull in your own bones, the way your body responded to his silence more than his words. Your pulse beat faster, your thoughts slowed. You didn’t know what the next move would be, but you knew one thing with certainty:

He wouldn’t last the whole night like this.

***

The cab pulled away behind you in a quiet sweep of tires against wet pavement, leaving the two of you standing on the edge of the residential block, where the hum of downtown Linkon faded into something softer—less neon, more muted elegance, with wide sidewalks brushed in the warm amber glow of wrought-iron streetlamps and the faint scent of rain clinging to the early night air. The building ahead loomed modestly tall, its smooth glass façade reflecting the glow of passing cars and the occasional pedestrian, but none of it seemed to matter when the silence between you and Zayne deepened with every step toward its entrance.

You walked side by side, not speaking, not touching, and yet the space between your bodies was charged in a way that felt louder than conversation—an invisible current sparking and flickering with every sway of your dress, every quiet click of your heels on the stone, every time your arm brushed his sleeve in a way that could still be called incidental, even if both of you knew better. The slit along your thigh shifted with each movement, flashing just enough skin to tease and disappear again, and though Zayne never turned his head to look directly, you could feel the weight of his awareness, heavy and deliberate, trailing every motion with the precision of a man trained to observe detail but cursed, in this moment, with too much of it.

His hands remained at his sides, though his fingers twitched now and again, curling in toward his palms as if to occupy themselves, to resist the impulse to reach for something he wasn’t ready to admit he wanted. There was a stiffness in the way he walked, not discomfort exactly, but tension held just beneath the skin—too deliberate to be casual, too controlled to be natural. The kind of tension that builds not from conflict but from desire kept at bay for far too long.

You didn’t speak at first, content to let the quiet wrap around you, but when you turned your head slightly to glance at him, catching the tightness in his jaw, the way he swallowed hard against a breath that wasn’t steady—you smiled, not unkindly, and let your voice slip through the quiet like silk through fingers.

“You’re awfully quiet,” you said, your tone soft, curious, not teasing this time but observant, knowing. “I thought maybe the wine had stolen your voice, but now I think you’re trying a little too hard not to speak.”

He didn’t answer right away, though his eyes flicked toward you, only briefly, before returning to the path ahead. The light glinted across his glasses, veiling his expression, but the stillness in him shifted, a pause settling between his steps as if the words lodged somewhere just behind his teeth, too dangerous to be released.

“I’m fine,” he said eventually, his voice lower than usual, rougher, lacking its usual calm precision.

You hummed softly, a note of amusement threading beneath your breath as you tilted your head to look at him more fully, your shoulder brushing his in the motion, the contact brief but intentional. “You’re lying,” you said simply, not accusing, just matter-of-fact, like a diagnosis rendered with practiced ease.

Zayne stopped walking for the briefest of moment before continuing again, though this time the space between you was nearly gone, his body closer now, the warmth of him almost brushing yours with every stride. His hand twitched again, barely restrained, and this time you saw the way he flexed his fingers, as if weighing whether control was still worth keeping.

You didn’t speak again, not right away, letting him exist in that silence, letting him feel the weight of your nearness as you neared the entrance to the building, where soft golden light spilled out across the marble foyer and glass doors waited to slide open at his approach.

He reached for the handle, fingers brushing against the access panel with practiced familiarity, but stopped just before the contact, his arm going still, the line of his back rigid in a way that had nothing to do with tension and everything to do with unraveling.

You stood just behind him now, your breath steady, your voice low as you murmured his name, a quiet pull meant only for him.

When he turned, it was slow, like the motion cost him something, and the moment your eyes met, you saw the damning truth written in every line of his face, every strained breath, every faltering attempt at composure. He looked at you as though he were already drowning, already lost, and the mask he so often wore—the cold control, the clinical reserve slipped just enough to let something raw flicker through.

His lips parted, as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, his gaze dropped. It was slow, deliberate, tracing the length of you from the curve of your mouth to the shimmer of the dress still catching glints of light like stardust clinging to skin—and when he looked back up, there was nothing left of his usual restraint.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he said, the words quiet but devastating in their honesty.

There was no room left for pretense after that.

Because even as the door opened behind him, casting the light of his apartment like an invitation across the polished floor, his hand was already reaching for you—barely trembling, but no longer holding back.

The door clicked shut behind you, the gentle sound deceptively soft for what it marked- the final breath of restraint before it all gave way. There was no pause, no time to marvel at the familiar warmth of his apartment or the way the low lighting bathed the polished floors in gold; the moment you stepped past the threshold, Zayne was already reaching for you.

It wasn’t rushed, not in the way of careless hunger, but something far more dangerous, restrained only by the thinnest thread of composure that had frayed steadily from the moment you stepped out of the cab in that impossibly red dress. His hand found your waist with a certainty that came not from impulse, but from a storm long held at bay, and he guided you backward, not with force, but with inevitability, until your back met the cool press of the wall.

He didn’t speak, nor did he offer some clever remark to deflect the intensity simmering just beneath his skin. Instead, his eyes met yours as if every layer he usually kept between himself and the world had been stripped away by your presence alone. And in that stillness, in the hush of the moment just before the fall, you saw it: the quiet desperation of a man who had waited too long to touch what he craved.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t the kind of kiss meant to ask permission or test boundaries. It was a confession, searing and breathless, forged in the hours he’d spent pretending to be unaffected. His mouth claimed yours with a precision that had nothing to do with logic, and everything to do with memory. It was every glance he hadn’t allowed himself to linger on, every time your hand had brushed his in passing and he’d pretended not to feel it, every moment he had kept his distance when all he wanted was this.

Your hands found their place against his chest to ground yourself against the sheer force of emotion rolling through him. His body pressed flush to yours, bracketing you against the wall like something sacred. He kissed you like a man unmaking himself, pulling you deeper with every breath, his fingers curling into the silk at your hips as if anchoring himself to the one thing he could no longer deny.

He broke the kiss only to breathe, his forehead resting briefly against yours, though even that moment of stillness trembled with restraint.

“You don’t understand what you’re doing to me,” he said, his voice frayed and low, each word sounding as though it had been wrestled past a barricade he’d long since lost the strength to hold.

Your eyes didn’t leave his, your smile soft, knowing, as you whispered, “Then show me.”

The look that passed over his face in that instant.. Raw, unfiltered, reverent, and was enough to steal the air from your lungs.

He moved again, not fast, but with the weight of decision behind every touch. His hand slid beneath the curve of your thigh, lifting it gently, guiding your leg to wrap around his waist, the motion sending your dress higher, the fabric gliding up your skin like water. His other hand braced beside your head, the flex of muscle beneath your palm a reminder of the restraint still fighting to hold him in place, though you could feel it—cracking, fracturing, coming undone with every second he was near.

His mouth descended to your throat, and the sigh that left your lips as he kissed just beneath your jaw felt like an invitation he no longer needed. He trailed fire along your skin, not in rush or rage, but in slow, deliberate surrender, each press of his lips unspooling the tension coiled in your spine, each graze of his fingers a vow he hadn’t yet put into words.

When he pulled back, his breath came heavy against your skin, and though he hesitated. It was clear he had already let go of every rule he’d ever set between you.

“Tell me to stop.”

You leaned forward, your mouth brushing his ear with the softest echo of a challenge, and whispered the only word he needed to hear.

“No.”

The last of his control slipped away like a thread snapped clean in two.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, needier, one hand fisting the fabric of your dress at your hip as if he could pull you into him through sheer will. There was no silence now, only breath and want and the distant, muffled thrum of your heartbeat in your ears, louder with every passing second as the wall pressed into your spine and his body pressed into your front.

This wasn’t patience anymore, and Zayne, so carefully composed, so beautifully restrained, was done waiting.

The way his mouth returned to yours had nothing of tenderness left in it because Zayne was past the point of soft. This was hunger twisted into reverence, years of silence pressed into skin, devotion that could no longer hide behind clinical distance or careful words. His kiss was bruising in its thoroughness, paced not by haste but by desperation worn smooth by time, and when his hand fisted in the side of your dress, pulling it higher until cool air kissed the tops of your thighs, there was no protest in you, only the quiet arch of your body seeking more.

Your leg stayed wrapped around his waist, muscles straining as he ground into you with agonizing slowness, every shift of his hips against your core sending shocks of sensation spiraling through you. The heat of him was unbearable, pressed through layers of fabric that felt suffocating now, your body aching beneath the weight of friction and unspent tension. His free hand slid up your spine, palm wide and steady, flattening between your shoulder blades as if to anchor you there—as if part of him still feared you might disappear, that this moment might not be real.

But you were real. You were here.

And when your lips broke from his with a gasp, your head tipping back against the wall as his mouth traveled down your neck, your hands found the lapels of his coat and tugged. Your hands were firm, pulling him closer like it would tether him to you completely.

“Zayne,” you breathed, the sound of his name almost a moan, almost a prayer, and something inside him shattered.

He dropped to his knees.

There was no ceremony in it, no hesitation, only the smooth descent of a man brought low by desire and something far deeper. His hands gripped your thighs, large and sure, guiding them apart as his mouth traced down your body—through the dip between your ribs, the subtle tremble of your belly, the hem of your dress that he pushed higher and higher until the silk bunched around your hips and your legs trembled beneath the attention.

He looked up once, his eyes dark, his mouth slightly parted, and there was something in that gaze—something feral and focused, worshipful and unrelenting that made your breath catch in your throat before he even touched you.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, his voice raw, husked by restraint now fully unraveling. “Are you cold?”

You managed a whisper, breathless and wrecked. “No.”

A smile ghosted across his lips, fleeting and sharp, and then he leaned in, pulling the thin, flimsy strip of fabric covering your core to the side.

The first brush of his mouth between your thighs was light, almost too light, the kind of tease that made your hips twitch forward instinctively. But the second he groaned, low and guttural against your skin, that nearly undid you. His tongue followed in a languid stroke, slow and devastating, and the sheer contrast of his control slipping while his movements remained so precise made your knees nearly buckle.

He didn’t rush. He never did. But where once he’d held back with a surgeon’s distance, now he savored with a sinner’s devotion.

His hands slid beneath your thighs, lifting, adjusting, guiding you to sit back against the wall in a way that gave him access to every inch he wanted. His tongue moved like he’d imagined this a thousand times—measured, sure, patient in the most excruciating way, as if he intended to draw out every gasp, every whispered plea. When your fingers found his hair, threading into those dark strands and pulling just slightly, his responding groan vibrated against you, sending another rush of sensation shooting through your spine.

“Zayne, please—” The words slipped out unbidden, broken by breath and need, and you felt him pause, just briefly.

Then he gave you exactly what you asked for.

His mouth closed around you with intent, his tongue moving in slow, purposeful circles that built and built until your thighs trembled and your fingers clenched in his hair, your head tipping back against the wall as a cry tore itself from your lips. He didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow.

He simply gave. Every flick, every press, every low groan like praise sent into your skin—until you shattered.

Your climax hit you with stunning force, your body arching, your voice cracking into something breathless and high as your thighs clamped around his shoulders and his name left your lips in a broken, desperate whisper.

He stayed there, lips soft against trembling skin, breathing you in like a man trying to remember what control used to feel like. When he finally lifted his head, his mouth was slick, his eyes darker than anything you’d ever seen on him, and he looked utterly ruined.

“Bedroom,” you tried to say, though it came out as a shaky breath, but Zayne only leaned up, his hands gripping your hips, his body pressing flush to yours once more.

“No,” he whispered, his voice thick with hunger and reverence, his mouth brushing yours in a kiss that stole what little breath you had left. “I’m not finished.”

And then he was lowering you to the floor, spreading you out on the polished hardwood like something precious, something meant to be undone in pieces.

The floor was cool beneath your skin, polished smooth by the flickering city light filtering through the tall windows, but none of that mattered, not when Zayne hovered above you like he was drinking you in, like the very sight of you laid out beneath him had shaken the last remnants of restraint from his bones. His coat had already been discarded somewhere behind him, his tie hanging loose around his neck, and he was undoing the buttons of his shirt with hands that trembled just slightly, though not from hesitation. No, this was need, barely contained, stripped of all its usual poise.

He didn’t speak, not as he shed the last layers between you, not as he watched your dress ride up further with every motion, revealing inch after inch of soft, trembling skin. His breath was shallow now, his chest rising with quiet urgency as he knelt between your thighs, his palms sliding up from your knees to your hips in a slow, reverent sweep that made your eyes flutter shut.

But he didn’t let you drift. His hand curled around your jaw, not rough, but firm enough to pull your gaze back to him.

“Look at me,” he said, his voice low and wrecked, all grit and command, and when your eyes met his again, the sheer intensity behind them stole what was left of your breath. “I want to see you.”

He leaned in then, and when he kissed you, it wasn’t frantic, it was consuming. His body pressed you deeper into the floor, his bare skin hot against yours, the hard line of him fitting perfectly between your thighs. You could feel how much he wanted you, every inch of him pressed tight and aching, and the way he held himself back—just barely, made it even worse. His hips rolled into yours slowly, once, and you gasped, nails dragging across his shoulders as your legs wrapped around his waist.

“I’ve thought about this,” he whispered against your mouth, his words ragged, teeth grazing your lower lip before he kissed you again, deeper this time. “More than I should have.”

You reached between your bodies, fingers fumbling with the last barrier between you. Zayne reached to help- one hand bracing beside your head, the other guiding himself with a precision that felt more like devotion than need.

When he finally pushed into you, it was slow, the stretch of him deliberate, steady, filling you completely as he pressed forward with a groan that sounded as though it had been locked in his chest for years.

Your back arched off the floor, a breathless sound escaping your lips as your arms wrapped tight around him, pulling him down, closer, deeper.

He didn’t move at first. Just held there, buried inside you, forehead resting against yours, breath stuttering as if he were still trying to believe this was real.

“You feel…” he murmured, the words caught in his throat, and then he started to move.

Each thrust was long, slow, devastating- like he was trying to memorize the way your body took him, how it clenched around him, how every shift made you moan his name like a secret torn loose. He kissed you through it, dragging his lips across your cheek, your throat, your collarbone, whispering things he probably didn’t mean for you to hear but couldn’t stop himself from saying.

“I need.. God, I need you…”

You were unraveling beneath him, each roll of his hips sending pleasure spiraling through your body until you were clutching at him, your voice gone to breathless gasps and broken cries. He moved faster now, still steady but losing rhythm to desperation, his restraint fraying at the edges until his moans joined yours, low and guttural, like he was breaking apart with you.

He reached between your bodies, fingers finding where you were already trembling, circling with purpose until your hips bucked beneath him.

“Come for me,” he whispered, his voice fierce, urgent, wrecked. “Let me feel you.”

And you did.

You shattered, crying out his name, your body arching beneath him as the orgasm tore through you harder than you were ready for, your entire body shaking as your nails bit into his back, your legs locking around his hips to keep him there, deep, buried, yours.

Zayne cursed, breath faltering, and then with one final thrust he came, hips driving into you as he groaned against your neck, his entire body shuddering with the force of it. He stayed there, pressed tight to you, his breath ragged and hot on your skin, his hands trembling where they gripped your hips like he never wanted to let go.

The world stilled around you, time slowing in the hush of shared breath and the press of skin against skin.

His voice came moments later, quieter, rough around the edges.

“…I told myself I wouldn’t do this.”

You smiled faintly, tracing the edge of his jaw, still flushed and damp with sweat.

“And yet here you are.”

Zayne exhaled a broken laugh, burying his face in your neck.

“You make it hard to stick to my rules.”

***

For a long while, neither of you moved.

The rhythm of your breathing slowly found its way back to something steady, though it still stuttered in the spaces where your bodies remained pressed together, where his hand rested on your waist and your thigh curled loosely around his hip. The air in the apartment was warm and still, broken only by the soft exhale from the vents overhead and the faint heartbeat of Linkon City pulsing through the windows beyond. Even the street noise felt distant now, as though the world had shrunk to this moment, this space, the sheen of sweat cooling along your skin as his breath fanned gently against your throat.

Zayne hadn’t pulled away, not even an inch.

He lay half on top of you, chest rising and falling in a slow, calming cadence, his forehead resting against your collarbone as if he’d melted there—melted and found no reason to put himself back together. His arms circled you more tightly now than they had during the act itself, a quiet kind of reverence in the way his hand stroked slowly up and down your side, tracing every inch as though memorizing you all over again in stillness.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked quietly, his voice husky and worn thin with exhaustion, though there was a flicker of worry beneath it, as if the thought had haunted him the moment clarity returned.

You smiled, turning your head slightly so your lips brushed the shell of his ear, the gesture tender. “No,” you murmured. “God, no. You were perfect.”

He let out a slow breath, almost shaky, and you felt the way his body relaxed just a little more, the way his hold softened. There was safety now. Permission. Home.

One of his hands drifted upward, brushing your hair gently back from your damp forehead, fingers trailing through it in slow, careful strokes. He kissed your temple a moment later, a press of lips so soft it barely counted as a kiss at all, and yet it made something inside you ache with sweetness.

“I shouldn’t have lost control like that,” he said after a while, his voice so low it barely touched the air.

You opened your eyes, just enough to find his, your palm rising to cup his cheek as you shook your head. “Yes, you should have,” you whispered. “You needed to.”

Zayne didn’t answer right away, but his gaze held yours, dark and open in a way it rarely was, stripped of its usual cool detachment. There was no defense in his expression now. No composure. Just the honest, unguarded weight of a man who had finally let himself feel.

You leaned up slightly, just enough to kiss him, the kind of kiss that said I’m here and you’re safe and we are allowed to want this.

He sighed against your lips and when he kissed you back, his mouth lingered like he was afraid to leave—even for breath.

When you pulled away, his hand found yours, fingers lacing with yours against the floor, and he brought it to his lips, kissing the back of your knuckles with a kind of softness that made your chest go tight.

“We should move,” you whispered after a while, though your body made no attempt to do so.

“We should,” he murmured, his eyes already slipping closed, his voice heavier now, slower. “But I don’t want to.”

You smiled, letting your head rest against the crook of his neck, your leg sliding just slightly against his as your breath aligned with his once more.

“You always do what’s right,” you said softly.

Zayne hummed, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand, slow and rhythmic. “Not tonight.”

And thank God for that.

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #lads smut #lnds smut #love and deepspace smut #zayne x reader #lads zayne #lnds zayne #zayne smut #li shen #moongirlcleo

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norristrii · 25 days ago

Text

SO CLOSE TO WHAT.

“No, you ain’t got no Mrs, oh, but you got a sports car.” — Moving to England to live with your aunt’s boyfriend was one thing, the other one is to deal with his son’s annoyingly cocky behavior.

pairing. step cousin! Lando Norris x fem! reader

warnings. AU! (Lando’s younger, and isn’t f1 driver) step cousins romance(I tried to make them as distant as possible), complicated family situation.

babs’ notes. I let the voices win— I completely understand that this isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, and that’s okay!! There’s not going to be smut, and I’ll probably make this series!

music. Sports Car by Tate Mcrae.

Series masterlist.

YOUR AUNT WAS A TRULY PERPLEXING WOMAN—enigmatic in ways you could never quite figure out. She wasn’t easy to understand, but you loved her regardless. She had been your anchor since you were little, stepping in where your parents had often failed. While they weren’t exactly the Parents of the Year, your aunt was always there, her fierce loyalty and unwavering care filling the gaps they left behind.

But your aunt had her quirks, and one of them was her apparent inability to be alone. She always had someone by her side—a new boyfriend or partner that became a fixture in her life for however long the romance lasted. Over the years, you’d grown accustomed to the revolving door of men who entered and exited her life.

This time, though, was different. For the past two years, she’d been with a man who didn’t seem to fit the usual mold. His name was Thomas, he lived in London, a wealthy single businessman, according to everything she had told you—a world away from the Los Angeles life you knew. He had a son your age, she’d mentioned in passing, though you’d never thought much about it.

Her frequent trips to England had become routine, each one pulling her further into his world. But this time, her decision rocked your world entirely: she wanted to move. All the way from sunny Los Angeles to the vastly different city of London. You could tell how much she wanted this, how much happiness she seemed to find in the prospect of starting a new chapter with Thomas. And despite the bittersweet ache of leaving your friends, your home, and everything familiar behind, you agreed to go with her. She’d always been by your side, after all, and now it was your turn to be by hers.

Packing up your life was harder than you’d expected. Every photo, every book, every piece of clothing seemed to carry the weight of memories tied to the life you were leaving behind. As the day of the move approached, you couldn’t help but feel the enormity of it all—the uncertainty of what lay ahead, the bittersweet finality of what you were leaving behind.

You leaned against the cool leather seat, your aunt beside you, chatting away excitedly about how different London felt compared to Los Angeles. Her words barely registered as you stared out of the tinted window of the luxurious limousine that had been sent for you—a reminder of the new world you were stepping into.

The city unfolded before your eyes like a movie scene. The streets buzzed with life, the iconic red double-decker buses rolling past, black cabs weaving through traffic with practiced ease. Pedestrians hurried along the sidewalks, some clutching umbrellas despite the sun peeking through the clouds. London didn’t feel like any place you’d ever been—it was both historic and modern, loud and elegant all at once.

The music in your airpods provided a gentle soundtrack to your thoughts, keeping you anchored in the overwhelming rush of sights and sounds. You felt like a lost tourist, out of place amidst the grandeur and hustle of the city. Every corner seemed to hold a piece of London’s story: old buildings with ornate details, high-end shops gleaming with glass displays, and the occasional glimpse of lush green parks tucked between it all.

Your aunt’s voice broke through the haze of your thoughts, pulling you back to the present. “It’ll be okay,” she said softly, her tone warm and reassuring. You glanced at her, noticing the way her eyes sparkled as she took in the sights of London. She always had a way of making things seem less daunting, even when you weren’t sure you believed her.

Reluctantly, you pulled out one of your airpods, letting the faint hum of music fade into the background. “It’s so beautiful here,” she said, her voice filled with genuine awe as she gazed out at the bustling streets.

You followed her gaze, taking in the city around you. Beautiful? Sure. The historic buildings, the cobblestone streets, the iconic red buses—it all looked like something out of a postcard. But to you, it was also overwhelming. Unfamiliar. A world away from the sun-soaked streets of Los Angeles that you knew like the back of your hand.

“Yeah,” you muttered under your breath, your fingers fidgeting with the strap of your bag. “Beautiful. And also fucking unfamiliar.”

Your aunt didn’t seem to catch your words—or maybe she chose not to. Instead, she reached over and gave your hand a gentle squeeze, her silent way of saying she understood. And maybe she did. After all, she was leaving behind her own life too, even if she seemed more excited than scared.

The limousine came to a halt, the soft hum of the engine quieting as you stared out at the sight before you. The villa was something straight out of a daydream—grand and elegant, with French windows that glinted in the sunlight and lush greenery that seemed to wrap the house in a sense of timeless beauty. You couldn’t help but think, Wow, this is not so bad. If nothing else, at least the place itself might soften the blow of moving here.

Thomas was already waiting at the entrance, his smile broad and welcoming as if he couldn’t contain his excitement. The moment the car door opened, your aunt practically bolted into his arms, laughter and affectionate greetings filling the air. They embraced like the stars of some romantic film, completely caught up in each other. At least one of you was happy, you thought, watching them.

You stepped out of the limousine hesitantly, your shoes crunching softly against the gravel drive. The cool breeze carried the faint scent of flowers, and for a moment, you let yourself take it all in—the towering architecture, the perfectly trimmed hedges, the sheer opulence of it all. It was beautiful, yes, but also overwhelming, like stepping into a world you weren’t sure you belonged to.

Adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, you glanced around, taking in every detail of the place that would now be called home. The air was still, save for the occasional rustle of leaves, and the sheer quiet was a stark contrast to the hum of Los Angeles. You felt a pang of homesickness already, but you pushed it aside. This was a fresh start, you reminded yourself, no matter how unfamiliar it might be.

“Just treat yourself like home, Y/n,” Thomas said warmly, his accent crisp yet inviting. He kept an arm around your aunt as he spoke, the two of them radiating an ease with each other that made you smile faintly. At least she was happy. That was what mattered most, you reminded yourself. They turned towards the grand entrance of the villa, leaving you to follow quietly behind.

The house opened up before you like a gallery, every inch of it steeped in luxury and charm. As you stepped inside, your eyes were immediately drawn to the walls—adorned with framed photographs and posters of McLaren F1 cars, sleek sports cars, and classic vintage models. The space exuded the spirit of a car enthusiast, one who seemed to live and breathe motorsport.

“Typical British man,” you muttered under your breath with a soft chuckle, amused by the predictability of it all. But if you were being honest, you kind of liked it. The bold curves of the cars, the energy captured in the photos, the sleek designs—it all sparked something familiar, something comforting.

You’d loved cars and F1 for as long as you could remember. When your dad was still around—still playing the role of a father, even if fleetingly—he’d introduced you to the world of motorsport. He’d taught you how engines worked, how to tell one car apart from another, how to appreciate the artistry of speed and design. He even let you sit on his lap and “drive” when you were just six years old, your tiny hands gripping the steering wheel while he worked the pedals. Those memories stuck with you, even after the illusion of who your dad was faded.

Running your fingers along the edge of a wooden banister, you let your gaze linger on one of the larger framed photos: a McLaren car hurtling down a track, wheels kicking up dust as it rounded a corner. There was a thrill to it, a sense of movement and purpose that felt magnetic.

Behind you, you heard your aunt’s laughter echo down the hallway as she and her boyfriend disappeared deeper into the house, wrapped up in their own bubble of bliss. You stood there for a moment longer, taking in your surroundings and wondering what it would feel like to call this place home. It was beautiful, sure, but it was also unfamiliar. Strange.

You sat at the grand dining table, surrounded by the understated elegance of your new home. The plate in front of you held what could only be described as the most typical British dish imaginable—crispy fish and chips, with a side of mushy peas that you were still trying to convince yourself to like. The room was quiet, save for the occasional clink of utensils against porcelain. Even your aunt, normally a chatterbox, seemed content in her little bubble of bliss, sitting close to her boyfriend.

The silence was suddenly broken by the unmistakable growl of a roaring engine outside the house. It wasn’t just any car engine—it was powerful, aggressive, commanding attention in a way that made your heart leap slightly. You glanced toward the window, your curiosity piqued.

“It must have been Lando,” Thomas said casually, barely glancing up from his plate.

Lando. That was his name? You rolled the name over in your mind, trying to place it. Your aunt had mentioned the man had a son your age, but this was the first time you’d heard his name spoken out loud. Lando. It sounded sharp, unique, leaving an impression before you’d even seen him.

You leaned back slightly in your chair, trying to keep your movements subtle, not wanting to draw attention to yourself. Your fingers idly brushed the edge of your plate, but your gaze was firmly fixed on the massive window across the room. Outside, the carbon blue McLaren sat parked with an air of quiet power, its sleek design commanding attention even in stillness.

The car door opened smoothly, catching your eye as the man stepped out. He moved with effortless confidence, his posture relaxed yet purposeful. His curly brown hair caught the sunlight, slightly tousled, as though he’d just come from the rush of the open road. Dressed casually in faded blue jeans and a sweater that matched the deep tone of the McLaren, he seemed entirely at ease in the luxurious surroundings. The sunglasses perched on his face obscured his eyes, but the sharp angles of his jaw and the slight smirk tugging at his lips hinted at a self-assuredness that was hard to ignore.

You found yourself watching him longer than you intended, intrigued by the way he carried himself. There was something magnetic about his presence—like he knew exactly how to make an entrance without even trying. He lingered by the car for a moment, brushing his hand along the roof before glancing toward the house. His movements were deliberate, casual, yet somehow striking in their simplicity.

You leaned back slightly, arms crossing as you processed the sight before you. So this was Lando. The son your aunt had mentioned in passing, the one you hadn’t given much thought to before now. He seemed confident—maybe too confident—but you’d seen worse. Much worse.

Still, there was something about him that lingered in your mind as he walked toward the house, his movements unhurried, exuding a kind of effortless ease. You weren’t sure yet what to make of him, but you had a feeling he wasn’t the kind of person you could easily ignore.

“Hey,” his voice rang out, that undercurrent of cockiness still lingering as if he carried the room with just a few syllables. You hesitated, your fingers lightly brushing the edge of the table as your aunt rushed past you, her excitement undeniable.

“Oh my god, Lan, you’ve grown up so much,” she gushed, wrapping her arms around him with a warmth that made you feel like an outsider in the moment. You could hear the sound of his laugh—a short, amused chuckle that matched the easy confidence he seemed to radiate.

Finally, you turned around, unable to resist any longer. Your eyes landed on him, taking in the full picture. His sunglasses now perched on his head, pushed back to reveal striking green eyes that seemed to catch the light in a way that made them all the more intense. His gaze darted to you, and for a moment, you thought you saw something flicker there—curiosity, perhaps? Or maybe it was just the same cockiness he carried in his voice.

Lando was taller than you'd expected, but not so much that it felt imposing. He stood with an ease that was almost frustrating, like he’d never had to try too hard for anything in his life. And yet, there was something about his presence that drew you in, even if you didn’t want to admit it.

So this was the golden boy everyone seemed to talk about—the one who apparently had it all: fame, charm, and a life that you couldn’t even begin to compare to your own. Honestly, you weren’t surprised. He looked good. Too good, almost. Like he had stepped straight out of the kind of world that only existed in glossy magazine spreads and Instagram feeds.

“You must be Y/n,” he said with a smirk, his tone light but carrying a certain edge of confidence. It wasn’t just an introduction—it was like he knew exactly how to set the pace of the room, how to make his presence impossible to ignore. “Dad and Auntie talked about you a lot.”

Auntie. You bristled slightly at the word, but let it pass. Whatever. It wasn’t worth commenting on, especially when he was already sliding into the seat opposite you, his movements casual but deliberate, like he had all the time in the world.

His green eyes locked onto yours, steady and focused in a way that made it hard to look away. There was something about them—sharp and observant, as if he was reading you like a page in a book. It wasn’t intimidating, exactly, but it wasn’t comfortable either. You could feel your guard rising instinctively, unsure of what to make of him.

“So,” he said, leaning back slightly in the chair, his smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Are you settling in, or did they just drag you here against your will?” His tone was teasing, but you caught the flicker of genuine curiosity hidden beneath it, like he actually wanted to know.

“The second one actually,” you said, your smile tinged with sarcasm, a playful edge in your voice. It was obvious you were joking, but the words carried just enough bite to keep things interesting.

Lando’s smirk grew, his green eyes narrowing slightly in mock amusement. “Dragged here kicking and screaming, huh?” he teased, leaning forward slightly in his chair. “Well, I guess I should feel honored to be graced with your presence then.”

You rolled your eyes, but the faint smile playing on your lips betrayed you. “Oh, absolutely,” you shot back, keeping your tone light. “I mean, it’s not every day you get to sit across from a golden boy.”

He chuckled softly at that, shaking his head as if to brush off the comment, but the glint in his eyes remained. “Golden boy, huh? Is that what they’re calling me now?” He leaned back in his chair, casually draping an arm over the backrest. “I’ve been called worse, I suppose.”

“Anyway, I need to go,” Lando announced, his voice cutting through the room with a casual confidence that seemed to come so naturally to him. His tone carried the same cockiness you were starting to realize was simply a part of who he was. “Max and I are going to play some golf,” he added, like the words were a badge of honor. Golf—of all things. The most boring sport you could think of. Or whatever it even was. You couldn't help but picture him swinging clubs in the middle of a pristine course, surrounded by people eager to soak in his charm.

“Golf?” you muttered quietly under your breath, the word leaving a sour taste in your mouth. The thought of it seemed laughable—too refined, too slow, too uneventful for someone who radiated such energy. You resisted the urge to say it aloud, knowing it wasn’t worth the trouble. He didn’t seem like the type who’d be fazed by a comment like that anyway.

“You just arrived,” your aunt interrupted, her voice softer now, tinged with a hint of disappointment. You could see it in the way she leaned toward him, her hand resting gently on his arm. She wanted him to stay longer, wanted to hold onto this moment of togetherness for just a little while more. But Lando didn’t seem particularly moved by her subtle plea.

“Sorry,” he said with a small shrug, the apology falling from his lips with all the sincerity of someone who had already made up their mind. His casual demeanor felt unshakable, like he lived in a world where rules and expectations bent around him, not the other way around.

And then, his gaze flicked to you. “See you around, Y/n,” he said, your name lingering on his lips with a bittersweet tone that sent a faint ripple through your chest. The way he said it—like it meant something more than just a casual farewell—caught you off guard. You couldn’t quite place the feeling it left behind, but it clung to you nonetheless.

Without another word, he turned and left the room, his footsteps fading into the hall as the faint hum of his McLaren’s engine became the only sound left to fill the silence. The absence of his presence seemed almost louder than his arrival, leaving you feeling... unsettled. You sat there, unsure of whether you were relieved or intrigued—or maybe both.

Thomas’ smile was warm, brimming with an almost paternal pride as he spoke. “He’s my boy, I’m sure you’ll get along,” he said confidently, his words carrying an air of certainty that you found difficult to match.

You nodded politely, offering a faint smile in return. It was nice that Thomas was so sure of this, so convinced that you and Lando would mesh seamlessly. But in truth, you weren’t. You couldn’t quite picture yourself clicking with someone like Lando—the golden boy who radiated charm and arrogance in equal measure, who seemed to move through life with a confidence you weren’t sure you could match.

The memory of his smirk, the cocky lilt in his voice, and the way he had glanced at you with those sharp green eyes—all of it lingered in your mind, unshakable even as you tried to dismiss it. You were still processing what you’d seen in him and what you hadn’t, trying to decide whether he was someone you wanted in your orbit or someone you’d prefer to keep at arm’s length.

Thomas didn’t seem to notice your hesitation, his expression full of pride and affection. And despite your doubts, you couldn’t help but respect the bond he clearly shared with Lando, the way he spoke about him with such unwavering certainty.

You forced your smile to stay in place, the words catching slightly in your throat as you replied, “I guess we’ll see.” It was the safest response you could think of, one that wouldn’t betray the uncertainty swirling in your mind.

Thomas chuckled lightly, oblivious to your internal conflict. “Oh, trust me. Once you get to know him, you’ll see what I mean.”

You weren’t sure if that was a promise or a warning, but you couldn’t deny the faint flicker of curiosity that had already begun to take root. Whatever happened next, you had a feeling that Lando Norris wasn’t someone you’d be able to ignore—whether you liked it or not.

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mrsfancyferrari · 1 month ago

Text

Sweet Pain

Summary: lando just took his wisdom tooth out and you, his best friend, was assigned to take care of him at home

Song: Heavy Love · Odetari

Author’s note: Sorry I haven't posted in a while! School sucks! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 3.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

Lando groaned as the anesthesia began to wear off, his cheek bulging with the wad of gauze the oral surgeon had so gently packed into his mouth.

The world swam around him, a haze of pain and confusion as he tried to sit up in the chair. You, his steadfast best friend, gripped his shoulders firmly but gently, keeping him in place.

"Take it easy, buddy," you murmured, your voice a soothing balm to his raw nerves. "You just had your wisdom tooth pulled. You need to rest."

He nodded, wincing as the movement sent a fresh wave of pain shooting through his jaw. The room felt unnaturally bright, the fluorescent lights glaring down on him like an accusation.

You reached over and flipped the switch, casting the room into a more comfortable dimness. The shadows danced around the edges of the room, whispering of the comfort that waited for him at home.

"I've got you," you promised, your hand warm and steady on his shoulder. "I'll take care of you."

The words were a lifeline in the storm, and Lando clung to them like a drowning man. He'd never felt so vulnerable before, so utterly reliant on someone else for his well-being.

But there was something reassuring about it, too. Something that made the ache in his mouth seem a little less sharp.

As you led him out of the office, the cool evening air hit him like a slap, sending a shiver down his spine. The painkillers were kicking in, wrapping him in a fuzzy blanket of numbness.

He leaned into you, his head heavy and lolling. Your arms were strong around him, guiding him to the car with a gentle but firm grip.

In the car, the engine purred to life, and the smooth leather seats cradled him like a lover's embrace. He watched the world pass by in a blur, the neon lights of the city fading into the background as the pain grew more distant.

You chatted to him, keeping his mind off the discomfort, your voice a comforting hum that washed over him like a warm bath.

By the time you pulled up to his apartment, he was almost dozing. The stairs up to his door were a challenge, each step sending a jolt through his jaw.

You took the keys from his trembling hand and unlocked the door, guiding him inside with the ease of a shepherd leading a lamb to safety.

The living room was a haven of soft cushions and warm blankets, the TV casting a soft glow across the room. You helped him to the couch, propping his head up with a pillow, and handed him a glass of water with a straw.

"Thanks," he mumbled, his voice muffled by the gauze.

"No problem," you said, settling in beside him. "Now, let's get you comfortable."

You began to remove the gauze, your movements slow and precise. As the pressure lifted from his mouth, Lando felt the blood begin to pulse in his cheek, the pain starting to throb anew.

But your touch was surprisingly gentle, and he found himself leaning into your hand, craving the contact.

You paused, looking into his eyes, and for a moment, the pain was forgotten.

"You're going to be okay," you whispered, and in that moment, Lando believed it. He believed in you, in the strength of your care for him, in the promise of comfort that you offered.

With a final tug, the gauze was free, and you handed him a fresh piece. "Keep biting down on this for a little while," you instructed, your voice a soft purr that made his skin tingle. "It'll help with the bleeding."

Lando nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. The silence between you was charged, crackling with an energy that made the air feel thick and heavy.

"Is there anything else you need?" you asked, your hand hovering over his shoulder. "Anything at all?"

He swallowed, his mouth dry. "Could you stay with me?"

You nodded without a second thought. "Of course."

And with that, the two of you settled in for the night. You grabbed the remote and started flipping through the channels, looking for something mindless to watch that would help pass the time and keep Lando's mind off the pain.

The TV's blue light reflected off the surface of the glass of water, casting a serene glow over the room that seemed to belie the current situation.

Lando took a sip through the straw, the cold liquid feeling like a lifeline to normalcy. He watched the images on the screen swirl and dance, the painkillers playing tricks with his vision.

His eyelids grew heavy, and he felt his head lolling to the side. You caught him, gently placing it back on the pillow with a chuckle.

"You're really out of it," you said, your voice a warm rumble that vibrated through his body.

He managed a weak smile. "Yeah. Thanks for… everything."

You nodded, the corner of your mouth tilting up in a soft smile. "It's what friends are for."

The pain began to ebb and flow, a constant throb that was only slightly lessened by the medication.

Each pulse seemed to echo through his body, a reminder of the invasive procedure he'd just undergone. But you were there, a constant presence at his side, and that made it easier to bear.

As the night stretched on, the TV's background noise became a lullaby, lulling Lando into a fitful sleep. His dreams were a strange tapestry of pain and comfort, the sensation of your hand on his shoulder a grounding force that kept the darker moments at bay.

Whenever he stirred, you were there, pressing a cool cloth to his cheek or offering him more water, your ministrations a gentle reminder that he wasn't alone.

When he finally woke up, the room was bathed in the soft light of dawn. The pain was a dull throb now, a persistent but distant memory of the night before.

You were still there, sprawled out on the couch, one arm thrown over your eyes to block out the early morning glow.

Lando shifted, the movement sending a jolt through his jaw. You stirred, sitting up with a start. "You okay?"

He nodded, his mouth feeling dry and uncomfortable. You took the water from the side table and held it to his lips, allowing him to sip through the straw. The coolness soothed his throat, and he felt a wash of gratitude for your thoughtfulness.

"I'm fine," he croaked. "Just… thirsty."

You nodded, understanding, and took the glass back. "Why don't you try to get some more sleep?"

He didn't argue, sinking back into the pillows with a sigh. As you tucked the blanket around him, the warmth of your hand on his shoulder lingered, a reminder of the care you'd shown him throughout the long, strange night.

You sat back down, your body heat radiating towards him. He couldn't help but shiver again, the chill from outside still clinging to his bones.

Without thinking, he tried to cuddle up closer to you, seeking the warmth of your presence. His cheek found its way to your chest, and he nuzzled into the fabric of your shirt, inhaling the faint scent of your skin.

You stiffened for a moment, surprised by his sudden proximity, but then your arm automatically curled around him, pulling him closer. "You cold?" you murmured, your voice thick with sleep.

Lando nodded, his eyes still closed. The pain was a distant throb now, a dull ache that was easy to ignore when wrapped in your warmth. "A little," he mumbled into your shirt.

You leaned into the embrace, the weight of his head on your chest feeling surprisingly natural. The fabric of your shirt grew damp with his breath, and you felt the steady beat of his heart against your ribs.

The room was quiet except for the soft murmur of the TV and the occasional sound of someone walking in the hallway outside.

The warmth of your body seeped into his, chasing away the last of the cold that had settled in his bones. He felt your chest rise and fall with each breath, a rhythm that was both comforting and slightly hypnotic.

His hand, which had been resting on the arm of the couch, found its way to your waist, his fingers curling into the soft fabric of your sweatpants. The sensation of your skin under his palm sent a thrill through him, a feeling that was new and surprisingly intimate.

You didn't pull away, instead allowing his hand to rest there, your own hand coming up to gently stroke his hair. The pain in his jaw was still present, but it was muted now, a distant throb that was easy to ignore when he was nestled against you.

The scent of your skin filled his nose, a mix of sweat and the faint hint of cologne that was uniquely yours.

With his cheek pressed to your chest, Lando could hear the steady beat of your heart, a sound that seemed to resonate with his own. It was a strange sensation, feeling so connected to someone else while being in so much pain.

But there was something about your presence that made everything feel right, that made the world seem a little less overwhelming.

You shifted slightly, adjusting your position to accommodate his weight. He felt the muscles in your arms tighten around him, and the pressure of your hand on his shoulder increased just a fraction.

It was a comforting gesture, one that told him without words that he was safe, that you weren't going anywhere.

His eyes fluttered open to find yours looking down at him, a mix of concern and curiosity in their depths. "Better?" you asked, your voice a gentle rumble that seemed to vibrate through his very soul.

He nodded, his throat tight with unspoken emotion. "Yeah," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Much better."

The silence between them grew heavier, the air thick with unspoken words and unacknowledged desires. The line between friendship and something more was blurring, a line that had never been crossed before but suddenly felt tantalizingly close.

The TV flickered in the background, the images on the screen changing with the passing minutes but the storyline lost to them both. Their focus was on each other, the warmth of your bodies melding together, the steady throb of your heart beneath his ear.

Lando's gaze drifted to your lips, the way they moved as you breathed, the softness that begged to be kissed. He swallowed hard, his heart racing with anticipation.

The pain in his jaw was a distant memory, replaced by the ache in his chest that grew stronger with every passing second.

He knew he should fight against it, that he should push himself away from you and retreat to the safety of his bedroom. But the comfort of your embrace was too tempting, the warmth of your body too inviting.

Instead, he nuzzled closer, his cheek pressing against the steady beat of your heart.

"Lando," you whispered, your voice filled with a mix of concern and something else, something deeper. He didn't know what it was, but it made his stomach flutter.

He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to kiss you, to feel the softness of your lips against his, to explore the warmth of your mouth and lose himself in the sensation of your body against his.

But he also knew that he shouldn't. The painkillers were clouding his judgment, making him feel things he might not feel otherwise.

"Let's just go to sleep," he muttered, his voice thick with need and confusion.

You studied him, the soft light of dawn playing across his features, making him look almost ethereal. You could see the war within him, the desire and the doubt battling it out behind his eyes.

"Are you sure that's all you want?" you asked, your voice a caress.

He nodded, his eyes sliding shut again. "It's just the anesthesia," he murmured, his breath ghosting against your skin. "It's making me feel… weird."

But you knew it wasn't just the anesthesia. There was something else there, something that had been simmering between the two of you for months, maybe even years.

With a sigh, you leaned in, your hand cupping his cheek gently. You could feel the stubble of his jaw, the softness of his skin beneath your fingertips.

Your thumb traced the line of his jaw, the touch feather-light, as you tilted his face up to meet yours. Your eyes searched his, looking for any sign that he didn't want this, that it was all just the drugs talking.

But what you found was something else entirely. A spark of need, of want, that mirrored your own. So you leaned in, closing the space between your lips, and kissed him.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as if you were both testing the waters. But it quickly grew in intensity, his hands coming up to cradle your face, pulling you closer.

The taste of him was intoxicating, a blend of mint and something uniquely Lando that made your heart race.

You felt his body tense, his grip on you tightening, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away. But then he relaxed, melting into the kiss, his mouth opening to invite you in deeper.

Your tongue danced with his, exploring the warm cavern of his mouth, the taste of him flooding your senses.

The pain in his jaw was forgotten, lost in the haze of sensation that washed over him. The only thing that mattered was the feel of your lips against his, the way your body fit against his.

He moaned softly, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours.

You broke the kiss, pulling back slightly to look at him. "Are you okay?" you asked, the concern clear in your eyes.

He nodded, a sleepy smile playing on his lips. "Yeah," he murmured, his voice still thick with lust. "It's just the anesthesia."

But it wasn't just the anesthesia. The pull between you was as potent as ever, a force that had been simmering just beneath the surface for what felt like an eternity.

His hand found its way to your waist, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the soft fabric of your shirt, his eyes fluttering shut as he reveled in the feeling of your body against his.

Lando harbored profound emotions for you, emotions that ran deeper than mere friendship. However, he struggled to articulate these feelings, caught in a web of uncertainty and fear.

The bond you shared as his closest friend made it all the more complicated; he worried that revealing his true feelings might jeopardize the special connection you both enjoyed.

Each time he considered opening up, he hesitated, torn between the desire to share his heart and the fear of losing the friendship that meant the world to him.

The softness of your touch, the warmth of your embrace, it was all too much for Lando to resist. His body was alive with sensation, a symphony of pleasure that washed over him, drowning out the pain of his surgery.

You seemed to sense his internal struggle, your hands moving to gently stroke his hair, your touch as tender as a lover's caress.

"It's okay," you whispered, your breath hot against his ear. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to."

But Lando found himself leaning into you, his body responding despite his muddled thoughts. His hand slid up from your waist, tracing the curve of your chest before it came to rest on the back of your neck, his thumb circling the sensitive skin there.

The painkillers had turned him into a creature of pure instinct, and all his instincts were telling him to get closer to you, to bury himself in your warmth and let the world outside fade away.

You felt the shift in his body, the way his muscles tensed and then relaxed, the way his breath grew ragged and needy. You knew he was still groggy from the anesthesia, that he might not fully understand what was happening between you.

But the way he was looking at you, the way his hand was moving, it was clear that he wanted this, that he needed it.

"Lando," you murmured, your voice a soft caress against the shell of his ear. "We should wait for the anesthesia to run out."

He pulled back slightly, the haze of desire clearing from his eyes. "Why?" he asked, his voice a mix of confusion and want.

You sighed, your hand coming to rest on his cheek. "Because," you began, "I don't want this to be about the drugs. If we're going to do this, I want you to be fully aware of what's happening."

Lando's eyes searched yours, the fog of painkillers slowly lifting as he digested your words. He knew you were right; he didn't want to act on impulse, didn't want to risk confusing physical need with something deeper.

But the ache in his chest was unbearable, a yearning that was only growing stronger with every passing second.

"Okay," he murmured, his hand sliding down to yours, the connection between you palpable.

You watched as his eyes grew heavy with the weight of his pain and the sedative, his breathing slowing as he succumbed to sleep once more.

As you lay there, listening to the steady rhythm of his breaths, you felt a pang of regret for what could have been. But you knew it was for the best.

Lando's vulnerability was a gift, and you didn't want to take advantage of it in his compromised state. Instead, you focused on the warmth of his hand in yours, the comfort of his presence beside you.

The sun had fully risen by the time you felt him stir again. The room was bathed in the soft glow of morning light, the pain in his jaw now a high throb. He blinked slowly, his gaze finding yours.

The haze of the anesthesia was gone, and in its place was a clarity that was almost unsettling.

"How are you feeling?" you asked, your voice tentative.

He took stock of his body, the pain now a familiar companion. "Better," he said finally, his voice a rough whisper. "The anesthesia's wearing off."

You nodded, your heart racing as you realized the implications of his words. The moment of truth had arrived, and you weren't sure you were ready for it.

But as you looked into his eyes, you saw something that made you hold your breath.

"The pain's not so bad," he continued, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "But I could still use some more of that… comfort."

You felt your stomach flip, the anticipation building in your chest. You leaned in, your heart pounding in your ears. This time, there was no hesitation, no doubt.

Your lips met his in a kiss that was both gentle and urgent, a promise of what was to come.

The pain in his mouth was a dull throb now, a distant memory compared to the fire that was igniting between the two of you. His arms tightened around your waist, pulling you closer, his need for you overriding any lingering concerns about his tooth.

The taste of mint from his breath mingled with the sweetness of the painkillers, a heady cocktail that only served to enhance the moment.

You were careful, so very careful, as you deepened the kiss. Your hands hovered near his face, ready to pull back at the slightest twinge of pain.

But Lando's response was all the encouragement you needed, his moan of pleasure vibrating through his chest and into yours, sending a delicious shiver down your spine. The pressure of his mouth grew stronger, more insistent, and you gave in to the urge to explore him further.

Your fingers traced the line of his jaw, feeling the slight bump where the tooth had once been. It was tender, and you knew he was likely to be sensitive there for days, maybe weeks.

So, you kissed him with a gentle thoroughness, your tongue delving into the depths of his mouth in a dance that was both fierce and tender. Each brush against the sensitive spot sent a bolt of electricity through his body, making him arch into you.

Lando's hand slid up to cradle the back of your neck, his thumb stroking the soft skin beneath your hairline. The touch was a silent declaration, a promise that he was all in, that he trusted you implicitly.

His other hand found the hem of your shirt, his fingertips skimming the warm flesh of your stomach before sliding up to trace the contours of your chest.

You moaned into the kiss, the sensation of his touch sending a delicious shiver down your spine. You broke away briefly to whisper, "Lando, we can't."

But the words held no real conviction. You knew what the doctor had said about no strenuous activity or risk of infection, but the desire pooling between your legs was too strong to ignore.

Lando's eyes searched yours, his gaze heavy with a need that mirrored your own. "I know," he murmured, his voice thick with painkillers and lust. "But I need you."

You bit your lip, torn between the desire that was clawing at you and the knowledge of what the doctor had advised.

But as you felt his hand slide under your shirt, the warmth of his skin against yours, the decision was made for you. The world narrowed to the two of you, the couch a sanctuary of soft cushions and whispered promises.

"Lando, we can't," you murmured, even as your own body betrayed you, leaning into his touch. But the words hung in the air, unconvincing even to your own ears.

The connection between you had always been palpable, but now it was a living, breathing force that could no longer be denied.

He pulled away slightly, his eyes searching your face for any sign of hesitation. The silence was deafening, the air between you charged with the unspoken understanding that this was a line you were about to cross, a line that could change everything.

"I know," he murmured, his voice a warm rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. "But I need you." His hand slid up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your lower lip.

You took a deep, shaky breath, the weight of his gaze on you like a physical touch. The doctor's words echoed in your mind, a fading reminder of the outside world.

But the desire in Lando's eyes was too intense, too real to ignore. You leaned in, pressing your mouth to his once more, feeling the heat of his breath mingle with your own.

As your kiss grew deeper, your hand found its way under his shirt, the warmth of his skin a stark contrast to the cool fabric. His muscles twitched under your touch, and you could feel the tension coiled in his body, a tension that mirrored your own.

You knew you were playing with fire, but the flames were too tempting to resist.

Lando's hand slid up your spine, his fingers leaving a trail of heat in their wake. His touch was gentle but firm, a silent plea for more. You obliged, your own hands exploring the contours of his body, learning the landscape of his desire.

Each stroke sent a jolt through your veins, a reminder of the passion that had been smoldering just beneath the surface for so long.

You pulled away, panting, your cheeks flushed with arousal. "Lando, we really can't," you whispered, the words feeling like a betrayal even as you said them. "We need to be careful."

He nodded, his eyes dark with need. "I know," he murmured. "But can't we just… for a little while?" His voice was rough, the painkillers still thick in his throat, making his words sound like a seductive growl.

You hesitated, the doctor's words echoing in your mind. But the heat in Lando's gaze was undeniable, the way he leaned into your touch like a starving man seeking sustenance. With a sigh that was part resignation and part anticipation, you whispered, "Okay."

You leaned in to kiss him again, this time with a gentleness that seemed to belie the passion that thrummed between you. Your kisses were soft and tender, a gentle exploration that focused solely on the art of healing.

You avoided the area of his mouth where the wisdom tooth had been, instead tracing the curve of his jaw, the corner of his lips, the softness of his cheek. Each touch was a silent promise, a gentle reminder that you were there for him, that you would take care of him.

Lando sighed into the kisses, his eyes fluttering closed as he reveled in the sensation. The pain in his mouth was a distant memory, replaced by the warmth of your affection.

His hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he urged you closer, seeking more. But you held firm, keeping the contact light and careful.

"Just kisses until you're healed," you murmured against his skin, your voice a soft, reassuring purr.

He nodded, the understanding clear in his eyes. For now, this was enough. The kisses grew in frequency but not in intensity, a sweet, soothing balm that seemed to seep into his very bones.

He felt his body relax into the cushions, the pain in his jaw fading into the background as the warmth of your attentions consumed him.

The TV flickered on, the sound low and inconsequential. You didn't need the distraction anymore; the only thing that mattered was the man in your arms, the feel of his breath against your skin, the way his heart hammered against your chest.

Lando's hand slid down from the back of your neck, tracing a path down your spine that left you shivering with delight. His fingertips grazed the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, and you couldn't help the low moan that escaped your lips.

"Does that feel good?" he murmured, his voice a dark promise that sent a thrill down your spine.

"Yes," you breathed, your eyes fluttering shut as you leaned into his touch. His kisses grew bolder, moving from your neck to nibble at your earlobe.

Each little bite sent a shiver through you, making your toes curl with pleasure.

You felt his breath against the sensitive skin of your throat, his mouth tracing a path of heat along your neck. His teeth grazed the pulse point, and you couldn't help but arch into the touch, your body begging for more.

Your hand slid down to grip his shoulder, your nails digging in just enough to let him know you were there, that you were feeling every delicious second of this.

His breath was warm and sweet against your skin, and you could feel his own desire, his own need, building with every touch.

"I want you," he murmured, his voice thick with passion. The words were a declaration, a promise that seemed to resonate in the very air around you.

You leaned back, pulling him with you, your legs entwining with his. The couch was too small, the world too big. All that existed was the two of you, the warmth of your bodies, the softness of your sighs.

His mouth found yours again, the kiss a symphony of tongues and teeth and passion. You could taste the mint of his pain relief, the sweetness of his breath.

His hand slid down to rest on your hip, his fingers flexing in a silent demand. You shifted, moving closer, the fabric of your clothes the only barrier between you.

You knew you had to be careful, had to be mindful of his pain. So you kissed him with a gentle fierceness, your hand sliding up to cup his cheek, your thumb stroking the line of his jaw.

The moan that ripped from his throat was raw and primal, the sound of a man lost in passion. You felt it vibrate through your entire body, setting every nerve ending on fire. The need to touch him, to feel him, was overwhelming.

You slid your hand down to his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm. His skin was hot, fevered, and you knew that even though you were trying to be gentle, the desire between you was too strong to be denied.

With a growl that was half pain, half pleasure, Lando rolled you onto your back, his body covering yours. He kissed you with a hunger that was both terrifying and exhilarating, his hips rolling against yours in a slow, sensual dance that had your body responding in kind.

You felt the warmth of his length, the promise of what was to come, and you couldn't help the moan that spilled from your lips. This was new, this was different, and it was everything you never knew you needed.

But as he ground against you, you felt the ache in his jaw, the tightness in his muscles. "Lando," you whispered, pushing him back gently. "We need to stop."

He nodded, his eyes dark with regret. The fog of desire cleared just enough for the reality of his situation to return. "Yeah," he murmured. "But… we can still…?"

You nodded, smiling despite the heaviness in your chest. "As long as it doesn't hurt you," you said, your voice a soft purr of reassurance. "I'm here."

He leaned in again, his mouth finding the tender spot just behind your ear. His teeth grazed your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

"Thank you," he whispered, his breath hot against your neck. "For taking care of me."

You nodded, your throat tight with unspoken emotions. "Always," you murmured, your hand sliding down to rest on his chest. The steady beat of his heart was a comfort, a reminder that even in this moment of passion, you were still friends, still looking out for each other.

Lando's hand slid down to cover yours, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the back of your hand. His eyes searched yours, the question hanging in the air.

You knew what he was asking, the unspoken inquiry that had been building between you for what felt like an eternity.

"We can still… cuddle," you offered, your voice a soft whisper. It wasn't the answer he wanted, but it was all you could give him right now.

The pain in his mouth was a stark reminder of the limitations of his body, and you didn't want to cause him any more discomfort.

He nodded, a hint of disappointment in his eyes, but he didn't argue. He knew the rules, knew that he needed to rest and heal.

But the desire that burned between you was palpable, a living, breathing thing that seemed to pulse with every beat of your hearts.

You settled back into the cushions, your body curving into his. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close, and for a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. It was just the two of you, lost in the warmth and comfort of each other's embrace.

The TV played on, the low murmur of the news a stark contrast to the intimacy that had filled the room. But even as you lay there, listening to the dull throb of pain in his jaw, you knew that this moment was something special.

The line between friendship and desire had blurred, and you weren't sure if it would ever be the same again.

His hand slid up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your cheekbone. The touch was feather-light, a gentle caress that seemed to whisper of all the things he wanted to do but couldn't.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice a rough whisper that sent a shiver through your body.

You felt the heat of his gaze, the intensity of his stare, and you knew that even though you'd agreed to stop, it was going to be difficult to resist.

"And you're so stubborn," you replied, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest and vibrating against your back. "Guess that's why we're friends," he said, his voice filled with affection.

You nodded, snuggling closer, your cheek pressed to the warmth of his chest. The fabric of his shirt was soft against your skin, the scent of him surrounding you.

"Friends who can't keep their hands off each other when one of them is in pain," you teased.

His chest rumbled with laughter, the vibrations sending a delicious shiver down your spine. "Friends with benefits," he murmured, his voice low and seductive.

You rolled your eyes, even though the idea didn't sound entirely unappealing. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves," you said, trying to keep the smile from your voice.

But the way his hand tightened around you, the way his breath hitched slightly, told you that maybe, just maybe, the idea was more tempting than you'd let on.

For now, though, you were content to lie there, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath you, his breath in your ear. The pain in his jaw was a constant throb, but in your arms, it was as if he'd found a temporary reprieve.

Your hand slid down to rest on his stomach, feeling the muscles tighten in response. You knew he was still aroused, that the desire between you hadn't disappeared just because you'd agreed to be careful.

But for now, this was enough. The gentle touches, the whispered words, the comfort of being close.

As the hours passed, the room grew brighter with the light of day, the pain in Lando's jaw a constant companion. But even as he winced with every movement, his eyes never left yours.

The connection you'd forged in the quiet of the early morning was still there, a bond that had grown stronger with every shared glance and every gentle caress. . . .

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seoups · 3 months ago

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want you back - m. fushiguro

you and megumi's relationship ended terribly. you'd spent the past few months trying to forget him- only to run into him at a party your best friend forced you to go to. cw: angst with a happy ending song: want you back by 5sos a/n: ik i just posted a megumi one but i love this man so here is yet another one

“NO MATTER WHERE I GO, I'M ALWAYS GONNA WANT YOU BACK.”

The first time Megumi saw you after the breakup was at a party. He hadn’t even noticed you until Itadori gasped loudly and pointed with no attempt to hide his shock.

You were standing across the room, talking to some guy, doing the same arm touch you did to him when you first met.

His stomach began to churn.

He couldn’t stand to see it. Couldn’t stand to see you moving on while he was still daydreaming about the memory of you. All he wanted to do was leave and try to forget you- something he’d attempted for the past month since you’d broken up.

“Let’s just go,” Megumi put down his drink. “No way,” Kugisaki insisted, crossing her arms. “You can’t let this breakup take over your life.”

That was when you spotted him too.

Your whole body froze, eyes locking with him across the crowded room. And suddenly, this party- this entire night- became your worst nightmare. Your best friend had insisted on you coming with her to this party and flirting with the guys to at least try and get yourself back out there.

You didn’t want to. This wasn’t something you typically did.

Megumi knew this. That’s why he was just as confused as you were.

Too frustrated and embarrassed by getting spotted by your ex-boyfriend, you spent the rest of the party on the couch and on your phone, pretending you weren’t hyperaware of his presence.

Megumi wouldn’t lie- he spent most of the night watching you. Ignoring every girl that tried to talk to him. Brusing off Kugisaki’s glares at him.

All he could think about was you.

The freckles on your back he’d spent time studying after the first time the two of you spent the night together.

The sound of your laugh that echoed through his brain anytime he dared to smile.

The way that you’d talk his ear off whenever you had the chance.

The way that you’d lean into him, desperate for his touch on hard days.

The way that your face would light up whenever he knocked on your door.

The way that you looked at him like he was the best thing in your life.

The roses on your shirt when you ended things with him.

The way your voice cracked as you told him, “This isn’t working.”

When the haze of the party became too much, you slipped out towards the balcony, craving some fresh air.

The air was cold and crisp, a nice contrast to the heat of the moving bodies at the party. You leaned against the railing, your fingers curling around the cold metal as you thought about you and Megumi’s prior relationship.

But then the door slid open behind you. Before you even turned to look, you knew who it was.

Megumi stepped onto the balcony, his hands shoved into his pockets. He wasn’t sure if he should have even followed you. But he made the plunge.

“Needed air?” he walked up to the railing, standing beside you. You let out a short, humorless laugh, “Clearly not as much as you did.”

A thick silence settled between you. You turned your gaze back to the skyline. But you could feel him watching you- studying you the way he always had.

“You seem different,” he finally said. “You do too.” “I guess we haven’t seen each other in a while, then,” he exhaled through his nose, barely nodding.

You hummed in agreement, watching the city lights twinkle in front of you. The part noice still bled through the glass door behind you. But out here on the balcony, it was quieter. Less suffocating.

But Megumi’s presence filled the space beside you in a way that made it impossible to ignore him.

The two of you hadn’t been alone together since the breakup. You’d made sure of that. It was easier to pretend that he didn’t exist when you weren’t looking straight at him.

But now, you were. And the weight of everything that was unsaid at the end of your breakup pressed against your ribs as if your lungs were going to explode.

Megumi shifted, his elbows resting against the railing as he turned his head slightly, his eyes still stuck on you. It made your throat tighten.

“You were talking to that guy inside,” his voice remained even. You tensed, “Yeah.”

His fingers curled into his palms. The image haunted his brain. The way you laughed at something the guy said. The way you reached out, touching his arm like you used to do to him when you laughed too hard.

“Didn’t think that was your thing,” he said finally. You let out a breath, your grip tightening on the cold railing, “It’s not.”

He knew that. He knew you would never do casual. Whenever you let someone in, you did it with your whole heart.

His jaw clenched, “Then why were yo-“ “Because I thought it’d help,” you snapped, turning towards him with frustration thick in your voice. “Because everyone kept telling me to move on from you. Everyone kept telling me I should put myself back out there as if I wasn’t the one who-“

You stopped yourself, biting down hard on your lip to stop them from moving.

Megumi’s gaze sharpened, “Like you weren’t the one who what?”

You looked away from his eyes for a moment. Megumi let the silence linger, waiting for an answer you weren’t sure you could say out loud.

Then, barely above a whisper, you said, “Like I wasn’t the one who ran away from us.”

Megumi stiffened. There it was. The truth he’d been waiting to hear come out of your mouth for months.

He’d spent months trying to figure out why you’d left. Everything was going perfect. He couldn’t understand why you’d leave.

And now that he was standing right next to you, with the weight of your words settling between you two, all he could think about was the way you used to look at him. Now, all that remained in your eyes is a look of apology and regret.

His throat tightened, “And now?” You inhaled sharply, your breath shaky, “I don’t know.”

But you did. And so did he.

Megumi turned fully toward you, shrinking the space between you by just a few inches. Close enough for you to feel his warmth and to smell the faint traces of cologne left on his hoodie after tonight. Close enough that if you turned your head just a little more, you’d be back in the place you had missed so damn much.

“Then figure it out,” he said quietly, his voice raw and honest.

Because he wasn’t over you. And he wasn’t going to pretend that he was. Not when you were standing right in front of him, looking like you might still want this too.

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hazes-city-of-glass-official · 8 months ago

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G has confimed, CoG is dead.

Welp now I have free reign

Expect an overhaul

#haze’s city of glass #i’m bad at tagging #writeblr #writers on tumblr

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azullumi · 2 months ago

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"to your never, to my nothings" ; phainon

premise— he had never known the extent of his affection, of his adoration, until he had looked for you everywhere he went, searching for a semblance of you in a crowd. an unfortunate thing, however, as everyone knows that he likes you, except you. content tags & warnings — pairing: phainon x gn!reader | one-sided pining (somehow), fluff, v3.0 trailblaze mission mentioned and used, lovesick phainon i advocate, reader is a normal citizen, phainon worries about reader, not proofread | wc: 1.4k | tagging: @felibrary

"jellyfish" — i hit my shin against the edge of the table while i was writing this and i nearly died

Not a single person is unaware of the affections a certain Chrysos Heir holds towards you.

The three children who bear different smiles were the first to notice—subtle, fleeting glimpses that betrayed PHAINON's carefully composed facade. They see the gleam in his eyes, talking—or gossiping—it among themselves even as he stands right there, lips pressed into a thin line, unable to protest without confirming their suspicions. The heat creeping up his neck is answer enough.

He can’t say anything against it, but only asking them to not tell anyone about it, albeit they tease him further. However, nothing can escape the golden threads of a certain demigod as the man found himself conversing in a topic about the weight of his feelings and the weight of his responsibility.

Then guess what happens after? Yes, news travels fast—like wildfire carried by the idle breeze—reaching Mydei because how come he also has something to say?

And of course; “Lord Phainon, your ears are red.” The lady, adorned with flowers, would say as they walked away from your store after the man himself insisted that he had to check on something, on you. Phainon brushes it off, muttering something about the weather being unusually warm. Albeit his deflection is as transparent as glass and the only thing helping him is the fact that he's a step ahead and Castorice couldn’t see the red that dusts his cheek.

He knows he adores you, and perhaps it is a terrible thing that he loves you more than he loves himself, because your name itself reverberates through the hollow chambers of a heart that beats only for you, his thoughts composing a fine melody that yearns for you to feel the same. And when the Titan of Strife had come to strike the city, the tremble of his fingers and the falter of his composure disturbed the calm waters of his gaze.

“The city is under attack!”

The sound of rubble crashing down, a cloud of dust and thick smoke consuming the place, chaos and screams everywhere filling all of his senses. His eyes flick over from one place to another, his feet never stopping as he runs, brandishing his blade against titankins who stand in his way. His gaze searched for you amidst the fire and debris but you were nowhere to be found; he had asked citizens for any sights of you and got nothing at the same.

Fear seeps into his skin, violently clawing and numbing him, an icy grip tightening around his chest. But before he could let the feeling consume him, a fragile, desperate voice pierces through the haze of destruction.

“Phainon!” His head whips around so quickly you fear it could have snapped in half. A blur of smoke and shattered concrete, and then, you’re there. Relief washed over him like a violent wave and he nearly dropped his claymore at once; the heavy weight that dragged his footsteps against pavement became light, his legs moving before his mind could catch up, and before you could even comprehend it, you’re pulled in a tight embrace.

“You’re alright.” He says, low and breathless, his voice trembling as words stumble out, scratched with exhaustion and raw relief. You feel him relax as you pat his back, comforting him as the warmth of his own spill into yours.

Phainon releases you moments after, his hands lingering as he checks up on you for any wounds you might have. His expression doesn’t relent and you have to reassure him that you’re fine—but he doesn’t believe you, not until he’s certain with his own eyes. However, his fingers brush against a spot on your arm, and before you can stifle it, a wince slips past your lips.

Thus, he sees it—a gash that begins from your forearm, extending to near your elbow, and his face tightens with a grimace. You jerk your arm away instinctively, turning from him to hide the wound, and the gesture cuts deeper than you intend. His lips part, trembling slightly, trying to find the words to say.

His hand tries to reach for you but it simply hangs in the air, hesitation lingering in his bones, and it falls away to his side.

“Phainon,” You say firmly, your gaze stilling on him, laced with conviction as if nothing he will say will move you. “ I’m okay, but there are others who are not.”

“But—”

“You must go.”

He is reminded of his responsibility once more, of the constant voice of his duty whispering against his ear, of the weight of the prophecy and his title—it draws a blatant line between you and him, making him fearful to cross it.

A bitter smile crosses your lips when you see his reluctance, your voice taking on a gentler tone when you speak: “It’s alright, I’ll be fine, so don’t worry about me.” Your words don't scour the tension on his shoulders but it managed to carve away the sharp edges of his worry. Not entirely, but enough. He exhales a slow, weary sigh—a quiet surrender—and steps closer.

Without a word, Phainon tears a strip of fabric from his cape, the sound of ripping cloth sharp against the quiet between you. The chaos, the sound of destruction around you seem to have faded into nothing as the world holds its breath for the two of you.

His hands move with practiced care, fingers steady despite the storm lingering behind his eyes. He wraps the makeshift bandage around your wound, his touch feather-light, as if afraid you might shatter under the weight of it. His brows furrowed with concentration, but there’s a softness there too, woven into the way he avoids pressing too hard, the way his thumb brushes over your skin like an apology he can’t speak aloud. All the while, you watch him, listening as he tells you to look for the High Priest, Tribios, for safety.

You don’t say a word, instead, you just nod, because it’s easier than admitting the fear clawing at your ribs. His hand hovers near yours, as if he wants to say more, do more—but instead, he steps back, leaving a hollow space where his warmth had just been.

And he leaves.

But you, the recipient of these affections, however, is oblivious. The very person who mistakes every small gesture, every stolen glance, every carefully chosen word, as nothing more than the courtesy of a Chrysos Heir fulfilling his duty. You dismiss his offers of assistance with casual gratitude, his thoughtful gifts as tokens of mere friendship. You brush off the moments when his gaze lingers too long, the way his voice softens when it’s your name on his lips.

“You’re a great friend, Phainon.” You’ve told him once. Friend. Friend. The word itself echoes, clinging to the corners of his mind, a bittersweet anthem that both comforts and torments. He wears the title with a quiet resignation, even as his soul yearns for more.

But who was he to expect more? After all, he’s not pursuing you with grand gestures or bold confessions, the way love stories are. Yet, it’s the small things that betray him—the quiet, unnoticed acts that slip through the cracks of his careful restraint. Like how he willingly takes the longest routes, detours woven into his path with the fragile hope of glimpsing you by chance. Like how his hands seem to find trinkets and gifts that remind him of you, delicate offerings tucked into his pockets until he can gather the courage to present them, just to see that fleeting smile bloom on your lips.

And it is never for the hope of you liking him back. But surely, surely you should notice.

Maybe it’s the way his voice falters slightly when he says your name, or how his gaze softens in a crowd when he finds you, like a lighthouse catching sight of home. Maybe it’s the silence between his words, filled with everything he wishes he could say but can't because his feelings are messy, irrational things—and yet, here he is, drowning in them.

Maybe it’s the way he stands a little too close, but not close enough, like the distance is both a comfort and a curse.

But you don’t notice. And perhaps you never will.

Yet, even if his words remain unheard, even if his gestures remain unseen, even if you’ll never know, he finds solace in being able to adore you from afar. The fire consumes him quietly, burning bright and unseen, tucked beneath the layers of his being. And he carries it quietly, like a secret melody only he can hear—serene, enduring, and his alone, etched not in words, but in the spaces between.

#honkai imagines #honkai #honkai x reader #honkai star rail #honkai sr #hsr imagines #hsr #hsr phainon #phainon x reader #phainon #amphoreus #phainon hsr #phainon fluff #hsr x reader #star rail #hsr phainon x reader #hsr fluff #azul.writes

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writeriguess · 2 months ago

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Omg, your Bakugo fic Heart of Dynamite was so good!! Had me all up in my feels lol.

Here's an idea for you: Fem!reader and Katsuki are good friends and they have undeniable chemistry, but neither have acknowledged it or what it means. But reader get severely injured in a villain attack and ends up in the hospital fighting for her life. Katsuki finally admits to himself that he does in fact love her and desperately pleads for her to wake up so he can tell her.

Happy ending of course, and first kiss? ♡

author's note: Thank you <3

What It Means

The city was in chaos.

You barely had time to catch your breath before another wave of civilians came at you, their eyes glazed over, movements jerky yet disturbingly determined. Their screams echoed through the ruined streets, a mixture of agony and forced rage, as they lunged at you with makeshift weapons—bricks, pipes, even their own bare hands.

It was all because of him.

“You heroes are so predictable,” the villain sneered, his voice dripping with amusement. He stood on a crumbling rooftop, the tattered ends of his coat fluttering in the wind. “All this power, yet you hesitate. You can’t even fight back properly, can you?”

Your grip on your weapon tightened. He wasn’t wrong. That was the worst part. The civilians—these people—were innocent. You couldn’t just cut through them like any other enemy. The hesitation, the careful dodging, the constant effort to subdue instead of hurt… It slowed you down. It slowed everyone down.

And the bastard knew it.

“I could end this right now,” he continued, stretching his arms behind his head lazily. “One little command, and they all turn on each other instead. Imagine that… You wouldn’t even have to get your hands dirty. They’d do all the work for me.”

A furious blast of fire shot past your shoulder, barely missing your head. Katsuki landed beside you, his palms still smoking, teeth bared in a vicious snarl. “Why don’t you come down here and say that, freak?”

The villain laughed, a grating sound that made your skin crawl. “Oh, Bakugou, Bakugou, Bakugou… Always so brash. So explosive. But even you know you can’t just blow them up. That’d make you no better than me.”

Katsuki’s growl was low and dangerous, his body tense like he was barely holding himself back. You knew he was struggling, just like you. Every hero in the field was. The battle was turning into a nightmare.

More civilians attacked. You moved on instinct, twisting around a woman swinging wildly at you with a crowbar, disarming her with a precise strike to the wrist. She crumpled, unconscious but unharmed. A man charged next, screaming incoherently, his pupils blown wide with unnatural bloodlust. You dodged, swept his legs out from under him, and knocked him out with a quick chop to the back of the neck.

But the numbers didn’t stop. For every one you took down, three more surged forward.

Katsuki blasted them back with controlled explosions, never enough to burn, just to incapacitate. But even he was breathing harder, his usual reckless abandon curbed by the damn situation.

“We’re getting nowhere like this,” you muttered, shifting into a defensive stance as more enthralled civilians surrounded you.

“No shit,” he snapped, glancing at the rooftop. The villain was still there, watching, smirking.

Then he moved.

A blur.

Before you could react, a force slammed into you like a freight train.

Your body was airborne.

The world spun.

The impact knocked the air from your lungs as you crashed through a shattered storefront, glass slicing through your hero suit and biting into your skin. You barely had time to register the pain before the villain was on you, his hand around your throat, yanking you up.

“Tch,” he scoffed, tilting his head. “You’re pretty, you know that? A shame you’re on the wrong side.”

You struggled, gripping his wrist, but his strength was monstrous. His fingers tightened, and the edges of your vision blurred.

A roar—familiar, raw, furious—pierced through the haze.

Then boom.

Katsuki’s explosion sent the villain flying, his grip loosening just enough for you to suck in a ragged breath. You collapsed to your knees, coughing, the taste of iron heavy on your tongue.

“Oi,” Katsuki was at your side in an instant, gripping your arm. His hands were trembling. “You okay?”

You nodded, barely. Lying. You felt like you’d been hit by a truck.

The villain was already back on his feet, dusting himself off like he hadn’t just been blown halfway across the street.

“You two have chemistry,” he mused, cracking his neck. “Unspoken tension. How tragic it’ll be when one of you dies.”

Katsuki moved before he finished the sentence, his explosions roaring through the air. The villain dodged at impossible speeds, weaving through Katsuki’s attacks like water slipping through fingers.

And then—

Pain.

Blinding.

A scream tore from your throat before you even understood what had happened.

Blood.

It pooled at your feet, warm and sticky, seeping through your fingers as you clutched your side. A deep, jagged wound carved into you, muscle torn apart. Your legs gave out, and you collapsed.

Your vision blurred, darkened.

Distantly, you heard Katsuki roar your name.

More explosions. More screams. A battle raging on without you.

You were lifted. Strong arms cradled you against a warm, trembling chest. The familiar scent of smoke and sweat and him wrapped around you.

Katsuki was running. Running like the world was ending. His heart thundered beneath your ear, fast, erratic.

“Stay awake,” he barked, his voice raw, desperate.

You wanted to. You tried. But the pain was so much. The darkness pulled harder.

“Damn it, don’t you fucking—” His voice cracked.

You swore you felt something warm drip onto your cheek.

The last thing you heard before everything faded was him whispering your name, over and over, like he could hold you together just by saying it.

Then—nothing.

The world was cold.

Distant.

Muted beeps echoed through the silence, rhythmic and steady. The scent of antiseptic filled the air, sharp and clinical. Soft murmurs, the shuffle of footsteps, the quiet hum of machines keeping you tethered to life.

You didn’t feel the pain anymore. Not really. Just a dull, distant ache that existed somewhere far away from where you were.

But outside of the void swallowing you whole, the world was still moving.

Katsuki hadn’t moved from his chair in hours.

His elbows rested on his knees, his hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles were white. His eyes—red and rimmed with exhaustion—stared straight ahead at the unmoving form on the hospital bed. At you.

Wires and tubes. Machines and bandages. Bruises and pale, lifeless skin.

He felt sick.

It had been two days. Two fucking days since you collapsed in his arms, since he carried you out of that nightmare, screaming at the paramedics to do something. Two days since he watched them work frantically to stop the bleeding, saw your heartbeat nearly flatline before they finally stabilized you.

Two days since you slipped into a coma.

The doctors said you were strong. That you had a chance. That you just needed time.

But every second that passed without you waking up felt like another piece of him was being ripped away.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. His fingers trembled, but he clenched them into fists before the shaking could take hold.

He wasn’t going to lose you.

The door creaked open. He didn’t look up. Didn’t acknowledge the quiet footsteps that entered the room.

“Bakugou.”

It was Kirishima. His voice was soft, careful, like he was afraid of setting Katsuki off.

Katsuki didn’t answer.

“You should eat something,” Kirishima tried again. “Rest. You’ve been here since—”

“I’m not leaving.”

A pause. A sigh. “She wouldn’t want you to—”

“I said I’m not leaving.”

Kirishima didn’t argue. He just pulled up a chair and sat beside him, resting his arms on his knees as they both stared at you.

“…She’ll wake up,” Kirishima said, voice steady. “She’s too stubborn not to.”

Katsuki swallowed hard, his jaw tight. He wanted to believe that. He needed to believe that.

But the longer you lay there, motionless and silent, the more the fear sank in.

What if you never opened your eyes again?

What if the last thing he ever said to you was yelled in the heat of battle, instead of—

His hands clenched. His throat burned.

He hadn’t said it. Not once. Not even when he wanted to.

And now, you might never hear it.

The days blurred together.

Katsuki refused to leave. The nurses tried, Kirishima tried, hell, even Deku had the audacity to show up and tell him to take care of himself. But none of them mattered. The only thing that mattered was you.

He stayed by your side, watching, waiting, silently willing you to wake up.

You didn’t.

Your body healed. The doctors were hopeful. But you still weren’t there.

And it was killing him.

He wanted to hear your voice. To see you roll your eyes at one of his grumbled complaints, to feel you nudge his arm when he was being too much of an ass. He wanted you to fight back, to argue with him, to be you again.

But most of all—

He wanted to tell you.

It had been clawing at his chest for days now, twisting and burning, suffocating him with the weight of everything he’d been too much of a coward to say.

So he finally did.

It was late, the hospital quiet except for the beeping of the machines and the distant murmur of night-shift nurses in the hall. The room was dimly lit, casting long shadows across the floor. Katsuki sat hunched over in the chair beside your bed, his forehead resting against his clasped hands.

He exhaled shakily. “This is bullshit.”

His voice was rough, hoarse from lack of sleep, but he kept going.

“You’re just laying there, like some weak-ass extra, when I know you’re stronger than this. It’s pissing me off.”

Silence.

Katsuki sucked in a breath, his throat tightening. His fingers curled around the edge of the bed.

“I—” He hesitated, gritting his teeth before forcing the words out. “I can’t do this shit without you.”

The admission made his chest ache. But it was true.

He’d spent so long ignoring it, shoving it down, pretending the pull between you was nothing more than friendly chemistry, that his need to be around you was just habit.

But the truth had been staring him in the face this entire time. He’d just been too damn scared to see it.

“I should’ve said it sooner.” His voice was raw now, unsteady. “I was a fucking coward. Thought if I ignored it, if I just kept things the way they were, it’d be fine. But it wasn’t fine. And now you’re here, and I—”

His hand found yours, warm fingers curling around your still ones.

His grip tightened.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words barely more than breath.

He bowed his head, pressing his forehead against your hand. “So wake up. Please.”

Another pause. Another silence. Another beat of the machines.

And then—

A twitch.

His breath caught. His head snapped up, eyes locked on your fingers as they twitched again, just barely, but enough.

His heart slammed against his ribs. “Oi,” he rasped, standing so fast the chair scraped against the floor. “Oi.”

A flutter of eyelashes. A sharp inhale.

Then, finally—

Your eyes opened.

Dazed. Confused. Blinking sluggishly against the dim light.

But open.

Something inside Katsuki broke. Relief hit him like a punch to the gut, so intense it made his knees weak.

“About damn time,” he muttered, voice rough with something he refused to call tears.

Your gaze slowly focused on him, and the second recognition flickered in your tired eyes, he was done for.

You opened your mouth, but your voice came out cracked, barely there. “Did I—”

“You almost died.” His grip on your hand tightened. “Don’t ever do that again.”

A weak smirk tugged at your lips. “Wasn’t exactly my plan, Bakugou.”

His heart clenched. He hadn’t heard your voice in so long.

He should’ve said something witty back, should’ve snapped at you like normal, but his body moved before his brain could catch up.

His hand cupped your face, and he was so close, warmth radiating from him, breaths mingling. His thumb brushed against your cheek, lingering for just a second longer than necessary.

Then, carefully—almost hesitant—he kissed you.

Soft. Gentle. Uncharacteristically tender.

You exhaled against his lips, fingers weakly reaching up to tangle in his shirt.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breaths still uneven.

“You better not make me say that shit again,” he muttered.

You smiled—tired, but real. “Say what?”

His lips twitched. “You know what.”

You closed your eyes briefly, still exhausted, but when you spoke again, your voice was warm.

“I love you too, dumbass.”

Katsuki let out a sharp exhale, relief and something softer settling deep in his chest.

“Damn right you do.”

#bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x you #bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #bakugo x y/n #bnha #mha #mha fanfiction #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

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mev-fizzah-writes · 4 months ago

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ᑎᑌᗰᗷ 𓌉◯𓇋

A/N: First fic on this acc!! Enjoy this little angsty fic :) Neglected bat!reader breaks their sobriety after their family makes a grave mistake. Sure Reader should be used to it by now, but offering them a drink? At a Gala they forced you to attend? On your birthday? What a load of bull. You pray that Damian doesn't find out...but sadly they don't get accepted. No beta reader, we die like Jason Todd TW: Substance abuse, alcoholism, brief mention of underage drinking, self harm etc .

𐙚"Don't let them see you like this" -Alex G 𐙚

ᑎᑌᗰᗷ

That's what it felt like, not a single though in your mind. It was consumed by the taste on your lips, the bottle in your hand. Limp, you sat in your bathtub, surrounded by broken glass and empty beer cans. The loud city of Gotham seemed to finally be silence, it seemed distant. It was the only thing keeping you from fully drifting away, the faint sound of cars, the only time you thanked this godforsaken city for being loud.

Guilt hadn't reached your mind yet, you only wanted to drink. Focusing on how the burn in your throat made you feel, oh how it made you feel so alive. Each breath felt sharp against your throat, it made you want more. The alcohol coursed through your veins, providing an escape, providing a warmth no person ever gave to you.

Leaning more into the cold porcelain you stared at the shattered glass by your feet. You could feel its sharp edges against your feet, it was a constant reminder of your mistakes.

Unfixable, the glass and your life. But right now that didn't matter, only the bottle existed, the burn and the urge to finish it. You managed the strength to pull your arm up, tilting your head back to feel it. The taste you missed so much, a taste you wanted to forget had no idea why you would neglect. What a day to celebrate your twenty second birthday! Relapsing after two years wasn't your plan today but it sure was better than anything else that happened today.

The night, displayed by your bathroom window, taunted you. It made your mind float through an intoxicated haze. Pieces of the day coming back to you, as well as the -now broken- promises you made. A sigh left your lungs and it was evident that she had drank, so much. All of this, just because of one question. A question that shouldn't have broken your heart as much as it did, really it was pathetic.

"Why aren't you drinking tonight?"

The sound of your 'brothers' voice was distant, and so was the guilt that was soon to consume you. But as the line between fiction and reality blurred more with another sip, there was not a worry in your head. The guilt will come later, but here it was no where to be seen. The only thing you could grasp was the bottle you used to keep on the highest shelf.

A shelf that was now empty, thanks to your so-called family's echoes. Echoes that were forever etched into your brain. Not only had they forgotten about your birthday, forcing you into a social event that you already dreaded, but they had also forgotten about your sobriety. Was not drinking on your twenty-first not an obvious sign? The question had filled you with anger at first. Your fists were clenched to your side when Dick had asked that. Hopefully you would forget this day ever happended.

"Why aren't you drinking tonight?" Dick said with slurred speech, making your family turn their heads to you. At first you took it as a joke, that he was trying to make you less tense. When your chuckle left all of them confused that's why you could feel your heart shattered. It felt like time had stopped, like god was playing a joke on you. You just stared at them, not giving him an answer. "You're kidding." There was no point in hiding the sadness in your voice, there was no way anyone was going to care anyway. After a strangled 'yes' left his lips you decided there was no point in talking them. You took one last glance back at your dad Bruce, he looked like he was going to offer you a drink, that was the last straw, so you decided there was no point in staying. Sadly, you did. Just enough to take a sip of champagne, just enough to set you back. God did you wish Damian was with you, he would've remembered.

Remember. That's the only thing you wanted to do. Today was supposed to be simple, go with Damian to a petting zoo, visit you favourite café with a few friends and be done with your day.

Damian...would he have stopped you from doing this? He was too young to attend whatever you were at this morning and sadly he wanted to meet up with his friend. You weren't going to stop him, he was the only one that listened to you and vise versa.

It made you chuckle, every time you told him about how much you used to drink, and every time he would give a small lecture on how much it impacts your liver and brain. Being a doctor would really suit him.

Just as you close your eyes you see a small light peeking outside the door. Light footsteps followed soon after, and suddenly everything is crashing down. You shake your head, hoping, praying that it isn't Damian. You'd rather it be a murderer coming to finally end you then your little brother. No, he had so much faith in you, please. Sadly, if you speak of the devil, he appears.

The light spilling in from the living room stung your eyes, luckily they were already tearing up.

"Sorry I didn't knock, but can you pick up the phone-"

You saw it, the way his eyes widen an he drops your phone. The way the his green eyes suddenly become more reflective, is hands twitched and he took a step back. Your baby brother, staring at you with such a distaste and confusion and...there was nothing you can do. There was no way you could've gotten up to hug hum, even reassuring him seemed impossible in your state. Glass etched into your foot, a pool of blood by feet as your eyes fluttered.

"Wha...y-you promised!" His voice wobbled with an anger that you understood all too well. The way his eyes switched between shock and sadness and the way he seemed to be frozen on the spot. It was like looking into a mirror ten years ago. He stared at you the same way you stared at your mother, it was driving you crazy with guilt.

"Dami..." you croaked out, feeling nothing but selfish.

"No. Keep your eyes open I-I'll call an ambulance. I...I" watching him stutter didn't do anything good for your heart, you just wanted to hold him and tell him that this was just some sick prank.

"I'm sorry...just don't tell Dad." The way you uttered those words seemed to catch him off goard.

"This...feels like a matter that should be reported to hi-"

"Dami. Just don't...please." To be honest, you were baffled he was even understanding you. It didn't even feel like english you were speaking. "I love you, buddy..."

If those were your last words, you were glad. Soon the coldness of the porcelain was no longer there, and there was only a faint ringing you could here. Maybe you were dying? It was a lot less scary then what you thought it would be, it was just...numb. No taste of alcohol, no warmth, no burn. Only numbness.

Just numb.

Numb.

๋࣭ ⭑Laying there lifeless...๋࣭ ⭑

#batfam #batman x reader #batman & reader #bruce wayne x reader #damian al ghul x reader #batfam x batsis #batsis!reader #batboys x batsis #batfamily x reader #batfam x reader #platonic batfam #angst #dc fanfiction #damian wayne x reader #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson x you #fizzah's ff

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thoughtfulfiction · 3 months ago

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Carpe Diem

Author’s Note: We all miss him. So I wrote the most romantic thing I’ve ever written.

A glass of chilled Savasana California Rosé sat in front of you, its diluted pink hue a stark contrast to the sweet yet crisp taste. With a fork in hand you begin to dig into the chicken parmesan with strozzapreti pasta, the chunky tomato sauce brings a rich and comforting smell that shifts your attention from the constant hum of the plane's engine. Eating dinner on a plane like this—silverware instead of plastic cutlery, wine served in real glass—felt oddly surreal. This whole trip did, like you’d stumbled into someone else’s life.

You hadn’t always pictured yourself in this life—a corner office in Berkeley, managing accounts worth millions and rubbing elbows with executives. The internship you’d applied for during your junior year of college was meant to be a stepping stone, a way to pad your resume and have something cool to look back on the future. You hadn’t expected it to become the foundation of a career at a place ranked 7th among the largest biomedical companies by revenue in the world. And here you were sipping rosé in first class on your way to a solo vacation in Greece. Somehow, it had all come together. Your first year making six figures was surreal enough, but now the freedom to spend it on something like this felt even more unbelievable.

The hotel room you would be calling home for the next few days was stretched out like it came straight out of a travel magazine. Everything about it screamed neutral paradise, highlighting the warmth of the space. Plush pillows stacked neatly atop the Temper-Pedic king sized bed that earned the hotel all five of its stars with just one glance. The open layout gave the impression of a private condo, complete with a sleek mini bar and an espresso machine that practically begged to be used. The view from the top floor was breathtaking, floor-to-ceiling glass windows that made way for the vibrant blue skies that allowed the sun to shine at it's greatest capacity, reflecting off the marble from the streets of southern Athens below. And the colors were so dynamic; olive groves, fields of breathtaking wildflowers and citrus trees brought the city to life. Everything reminded you of a landscape painting, it was all so perfect you almost had to pinch yourself to make sure you were really here.

But before your Athens takeover could really commence, you needed a nap. Or three.

Day one passed in a blissful haze of recovery. After a nap that could have doubled as a small coma, you walked by the hotel’s pool, taking in the sparkling water and the soft chatter of other guests lounging under striped umbrellas. Breakfast that morning was a feast fit for royalty, an omelet folded to perfection, fresh fruit that tasted like sunshine, and Moustokouloura, a pastry so rich and sweet it felt like dessert at dawn. The concierge insisted you try Greek coffee, and when the steaming cup arrived at your door, its strong, earthy aroma greeted you like a wake-up call from the gods. You took it to the patio, sipping as you let the city below slowly introduce itself. This is exactly where you're supposed to be. Athens was filled with color, sound, and possibility. This was freedom, pure and simple.

Feeling refreshed on your second morning after some extensive Tik Tok research about things to do in Athens, you walked around the streets of Plaka, by far the most recommended place on the site. And it didn't take long for you to understand why. The neighborhood was a collection of some of the most beautiful brick buildings, an array of restaurants with uniquely placed outdoor seating. The air carried the mingling scents of fresh pita, grilling souvlaki, and blooming jasmine. Laughter and snippets of conversation floated from café tables spilling onto the sidewalks, where diners lingered over plates of mezes and glasses of ouzo. You walked slowly, admiring every square inch of the place like you were going to commit every detail to memory, stumbling upon a store with random trinkets you figured you could take home to your friends and tell them what they were getting themselves into when you all would be in Greece together eventually. Now that you'd experienced this on your own, you couldn't wait to share this experience with them next time. The first person you spotted when you walked in was a tall man, well over six feet, broad shoulders with his back facing the door. He was sexy from the back which meant...no. You shook yourself out of the daydream about what this man could possibly look like because of course men in Greece looked better. That was some sort of law or something based on every movie you'd ever seen. The book shelf at the front of the store caught your eye first, a Greek guide book with common phrases for tourists to know, things that maybe Duolingo wouldn't think of so you grabbed it, scanning the pages for useful information. You tried to focus on the guidebook in your hands, but your nerves betrayed you. An older man’s gaze prickled at your skin, a quiet warning sounding in your mind. Maybe it was nothing, you told yourself. He could just be a curious local. But by the third lap around the shop and you could still feel his eyes in you, the goosebumps on your arms had turned into a full-blown alarm.

The man was closer now, his steps too deliberate to be a coincidence. By the time he spoke, his voice was low and overly familiar, the kind of tone that made your stomach twist. “Hi. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “I just... couldn’t help noticing you.”

You swallowed thickly, hoping to keep the conversation short, sweet and with as little personal information exchanged as humanly possible. "Yes. Just visiting," you force out a smile.

"Ah I see, those are pretty," he gestures toward the necklaces in your hand, "pretty necklaces for a pretty lady. Does the pretty lady have a name?"

"Um," you wanted to take a step back, you wanted to walk away, but there was literally no way out of this situation because he was standing in between you and the exit. And for some reason you couldn't think of a fake name off the top of your head to give him. "It's—”

“Oh hey, babe. There you are,” a deep voice interrupted. Your head whipped around, and there he was—broad shoulders, a jawline sharp enough to rival a Greek statue. He had the kind of easy confidence that made your heart skip a beat. Mr. Broad Shoulders slid his arm around you, his touch casual but protective, the warmth of his hand anchoring you in place but doubling your pulse rate for a different reason. “Thought you wanted those charm bracelets, but you disappeared on me.”

“I got distracted.” Your gaze flickered upward, caught on the sun-kissed curl falling across his forehead. He smelled faintly of cinnamon, like he’d been leaning over a freshly lit candle moments before swooping in to save you.

The man takes a look at the two of you and apologizes, walking away without a second glance. You let out a sigh of relief, "thanks for the save, I really didn't know what to do and you just-I really appreciate it."

"No worries, I saw him following you around and thought it was weird. Glad I could help."

You look around to make sure the man from before, spotting him circling the back area with the pasties. "It's...very weird. He didn’t seem like he’d back down that easily."

“I’m Joe, by the way. Since I’m your boyfriend now, that seems like something you should know.”

You laughed, the tension in your chest finally easing. “Yeah, probably. Nice to meet you, Joe. I’m Y/N, your very grateful girlfriend.”

Joe leaned down slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper meant just for you. “He’s still watching us. Mind if I sell this a little more?” Without waiting for an answer, he adjusted his grip, his arm tightening around your shoulders like he’d been holding you this way forever. It was seamless, effortless, entirely too convincing. And it left you speechless. All you could do was nod, looking up at him, thinking about how this guy might be the most gorgeous person you've ever seen.

The two of you moved around the store aimlessly, the conversation flowing like you’d known each other for longer than half an hour. Joe explained he’d been in Greece for a few days, taking time to decompress after a grueling work season. “Sometimes, I just need to step away,” he said, his voice carrying a quiet sincerity that struck a chord.

“I get that,” you replied, sharing your own story of navigating your career and this newfound independence. You admitted, almost sheepishly, that sometimes your job didn’t feel like work because it aligned with your passions so perfectly. Joe nodded, his expression softening. “That’s how I feel,” he said. “I mean, this year it really magnified that for me. But sometimes when things don't go the way you hoped or planned, it makes the sacrifices worth more. Like not having as much free time when I'm working. Now, I have endless free time."

There was something magnetic about him—not just the broad shoulders and effortless charm, but the way he seemed so present. Every touch felt intentional, whether it was his hand on your back as you navigated tight spaces or his offer to buy the travel book you’d been thumbing through. You felt a strange sense of familiarity, like you’d seen him somewhere before but couldn’t quite place it.

After carefully deliberating over the trinkets, you settled on matching necklaces for your friends. On your way to the register, a woman approached, her expression warm and animated.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she began, “but I just had to tell you—you two make the most stunning couple. The way you look at each other, it’s just... beautiful. Are you here on an anniversary trip?”

“One year,” Joe answered without hesitation, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he squeezed your hand.

“That’s incredible! Congratulations!” the woman gushed. “Athens is the perfect place to explore as a couple. Do you have plans yet?”

You chimed in, “Not really. We were just going to see where the day takes us.”

The woman nodded enthusiastically and rattled off recommendations, from must-visit landmarks to hidden culinary gems. You took notes on your phone, her suggestions igniting your excitement for the day ahead. Out of the corner of his eye, Joe watched you with a kind of awe. The way your face lit up when you talked about exploring the city tugged at something deep inside him.

He’d spent the last four days locked away in his room, trying to process a season that had been equal parts triumph and heartbreak. It wasn’t just the physical toll of the game—it was the sting of being so close to the pinnacle and falling short. They had gone from 4-8 to 9-8 in what felt like the blink of an eye. The unmet expectations that he had for the team dulled his personal success a bit and he needed to escape after watching other teams prepare for their playoff runs while he cleaned out his locker. He just wanted to recharge and regroup…alone. And here you were, an unexpected spark in the midst of his self-imposed solitude.

When the woman finally bid you goodbye, you hesitated. Should you ask him to join you? The idea of spending the day with a stranger—no matter how kind and gorgeous—felt bold, maybe too bold. But being alone again felt... unbearable. You decided against asking because the thought of rejection was a step above unbearable, if at all possible.

“Well,” you began, your voice faltering slightly, “I guess this is it. I should probably head to my next stop now that I have a to-do list.” You forced a small laugh, keeping your gaze on the floor.

Joe nodded, his smile tinged with something you couldn’t quite place. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. I hope you check off everything on your list.”

He watched you walk away, his chest tightening with each step. He wanted to stop you, to ask you to stay, but the words wouldn’t come. All he could do was stand there, frozen, as the door swung open.

You paused just before stepping outside. Something tugged at you—a feeling that walking away now would be a mistake.

Turning back, you smiled shyly. “I just realized... how am I supposed to experience Athens to its full potential without my boyfriend? On our anniversary trip, no less?”

Joe’s laugh was warm, easy. “No idea. Luckily, I think I know someone who can help.”

“You’re always so helpful. I feel like I won the dating lottery.”

“Can’t disagree,” he teased, his grin widening.

“Alright,” you said, nudging him playfully, “let’s get out of here before your head gets so big it doesn’t fit through the door.”

He walked out with you, allowing you to lead the way to your first stop.

Fairytale Athens looked like an intense mix between the Garden of Eden and Alice in Wonderland. "This is...wow," Joe quips, the vast array of flowers on the ceiling, the pink bar area and the flamingos. So many flamingos.

You could tell by his tight expression that this place isn't really his scene. "We're not here for two hours of afternoon tea or anything," you reassure him with a smile, "Dimitra said that we should grab drinks before walking around Acropolis and that..." you glance at the menu in front of you, "...strawberry ginger lemonade? That might be calling my name." He shakes his head and orders a mint and cucumber lemonade for himself, your lemonade and two waters as you walk around the princess castle, taking as many pictures as possible before Joe walked back over with all four drinks in hand before heading to the incredibly famous tourist attraction.

The package you paid for allowed you to skip the line and head through a side entrance, your tour guide walking you through the history of the ancient sights along with details about the architectural styles, construction techniques, and the symbolism of the monuments. The faint echo of the voices highlighted the rich history of the place you were standing in, the warm air a stark contrast to the cool lemonade in your hand. It seemed like Joe was hanging onto every word as he helped you up some steep ancient steps, his eyes lighting up as the guide drove you over to the museum, going into depth about the Gods.

"This exhibit is Gods, Worship and Magic, one of the most popular sites this year. You guys can walk around and read about the different deities featured." Artemis' exhibit, caught your eye first.

Glancing down at the steel plaque, "goddess of the hunt, devoted to nature. Were you ever a Percy Jackson fan growing up?"

"I was more of a SpongeBob guy. And Star Wars. Definitely had a dinosaur phase that lasted a lot longer than I care to share," he looks up, wondering why in the hell he just told you that. "Do—do you have any humiliating stories you'd like to share with the class?"

He nudged you as you walked alongside him, his hand so dangerously close to yours. You had the biggest urge to reach out and touch him. So you did. Reaching out maybe an inch, you interlocked your pinky with his, making his heart take a leap in his chest, swinging your hands happily towards the Eros exhibit. "The god of—”

"Love and desire," he finishes for you. Just because he wasn’t a Percy Jackson fanatic, doesn’t mean he didn’t pay close attention to the Greek mythology unit in school.

"Look at the hands," you said softly, leaning in closer. "It's like they're...perfectly fit for each other, you know?"

Joe's breath hitched almost imperceptibly. He was standing so close now, the faint scent of mint and cucumber from his lemonade mingling with the earthy air of the exhibit. "Yeah," he murmured, his voice warm and low, "I know what you mean."

Your pinkies were still hooked, but now the little space between you felt electrified. You didn't dare turn to meet his eyes, afraid of what you might see—or what he might see in yours.

"I do have an embarrassing thing to share with the class," you turn to face him and admire the excited look on his face, like what you're about to say is the most important thing in the world. "When I was little I was obsessed with Mama Mia." He gives you a puzzled look. "It's a musical that they turned into a movie. Anyway...it's about a girl that's getting married in a small town in Greece and the views just..." you pause, smiling at the memory, "...changed my life. I've always wanted that magical movie moment feeling. The music, the views, the…”

"Romance?" he finishes softly, a knowing look in his eyes.

You exhale, your cheeks warming as you nod. "Yeah...the romance. It was nice too." You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. "Doesn’t really compare to the real thing, though," you add, barely above a whisper.

The weight of the moment lingers between you. His gaze searches yours, his expression softening like he wants to say something but can’t quite find the words. Your heart stumbles, and suddenly you feel too seen. You clear your throat, breaking the spell. "I'm, uh, getting kind of hungry. We should grab lunch and head to the next spot."

Joe blinks, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, like he wasn't ready for the shift. "Yeah, sure," he says, his voice gentler now. He watches you for a second longer than you'd expect, then nods. As you walk back to meet the tour guide, Joe finds himself wondering how you’ve managed to unravel him so quickly, leaving him wondering why he already feels so invested in figuring you out.

When you get into the Uber it's like a weight has been lifted off your chest. The museum, which was supposed to be a calm and educational experience was too stuffy and intimate by the end of the visit. In the car, you could have your own space, sitting as close to the door as you could to gather yourself and your thoughts. The driver was nice enough, he had chargers in the car and gave you water bottles, noting that the heat would steadily increase throughout the day. You noticed him stealing glances at Joe in the rearview mirror, his hands tightening on the wheel like he was holding back words. The silence stretched until finally—“I’m sorry, man. I just gotta say…” he finally utters out, "I've been a Bengals fan since I was 8. And I woke up at ungodly hours to watch you play every week. Huge, huge fan."

You laughed at yourself in your seat, the pieces of the puzzle being put together. All of your focus had been on the day, spending every waking minute together and you didn't even fully process why he looked so familiar because the odds of that just sounded too insane to be real. Joe managed a polite smile, his usual ease replaced with a flicker of discomfort. You glanced at him, watching his jaw tighten just slightly as he signed the hat, the faintest blush creeping up his neck. Did he worry you’d see him differently now?

The car stopped near a bustling square lined with food trucks and small cafes. The aroma of grilled meat and spices wafted through the air as you wandered, your eyes drawn to colorful menus. It didn’t take long for the debate to begin.

"Joseph, the mini burgers are definitely better than the souvlaki cones. Be serious."

"No they aren't!" He argues, "you just need to try another one, here."

The souvlaki cone was tender and smoky, the tzatziki tangy and cool against the heat of the pork. But the burger—crispy bacon, the creamy richness of the mayo—felt indulgent, almost sinful. You savored every bite, laughing at Joe’s mock-offended gasp when you declared it the winner. "I hear you and I respect your wrong opinion. But the burger is just better I'm sorry. Do you want another bite?"

He shakes his head slowly, admiring you while you did such a mundane task, silently cursing himself at the fact that he chartered a plane to leave early the next morning. The two of you needed more time together. One day just wasn't going to be enough and the more time he spent with you the more apparent that fact became.

And then you took him on a boat.

It rocked gently, but Joe’s hands gripped the edge of the seat like the waves were threatening to tip them over. His gaze darted toward the horizon, avoiding the churning water below. “You’re really not a boat guy, huh?” you teased, your voice softening when his fingers tightened further. "I'm so sorry I had no idea. But Joe? We're literally in Greece, it's like, treason not to get on a boat here."

"Exactly, so I'm abiding by the law. Doesn't mean I have to enjoy it."

Your hand found his thigh in a quiet attempt to reassure him, and you felt the tension slowly drain from his muscles. He glanced at you, his expression unreadable, but the way his leg leaned ever so slightly into your touch sent a warmth through you that lingered long after. Aegina’s coastline unfolded before you, the white-washed buildings glowing under the sun, expansive trees swaying in the breeze. Joe stepped out first, offering his hand. His grip was firm, steadying you until your feet found the solid ground. You smiled up at him, the unspoken connection between you stronger than ever.

Just as Dimitra had described to you before, the pottery studio was tucked in a quiet corner of the island. Inside, the walls were lined with vibrant pottery, each bowl and vase a testament to countless hands shaping their stories, their glazes gleaming softly in the sunlight as you and Joe grabbed seats toward the back of the room. The instructor's notes were simple, to mold an item of your choice to keep at the end of the session, giving everyone creative freedom to produce a piece of their heart's desire. The clay felt cool to the touch, it's sticky and wet texture balanced wonderfully with the earthy smell that made your experience all the more relaxing and fun. Joe on the other hand, was creating a bowl with a lopsided shape, "it's supposed to look like this," he said firmly, biting back a laugh as you tried (and failed) to keep a straight face.

"Abstract art is still art. I just thought maybe...a quarterback would be better with his hands," you teased.

"Oh yeah? Let's see your work, Picasso." He took a break from his work station to scoot closer to yours, "shit, that actually looks pretty good."

You clean your hands off and move over to his station when he sets his chair back down. "I worked at my uncle's ceramic shop when I was little. It was his passion project so we all had to pitch in as a family and take turns," you helped guide his hand along the bowl, allowing him to smooth over the ridges efficiently evening out some of the misshapen parts. "I'm not saying I’m an expert by any means but I can get you to a point where your bowl can sit up by itself." Your fingers brushed his as you guided his hand, the soft pressure of your touch steadying his movements. Together, the ridges of the bowl began to smooth, though neither of you seemed in a hurry to let go. By the end of the session both bowls were done to the best of your ability, sort of bowl shaped, sort of not and full of personality.

"You’re good at this," Joe says, watching as continued to shape your bowl.

"Good at pottery?" you ask, laughing.

"Good at making things feel...easier," he replies softly. The pottery, he thought to himself, sort of mirrored your time together-unpolished, imperfect, but full of potential and that was both exciting and daunting. After your hands were clean, he grabbed your phone and snapped a picture of the two of you showing off your bowls.

"I was scared when you mentioned doing this at first, but I actually really enjoyed that. This," he gestures to his masterpiece, "is going up somewhere, maybe next to the trophy case at my parent's house. Funny enough, they also live in Athens. Ohio, not Greece," he clarifies.

"You might've missed your true calling," you tell him with a laugh, "here you are wasting your talents on football when the art community needs you."

"Yeah...sure," he laughs, holding onto the bags with your now fully dry bowls in them. "Unfortunately, I don't think I'm ready to quit my day job. Quite frankly, I don't think the art world is ready for me yet. Although working that clay could have been really good wrist rehab."

There it was, that can of worms you'd been trying to navigate. You didn't want to push him to talk about the season or his job if he didn't want to. And now the door was open for you to ask. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to but...was it scary? You know, putting your entire life, all of your free time, your dedication to this one thing that you're obviously really good at. Putting in all that work and then one day it's all just...taken away from you?"

He stops walking for a bit and your breath hitches in your throat, fearing that you've pushed him too far. At the end of the day you were still a stranger to him and maybe that was too personal?

You could tell the question was kind of eating at him, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—”

"No it's fine. I just…yeah. I was terrified for a little bit. No one had been through this before—not at my position, not at this level. I had no blueprint, no one to turn to for advice. It felt like— walking on a tightrope in the dark, hoping I wouldn’t fall.

“The scariest part wasn’t the pain or the rehab," Joe admits. "It was not knowing if I’d still be...me when it was all over."

You tilt your head, searching his face. "You mean, the quarterback?"

He hesitates, then shakes his head. "No. Just...me. Without football, I really didn’t know who that was, how I was going to navigate fame and my private life and everything in between that comes with being me. Whatever that means. And I had an uncomfortably long amount of time to figure it out. Now that the wrist and my health is not an issue anymore and with everything that happened during the season I just felt drained afterwards. Exhausted honestly. And today's been exactly what I needed.”

"Today's been a breath a fresh air for me too. Obviously I didn't have 500 pounds of man laying on top of me but I get it on a smaller scale. Feeling like work is drowning you and nothing you do is good enough so you need to escape. This trip isn’t just a celebration," you confess. "It’s a reminder that I’m more than my deadlines and titles. My boss once called me at 11 p.m. on a Sunday, and I didn’t even blink before picking up. I guess I forgot what it felt like to just...be. I really needed a—”

"Reset," the two of you say at the same time, a comfortable silence washing over you as you continue to walk. "That’s kind of why I came here," you confess. "Not to figure out who I am, but...to remind myself I’m more than my job. More than what other people expect of me."

"Feels like everyone’s always watching, doesn’t it?" Joe says, his voice quieter. "Waiting for you to fail or...prove them right."

"Yeah. But I think we deserve more than that."

Joe sighs, nodding quietly, "We do," Joe says with a small smile. "And one day, when we get it, we’ll look back on this trip as the start of something different." He didn’t say everything he was thinking—some things needed more time to come to the surface.

"Sounds perfect, lead the way."

After you shared the world's greatest chicken gyro, you walked around Aegina a little more, realizing that you had no time to change before dinner and you'd been wearing the same clothes all day long. You walked into a small store, grabbing things off the shelf to try on. Joe was easy, settling for gray cargo pants and a blue striped knit top. Rummaging through clothes and anything that wasn't instant online shopping had become a bit of a chore and you were on a time crunch which made you feel even more rushed. You grabbed three or four dresses and had Joe sit outside the fitting room while you tried the stuff on, only stepping out to show him your favorite.

"What do you think about this?”

The baby blue square neck A-line dress hugged your body like it was created just for you to wear, it's length accentuating your curves in a way that almost had him physically picking his jaw up off the floor. He didn't think you could look any better before but you'd just shattered his expectations. "You look absolutely amazing," he says sincerely, his mouth feeling dry.

You glance at him, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. Compliments weren’t new, but the way he said it—like it was the only thing in the world that mattered—left you speechless. You managed a soft laugh, pretending to study your reflection. "Thanks." After heading back to the fitting room to change, you grabbed all of your items and headed to the front to pay with Joe standing behind you in line. The cashier rung up your items and was getting ready to bag it when Joe added his clothes to the mix.

"Joe what are you doing? You're not paying for my clothes."

He handed over his card without hesitation, ignoring your protests. "I’ve got this," he said, his voice casual but his eyes portraying something deeper, like this was the most natural thing in the world to him. "Boyfriends are supposed to buy things. I think it’s in the constitution.”

"It's definitely not. And seriously, you don't have to do this."

"I got it, don't worry babe." The word slipped out so effortlessly that for a second, you wondered if you’d misheard him. But the way his eyes flicked to yours, briefly widening, told you everything. He realized it too—and yet, he didn’t take it back.You thanked him the entire walk back to the boat, his soft laugh sending warm and fuzzy feelings in your chest.

You were starting to acknowledge the growing warmth between you two, the way Joe’s presence seemed to make every moment feel right. The idea of saying goodbye felt heavier than it should after just one day, but somehow, it seemed inevitable. The next spot was inside a resort, they allowed you to change your clothes and head upstairs to the rooftop bar to watch the sunset. The drinks and the view had nothing on you, he quickly realized, finding himself unable to tear his eyes away. Everything just made sense today, the museum walk, the easy conversation, the boat ride. He didn't want to leave before but now the mere thought of packing his suitcase tonight made him upset.

"What are you thinking about over there?" Your words snap him out of his thoughts.

"Nothing, just how much I'm going to miss it here. The peace, the incredible sunset..."

You. The word hung in the air for a while before he pushed it down and tried to move on.

"We should head over to there and get closer to the view, you can literally see the entire city from glass railing." You stood up first and grabbed his hand, practically dragging him over there. Luckily there wasn't anyone else in the area. "This is the most insane scenery. I don't get how anyone could get tired of seeing this everyday, I'd never be inside. I feel like we’ve been the physical representation of carpe diem."

He looks at you confused, "what does that even mean?"

"Carpe diem? It’s Latin for 'seize the day.' Basically saying not to focus too much on the future and live in the present to the fullest capacity.”

"I like that," he chuckles.

Long after the sun went down and most of your dishes were cleared from the table, the lingering sweetness of caramel on your lips was all you could think about, a fleeting pleasure that only made the impending goodbye sting even more.

"Joe I have to tell you something," he looks at you as you head over to stand in one of the private lounge areas, giving you his undivided attention. "I saw you this morning in the store. Your back was facing me but I don't know, you caught my eye. And I told myself I wouldn't say anything, I wouldn't go up to you and make small talk because I'm here on a solo vacation to be one with myself and-now I'm really glad that I know you."

A smile forms on the corner of his mouth, "I've been telling myself all day that this isn't real. That I could just let my guard down because in Greece, I don't have to be Joe Burrow. I can just be...Joe. You let me be exactly who I am, nothing more, nothing less. And honestly? This might've been the single greatest day of my life. I've had good ones, really good ones. But today is up there for sure." You hadn’t realized how close you’d gotten until you could feel his arm against yours, his breath soft and warm on your cheek. His eyes dropped to your lips again, this time lingering a moment longer, as if the air between you had thickened. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, his breath just a whisper away, as his hand hovered near your cheek. His fingers brushed against your skin, sending a spark through you, and for a moment, you thought he might pull you in.

You couldn't allow yourself to go there. This wasn’t supposed to happen, not now, not like this—but the way he was looking at you, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered, made it hard to think clearly. As much as you wanted this, to feel him close, to taste the sweetness of that kiss, the weight of knowing how fleeting it all was crushed down on you. This wasn’t just a kiss—it was everything you were afraid to want, a piece of yourself that you couldn’t let slip away so easily. If you already felt this strongly about him after a day, how were you going to make it through the rest of the vacation without him knowing how his lips tasted and how his strong hands pulled you in close, holding onto you like he'd rather lose everything than let you go. There was no way in the world you'd recover.

"We can't," you whisper, watching him drop his hand that had just been lightly caressing your cheek. "You're gonna leave tomorrow and I'm gonna be thinking about this kiss for a long time. And I can't," your voice trembles. "I don't want you to go, so I can't kiss you. I'm sorry."

"No don't—don't apologize. I get it." He still hadn't taken a step back, biting his lip to keep his emotions in check. "I can walk you back to your hotel? I haven't packed yet and I need to.”

"Sure, yeah that's fine."

The 15 minute walk felt like three seconds. You didn't want him to go. He no longer wanted to leave. "Y/N I—”

You wrapped him up in a bone crushing hug, silently begging him to stay, just for a few more days. His grip on you was just as strong, his heartbeat thumping rapidly against your body. There weren't enough words in the English, or Greek dictionary to describe how much you were going to miss him. To miss this day. "Bye Joe." That was it. That was all you could manage. The moment you let go of him felt like a piece of your heart stayed in his arms. There was no way to explain the ache in your chest as you watched him turn away, the pull to stay stronger than any rational thought.

Going to sleep that night sounded impossible. The day had started out so innocent and special and the adventure and emotional rollercoaster you'd been on during the day made it feel like you'd experienced a series of days all wrapped into one. You set your bags down on the ground when you got to your room, too tired to change out of your clothes and falling asleep on top of the covers as soon as you laid down.

The next morning you checked the time on your phone, it was 8am. Joe had told you yesterday he was leaving at 10. That meek little goodbye wasn't going to cut it. You didn't even have his number. After your teeth were brushed and your clothes were changed, you rushed out of your hotel and got in an Uber, on your way to Joe's resort. The 46 minute ride allowed you to come up with everything you wanted to say, how this was only meant to be for a day but maybe it could be more? Maybe you could come see him in Cincinnati or he could come to Berkeley or someway somehow you could figure out a way to make it work.

You thanked your driver, opting to speed walk into the lobby. The person at the front desk couldn't give you access to the room without a reason, even when you gave them the name Joe used for his reservation. Pulling out your phone, you showed her the picture of you and Joe that he took at the pottery place and she finally believed you.

"I'm sorry ma'am, he actually left this morning a bit earlier than planned. He checked out at 7am to get on the plane."

Your chest tightened as the words settled in—he was gone. Just like that, in the span of a few hours, everything had shifted. The chance to say what was left unsaid, the connection you had just begun to explore, all slipped away before you could even hold onto it.

It felt like a dark cloud loomed over you throughout the rest of the day. The sun, once so warm on your skin, now felt distant and cold. The flowers that had seemed so alive that morning now appeared dull, their colors muted, as though even nature understood the weight on your heart. While you ate lunch, you tried to people watch, although you quickly discovered that there were only couples surrounding you, sharing meals and laughing at each other's jokes which made you miss him even more. The only real bright spot of the day was your flower garden excursion, taking pictures of the newly bloomed bulbs and taking in their fresh scent. As the hours passed, you allowed yourself to breathe a little deeper, letting the moments of regret slip away as you focused on the simple joys of your surroundings. The beauty of the flowers, the calm of the gardens, it all reminded you that there was still peace to be found in this unexpected chapter of your life.

You were just beginning to let go of the weight on your chest, convincing yourself that maybe, just maybe, this was how things were meant to be. But as you laid your phone down beside you, the familiar ping of a message broke the stillness.

It was an DM request on Instagram. The message had two simple words.

Carpe diem.

For a second, your heart skipped, and you couldn’t help but smile. That phrase, so simple and yet so loaded with meaning, sent a wave of warmth through you. It was him. In a way, he had left his mark on you after all, even if he wasn’t here to say the words aloud. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t the end. And though you didn’t know what tomorrow would bring or if this connection would ever evolve beyond this brief encounter, in that moment, with his words glowing on your screen, you allowed yourself one final thought: Maybe this was only the beginning.

#Joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fic

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xuchiya · 4 months ago

Text

unfair nostalgia || song mingi || one-shot

|genre: ex-husband! mingi. ex-wife! reader. angst. |mentions: divorce (mingi and reader). accident. temporary amnesia. seonghwa appearance in this. it mentions a lot of rain-- aftermath of the rain.

summary: After a tragic accident, Mingi's life inexplicably rewinds six years into the past. Believing he is still living in those days, he calls out to you—his ex-wife—convinced that you're still by his side as his partner.

word count: 19.8k

Your days dragged like a snail navigating barbed wire—slow, agonizingly slow and painfully. Each moment felt stretched thin, a painful reminder of the life you used to know.

Placing your bag down on the couch as you make your way towards the kitchen and pull out the wine from the cabinet. Taking your favorite glass as you returned back to the living room.

Time had lost its meaning, blending one day into the next like an endless gray fog. Tonight was no different. You found yourself perched on the windowsill, a half-filled wine glass balanced between your fingers. The city outside pulsed with its usual rhythm—lights flickering on and off in distant buildings, traffic lights cycling from green to yellow to red and back again. It was all so mindlessly repetitive, yet you sat there, watching as if the monotony might somehow offer solace.

But it never did.

Your eyes, hollow and unfocused, stayed fixed on the scene outside as you took another slow sip. The wine, bitter and stale, barely registered on your tongue. This nightly ritual had become an empty habit—a way to pass the hours until sleep claimed you. Most nights, you didn’t even finish the glass before slipping into bed, leaving it abandoned on the windowsill like an afterthought.

Tonight was no exception. With a sigh that felt heavy in your chest, downing the last bits of your wine before you stood and shuffled to the kitchen. The sound of running water echoed in the quiet as you rinsed the glass, the coldness of the tap biting at your fingertips. It was only as you placed it on the drying rack that you heard it—the shrill, invasive ring of your phone coming from the bedroom.

Your head snapped toward the sound, your brows knitting together in faint confusion. Phone calls this late were rare, and never good. Reminding you of what happened six years ago. A simple sigh, still, you dried your hands on your pants as you made your way to the nightstand. Titling your head to read the caller.

Unknown number.

Your stomach twisted, a subtle unease creeping into your chest. With a hesitant swipe, you answered, lifting the phone to your ear. "Hello?"

Your voice sounded foreign to you—raspy, unused, and weary.

"Is this Mrs. Song?"

The words hit you like a slap. For a moment, you froze, the air in your lungs turning cold. You blink several times, clearing your throat in the process. "You must have the wrong number," you said quickly, your voice tight. "Look, I’m not in the mood—"

"Is this number 010242018?"

A chill ran down your spine. Your heart stuttered, then picked up in an erratic rhythm. "Yes... Yes, that’s my number. Who is this?" There was a pause, a moment heavy with something you couldn’t quite name—comforting, desperate, yet utterly unsettling.

"I’m sorry for the sudden call, ma’am, but we’d like to formally address this at Medic Hospital."

Your breath caught. The glassy haze of your evening shattered as your mind raced. "What? What happened? Who’s hurt?"

"One of our patients woke up just today and is asking for you. They gave us your name and number."

For a brief moment, you considered ending the call—brushing it off as a mistake or a cruel prank. But something in the caller’s tone, in the way your name had been spoken, compelled you to stay on the line.

"Who is it?" Your voice wavered, your grip on the phone tightening.

The answer came, cutting through the air like a blade, regret washes over you as soon as you heard who it was.

"Song Mingi. He said you’re his wife."

The words slammed into you, knocking the breath from your chest. Your knees felt weak, your stomach churning as if the ground had fallen out from under you. The name that haunted your dreams, the one that turned your days into an endless loop of heartbreak, was suddenly back—alive and demanding your attention.

And just like that, the numbness shattered, leaving only the raw ache of everything you had lost.

You could have told the caller that you were no longer his wife—ex-wife, to be precise. That he had remarried and moved on, leaving behind the pieces of what once was. It would have been easier, cleaner—a way to shield yourself from the storm of heartbreak you knew was waiting to engulf you.

You could have told them to call someone else his best friend since middle school, or band mates, his family—anyone who had more right than you to be by his side now.

But you didn’t.

Somewhere between the logical protests of your mind and the aching emptiness in your chest, your body betrayed you. Your feet moved, your heart thudded, and your brain chose silence over sense. Before you knew it, you were standing at the hospital’s reception desk, a name on your lips that felt foreign and bitter, like a taste you hadn’t revisited in years.

“Song Mingi,” you murmured, the syllables trembling as if they carried the weight of every sleepless night and unspoken thought. The name that brought has opened so many wounds that you have soullessly stitched back, how many times you closed your eyes and his crescent smile appeared before you, and the amount of tears you’ve cried silently that night he decided to step out of the door. Without looking back.

The nurse at the desk looked up, her face a mixture of concern and relief. She exchanged a glance with the doctor beside her before both of them rose to meet you.

“Mrs. Song…”

The title hit you like a knife, sharp and precise, cutting through whatever composure you had managed to muster. You raised a hand quickly, shaking your head as if to ward off the name. “No. No, that’s not me. I’m just… I’m just a friend.” The words felt heavy, a weak shield against the truth pressing against your ribs. “Call me Tulip.”

The nurse’s brows furrowed, glancing at the doctor as if silently questioning your response. But she didn’t pry. Instead, she nodded and gestured for you to follow.

“Let’s discuss the situation in my office, Miss Tulip,” she said, her voice calm and professional.

You followed her through the sterile hallways, your pulse pounding in your ears with every step. The name you’d chosen—Tulip—felt like a flimsy mask, a desperate attempt to separate the person you were now from the woman you had been when the name Mrs. Song was yours.

But no matter how hard you tried, the memories surged forward.

Each step toward the nurse’s office felt heavier, as if the weight of the past was dragging you down. And yet, some stubborn part of you carried on, pushing through the pain, the questions, and the overwhelming sense of dread.

Because no matter how much it hurt, you had to know.

“…So, he’s suffering from retrograde amnesia due to the impact on his brain, and his memory only stretches back to six years ago?” you repeated, your voice strained with disbelief.

The doctor nodded, adjusting her computer screen to show you the MRI results alongside the CT scan evaluation. The bright, clinical display only deepened the pit forming in your stomach.

“What about his…” The words clawed at your throat, desperate to escape yet refusing to form. Your lips parted, trembling as if even uttering the phrase would break you further. The doctor, noticing your visible struggle, finished the sentence for you, her tone gentle but firm, “His wife is still unconscious. There’s no telling when—or if—she will wake up, unlike Mr. Song.”

The room felt like it had shifted, tilting slightly, leaving you grasping for something to steady yourself. That word—wife—hit you like a punch to the gut, sharp and unrelenting. You blinked rapidly, your throat tightening as you tried to suppress the surge of emotions rising within you.

“I see,” you finally muttered, your voice hoarse and barely audible. The phrase was hollow, void of meaning, as if saying it would distance you from the gravity of the situation.

The doctor continued to watch you carefully, her face a mask of professional composure, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of sympathy. But no amount of sympathy could soften the blow or untangle the knots forming in your chest. Unconscious. His wife. You swallowed hard, the bitter taste of those words lingering on your tongue, a cruel reminder of the distance between what once was and what could never be again.

You exhaled sharply, rubbing your forehead as the weight of the situation bore down on you. “Do his parents know about this…” You waved your hand in a circular motion, grasping for the right word. “…mess?”

The doctor let out a weary sigh, leaning back in her chair. “Yes. His parents are fully aware. They’ve asked if it would aid Mr. Song’s recovery to stay with someone familiar—someone who might help stabilize his sense of self until his memory returns.”

Your brow furrowed, and you crossed your arms, a clear ‘what-does-that-have-to-do-with-me’ expression etched on your face. Silence filled the room, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of the hospital’s fluorescent lights.

The doctor took another measured breath, removing her glasses and setting them on the desk. Her eyes met yours with a seriousness that made your chest tighten. “While it’s true that his memory loss is temporary, there’s something else you need to know.”

The pause stretched uncomfortably long, and you felt the air shift—the kind of moment where you instinctively knew what was coming but still prayed you were wrong.

“He could stay with his family, it is every patient's right to choose and that would be more than enough for his recovery,” she continued, her tone careful. “But Mr. Song…” She hesitated, as though the next words would solidify an irreversible reality. “…has specifically requested to stay with you. He acknowledges his parents but insists that he needs you. His wife.”

Your heart lurched violently at the word, an invisible dagger twisting in a wound you’d spent years trying to heal.

“No,” you whispered, barely able to keep your voice steady. You clenched your fists, knuckles whitening as you tried to ground yourself. “That’s a mistake. He…he knows I’m not…” You trailed off, the word wife too bitter to say out loud.

The doctor’s gaze didn’t waver. “To him, you still are. His memory hasn’t reached the point where he remembers anything beyond that.”

You felt like the walls were closing in, the carefully constructed defenses around your heart beginning to crumble. The reality of his condition pressed against your chest, suffocating, as the doctor’s words echoed in your mind.

‘He still thinks I’m his wife.’

A low groan escaped your lips as your hands tangled in your hair, the frustration clawing its way to the surface. You had every right to feel this way. Six years ago, life had been entirely different. Six years ago, you and Mingi were a newly married couple, barely a month into your union. It was the first year of 2019, and you both believed tying the knot of a new year would make it all the more special—a symbolic start to a lifetime of shared milestones and growing together.

The memories came rushing back, unbidden and relentless. The dates that turned into adventures, the quiet evenings spent in each other's arms, and the tender, intimate moments that spoke of love deeper than words could ever convey. All of it played out like scenes from a movie you couldn't pause, set within the walls of the house he bought for both of you—a house meant to hold your dreams, your laughter, and your forever.

Now, here you were, forced to relive it all, the continuation of your adventure begins on the month of your marriage and throughout the years left such significant memories to the both of you. Every moment, every memory, was like a jagged shard piercing through the fragile layers of healing you'd painstakingly built over the years. The metaphorical scab that had formed over your wound was being peeled away, piece by agonizing piece, leaving the pain raw and exposed once more.

Your chest tightened as the weight of it bore down on you. How could something so beautiful, so filled with love, now feel like a ghost haunting you with the echoes of what you’d lost?

DAY 1:

The door clicked shut behind you as you stepped inside your small apartment, your movements heavy, like an anchor tied to your ankle. You flipped on the lights, the soft glow illuminating the modest yet warm space. Stepping aside, you gestured Mingi in, giving him room to take in his surroundings.

He lingered in the entryway, his eyes darting around the room. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he noted the simplicity of it all—cozy, unassuming, you. Yet, beneath the surface, his heart twisted, a subtle ache he couldn’t place.

“It’s… nice,” he said softly, his gaze sweeping across the room once more. His steps faltered when he realized what was missing. The walls were bare, the shelves sparsely decorated. No framed pictures of you and him. Not a single trace of the life you had built together.

His heart sank, and a small pout formed on his lips. “Did we move?” His voice carried a hint of sadness, as though the realization was too heavy to mask. You froze for a moment, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. Turning to face him, you forced a casual smile. “Yeah,” you lied smoothly, though your voice wavered slightly. “Yeah, we did. Work, you know? I had to relocate to be closer to the office. I’m still… in the process of unpacking.”

His brows furrowed, his head tilting slightly, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he simply nodded, a faint shadow of disappointment crossing his face. “Oh… okay.”

The weight of his gaze followed you as you busied yourself preparing a snack. It wasn’t just the lie that gnawed at you—it was the memories. The house he had bought for both of you, the home that once felt like a sanctuary, now a distant, painful echo of what could have been.

Placing the snacks on the table, you glanced at him. He sat on the couch, his broad shoulders hunched slightly, his fingers grazing the armrest absentmindedly. It was as if he was searching for a comfort he couldn’t find. You sat across from him, handing him a glass of water. His fingers brushed yours as he took it, sending a familiar warmth through your skin. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice quiet yet sincere.

“Don’t mention it,” you replied, your tone light, masking the storm raging inside you. You could feel his gaze lingering on you, searching for answers you weren’t ready to give.You focused on the small moment—sharing a quiet snack, pretending the weight of the past wasn’t suffocating both of you. It was all you could do to hold it together.

A thought hit you like a freight train once you offered to clean up (even though Mingi insisted). You only had a week. A week to help him recover, to guide him through this fragile state. After that, if it felt too much on your plate, his family would step in, as they had promised during that difficult phone call. They had been kind, their gratitude genuine, despite the invisible scars you bore from the past.

The understanding that this arrangement was temporary didn’t bring relief. It only deepened the ache in your chest.

That night marked the beginning of something fragile and undefined—day one.

You had already marinated some pork earlier, intending to have your usual samgyeopsal for dinner, the plans for yourself were last minute change on the sudden changes of event. But knowing how your landlord frowned upon cooking indoors, you decided to take everything up to the rooftop. The cool evening air would help clear your head, or so you hoped.

Mingi, ever the helpful presence, joined you in setting up. His broad hands moved with a quiet purpose as he arranged the small table and chairs beneath the soft glow of the hanging orange bulbs strung across the rooftop. The lights swayed gently in the night breeze, casting warm shadows across the space.

You took charge of the grill, laying strips of marinated pork neatly across the metal grate. Now, the pork sizzled on the grill as you placed the strips carefully next to each other. The faint crackle of fat meeting flame broke the silence, and you used a hand fan to coax the fire higher, the smell of smoky marinade already making your stomach grumble.

Behind you, Mingi moved with quiet determination. You heard the faint click of a portable speaker, and a soft melody filled the air, one that sent a shiver down your spine. It was that song. The notes carried a haunting familiarity, weaving through the moment like a thread tying you both to a time when things were simpler, happier. Your breath hitched, and for a second, the world felt suspended.

Before you could turn around to glance at Mingi, warmth enveloped you—a strong arm wrapping securely around your waist. Your heart skipped a beat as his touch pulled you back into the present.

“Careful,” Mingi murmured, his voice low and steady, as though grounding you. He was close enough that you felt the faint rumble of his words against your back. His other hand lightly grasped your wrist, stilling the fan in your hand. Your mind is clawing at you as the thought of you have to share some dinners with Mingi, cook breakfast with him— and most painfully of all, to reminisce some memories with him.

You froze, the weight of the moment pressing against your chest like a vice. The music played on, and instinctively, he began to sway, guiding you with an ease that mirrored the rhythm of the song. It was a move from the past—a small, almost imperceptible dance you once shared under different circumstances. His grip on your waist was steady yet hesitant, as though testing boundaries he didn’t quite remember crossing before.

And just like that, the melody pulled you back—back to a morning that now felt like another lifetime.

You could almost see it, the hazy sunlight spilling through the kitchen window, warm against the wooden floor. The smell of fresh coffee and burnt toast lingered in the air, remnants of an overly ambitious breakfast attempt.

Mingi had been there, standing behind you as you flipped pancakes with clumsy precision. The ache of the night before still lingered in your muscles, and in between your legs—a pleasant reminder of tangled sheets and whispered confessions. His arms had wrapped around your waist then, too, steadying you as you nearly dropped the spatula.

“You’re gonna burn them if you keep flipping like that,” he teased, his chin resting on your shoulder.

“And you’re distracting me,” you’d replied, though there was no bite to your words. Instead, you let yourself lean into him, the rise and fall of his chest against your back grounding you. When he swayed you gently in the kitchen, humming the very same song now playing on the rooftop, you laughed, swatting at him with the spatula. “Mingi, stop. The pancakes—”

“Pancakes can wait,” he interrupted, spinning you around to face him. “This? This is more important.”

The memory faded as quickly as it came, leaving a dull ache in its wake.

Back on the rooftop, Mingi swayed to the music, guiding you with an ease that mirrored the rhythm of the song. His grip on your waist was steady yet hesitant, as though testing boundaries he didn’t quite remember crossing before. The orange glow of the bulbs cast flickering shadows on the rooftop floor, painting the moment with a bittersweet intimacy. You could feel his breath, warm against your neck, as he whispered softly, “This song… it feels important.”

You swallowed hard, the ache in your chest swelling as you managed a faint nod. “It is,” you replied, your voice barely audible over the hum of the music.

In that instant, it was as if time folded in on itself—past and present colliding in the tender pull of his arms and the bittersweet chords of a melody neither of you could forget.

That night, you lay awake.

How could you forget? Of all things, how could you forget that your tiny apartment only had one master bedroom? It wasn’t like you hadn’t spent months adjusting to the space—living alone, needing only one bed. Yet, here you were, stuck with the reality that you’d now have to share it with Mingi. Now, the prospect of sharing the bed with Mingi felt like an unbearable weight pressing down on your chest.

The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of a single lamp, casting long shadows that danced eerily on the walls. You could hear the faint hum of city life outside, a stark contrast to the turmoil within you. Every creak and sigh of the building seemed amplified in the silence of the night, echoing the unease that gnawed at your thoughts.

The soft rustle of sheets beside you snapped you out of your spiraling thoughts. You turned to glance at Mingi, who was already asleep beside you. His presence was both comforting and suffocating. Memories of your past life together flickered through your mind—late-night conversations, shared dreams, the warmth of his embrace. Each recollection was a double-edged sword, bringing both solace and pain.

You glanced at the edge of the bed, contemplating if you could somehow sleep on the floor instead. The idea quickly felt absurd. You were already here, tucked under the same blanket, with no way out. Your heart pounded in your ears as you lay there, staring at the ceiling.

Mingi suddenly murmured something, his voice low and muffled. Your breath hitched as you turned your head slightly to look at him. He was still asleep, his expression soft, almost boyish in the dim light of the bedside lamp.

You reached out, your hand trembling as it brushed against his arm. The contact sent a jolt through your system, awakening a longing you had tried so hard to suppress. You pulled your hand back, staring at your own reflection in the mirror across the room. The person looking back at you seemed distant, hollow, as if the vibrant spark that once defined you had dimmed. It has always since the beginning.

Sleep felt like an elusive sanctuary, slipping further away with each passing minute. You buried deeper into the pillow, hoping to drown out the thoughts that refused to let you rest. But even in the darkness, the memories lingered—fragments of laughter, whispers of love, the promise of a future that now seemed like a fragile illusion.

Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision as you stared into the void.

Your mind raced with questions and fears. How could you help someone you barely understood anymore? How could you navigate the delicate balance between compassion and self-preservation, when every moment with him felt like walking a tightrope over an abyss of unresolved emotions?

The night stretched on, each hour dragging longer than the last. The minutes seemed to crawl, each second a testament to the fragility of your existence. You lay there, torn between the desire to protect him and the fear of losing yourself in the process.

Then he whispered again, and your heart stopped.

“...Tulip,” he said, your name slipping from his lips like it belonged there.

You froze, the sound of his voice stirring something deep inside you. He hadn’t called you that in years, not since—

You shook your head, willing yourself to forget. This was all temporary. Just a week. That’s all you had to endure.

Turning onto your side, you faced away from him, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. But the heat of his presence, the steady sound of his breathing, and the lingering echo of your name in his voice made sleep feel impossibly far away.

As dawn's first light began to seep through the curtains, you remained wide awake, staring into the new day that mirrored the uncertainty of your heart. The challenges ahead loomed large, but so did the remnants of a love that refused to fade entirely. In that fragile balance, you found a sliver of hope—a determination to navigate the storm, no matter how tumultuous the journey ahead might be.

DAY 2:

When the morning sun peeked through the curtains of your room, it painted the space with a soft, golden glow. The warmth did little to chase away the exhaustion clinging to your body, but you stretched anyway, muscles protesting against the motion.

As the blanket pooled around your lap, your gaze drifted to the figure lying beside you. Your breath caught in your throat as familiarity tugged at your heartstrings. His lips were slightly pursed in a soft pout, his hands curled into loose fists beneath the pillow. For a moment, he looked untouched by the weight of the past, his broad shoulders free of burdens.

A quiet sigh escaped you as you gently pulled the blanket higher, tucking it around his ears, recalling his playful complaints about waking up with frozen ears. "They'll fall off," he'd grumble dramatically, drawing a reluctant smile from you.

Slipping on your fluffy slippers, you padded toward the kitchen. The clink of utensils and the scent of pancakes filled the air as you worked, each flip of the spatula grounding you in the present. But the familiar sound of heavy footsteps echoed behind you, accompanied by the deep rasp of his morning voice.

“‘Morning, love,” he murmured, and your heart stuttered at the endearment. The grip on your spatula tightened, anchoring you back to reality. You glanced over your shoulder, offering him a small, hesitant smile. “M-Morning, Min… Mingi.”

The words felt foreign, a mix of old habits and new hesitations. You could almost smack yourself for the stumble, but he didn’t seem to notice, his expression easy and warm.

You served the pancakes in silence, the clatter of plates and the scrape of chairs filling the space. “Thank you,” he said, flashing you a grin before diving into his breakfast with his usual unhurried pace.

You couldn’t help but watch, your own plate long emptied, as he savored each bite. His methodical movements were endearing—a rhythm you had once known by heart. With your coffee cup cradled in your hands, now cool and untouched, you let the quiet moments of the morning settle over you. The hum of the ceiling fan blended with the occasional scrape of his fork against the plate. But the tranquility wasn’t enough to keep the exhaustion at bay. Your eyelids grew heavy, last night’s restlessness catching up to you.

As your head began to nod, you jolted awake, your coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

“You okay?” Mingi’s voice broke through the haze, his fork pausing mid-air as he looked at you with concern. You forced a smile, shaking off the lingering fog. “Yeah, I just didn’t sleep much,” you admitted softly.

He tilted his head, studying you for a moment longer than necessary, before nodding. The unspoken understanding in his gaze was both comforting and bittersweet, a reminder of the connection you once shared and the fragile peace of the moment.

“Figured,” he said, leaning back in his chair, his tone laced with quiet concern. “You kept tossing and turning. Something bothering you?”

You blinked, heat crawling up your neck and settling in your cheeks. Of course, he’d noticed—how could he not when you’d been forced to share the same bed? The situation felt both inescapable and unbearably awkward, every shared breath and subtle movement magnified in the silence of the night.

Your mouth opened, but the words refused to come, faltering under the weight of your swirling thoughts. "It’s been… a while, you know," you finally managed, the words stumbling out clumsily. “You’ve been in the hospital for weeks, and… yeah.” You trailed off, internally cringing at your own awkwardness, your attempt to downplay the turmoil inside you.

He nodded, his gaze softening with something that looked like understanding. Before you could process it, his hand reached out, enveloping yours in a firm but gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry, love,” he murmured, his voice low and heavy with sincerity.

Your breath hitched, the air in your lungs freezing as the word love echoed in your mind. That nickname—it was a relic of your past, a tender reminder of a time when everything felt whole and simple. But now, it was a cruel specter, dragging you back into memories you weren’t ready to face.

The pressure of his hand on yours felt like a burning weight, and the rising tide of anxiety threatened to engulf you. The doctor’s words surfaced unbidden, sharp and unrelenting: Mingi and his wife, their second anniversary, the plans for a getaway in the east province that had been violently interrupted by the highway accident. The knowledge clawed at you, tearing open wounds you thought had scarred over.

“I’ll clean up,” you blurted out, your voice tight as you pulled your hand away, retreating before the walls you’d carefully constructed crumbled entirely. You stood abruptly, gathering the plates in a hurried attempt to escape the suffocating moment.

Mingi was taken back by your actions but Mingi also stood up. “Nope. Sit.” He gently but firmly took the plates from your hands, his expression leaving no room for argument. “You cooked. I’ll handle this.”

“It’s really fine—”

He turned to give you a pointed look, one that felt too much like the old Mingi, the one who had always insisted on splitting chores despite your protests. “Sit,” he repeated, softer this time. You relented, sinking back into your chair as he moved to the sink. Watching him was surreal—his movements so natural, as though he belonged in this space, as though nothing had changed.

He rolled up his sleeves, his tall frame somehow managing to make your tiny kitchen seem even smaller. The sound of running water and clinking dishes filled the room, a strangely domestic symphony that stirred something bittersweet inside you. The gentle clatter of dishes being washed filled the kitchen, a sound so familiar it tugged at your chest like a forgotten melody.

Mingi was a whirlwind of unconscious domesticity—moving with an ease that made it painfully clear he didn’t just fit into this space. He fits into your life.

It felt wrong. It felt right.

You rested your chin on your hand, observing him. The way he washed each dish with precision, the way he hummed a tune you recognized as one of his favorites, the way he smiled to himself when he caught you staring—it was all so familiar. And yet, the reality of your situation hung heavy in the air. But he didn’t know. He didn’t know that every swipe of the dishcloth brought memories flooding back. The mornings you spent together, him insisting on cleaning up while you teased him about his overly meticulous ways. The playful arguments about who made the better breakfast. The laughter, the love, the heartbreak that followed.

He didn’t remember the arguments, the pain, the long nights spent trying to piece together a marriage that had already fractured. All he knew was the version of you that existed in his mind six years ago, the version he still believed was his wife.

And the happily new married life he is in.

Your fingers tightened around your coffee cup as the weight of it all pressed down on you. Of all the people he could have chosen to stay with during his recovery, why did it have to be you? The ex-wife he didn’t even remember leaving behind.

He glanced over his shoulder, catching you staring, and his face lit up with a grin so pure, it almost made you forget how this all ended the first time.

“What?” he asked, drying his hands on a dish towel.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, averting your gaze.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he teased, leaning against the counter. You forced a laugh, the sound hollow even to your own ears. “Guess I’m out of practice.”

Mingi shrugged, completely oblivious to the storm raging inside you. He surveyed the kitchen again, his eyes lingering on the bare walls and countertops. “You’ve really changed things up, huh?”

You tensed. “What do you mean?”

“Just... it doesn’t feel like us, you know?” He gestured around the room, his expression a mix of confusion and longing. “Where are all the pictures? The ones from our trip to Jeju? Or the goofy ones we took on your birthday?”

You scrambled for an explanation, your heart pounding. “I... uh, have asked Seonghwa to come and bring it from your—our house,” you lied, forcing a laugh.

Mingi nodded, accepting your answer without question. “Well, don’t take too long. This place could use a bit of ‘us’ again.” The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache, his words hit you like a freight train, and you had to look away. The difference of “us” is where the fights, the sleepless nights, the way you both unraveled until there was nothing left to hold onto unlike his is somewhere you guess is full of happiness and affection.

As he left the kitchen, whistling a tune, you exhaled shakily. Sharing your apartment with Mingi felt like stepping into a dream and a nightmare all at once—a cruel trick of fate that blurred the lines between the past and the present. Your hand trembled as you set the coffee cup down, the weight of the past and present colliding in a way you hadn’t prepared for.

So when the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm orange glow over the city streets. The day had been a whirlwind, filled with moments that teetered between awkward and oddly nostalgic. You barely had time to process any of it when Mingi, with his boyish grin and an eagerness that made your heart ache, suggested dinner at a noodle shop.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you looked at him. “Why? I mean, I can cook for you—”

He raised a hand, halting your words mid-sentence with a gentle but firm gesture. “You’ve already cooked for me twice today. Why not let me treat you for a change?” He reached for your jacket, draped over the rack, and held it out to you.

You hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing down on your chest. It had been a long time since you’d gone out—especially with him. The idea felt foreign, almost surreal.

“I—”

Before you could finish, he sighed, crossing the room to where you sat on the couch. He eased himself down beside you, the sudden proximity causing a jolt of heat to rush through your body. His warmth seeped into the small space between you, igniting a flush that climbed up your neck and settled in your ears.

“Take it as a date,” he said softly, his voice tinged with a playful charm that only made your pulse quicken. “For all the days I missed while I was in the hospital. What do you say, love?”

The nickname cut through your resolve like a whisper of the past, stirring emotions you’d worked hard to bury. Your mind raced with possibilities, weighed down by the unfairness of reliving memories you hadn’t asked to revisit. Was this wise? Could your heart withstand the bittersweet sting of nostalgia?

But when your gaze met his, every carefully constructed barrier began to waver. His eyes held the same spark you remembered—curiosity mingled with unspoken hope, as though he had just stumbled upon something new and couldn’t wait to share it with you. And then there was that smile, the one that always had the power to unravel your overthinking.

A quiet sigh escaped your lips as you felt your body relax against your better judgment. The battle between your heart and mind ended with a truce neither was happy about.

“Okay,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

His grin widened, and for a fleeting moment, the weight of the past seemed to lift, leaving only the quiet promise of a single evening.

When Mingi said that he wanted to try some noodles that he just saw some streets up where you both passed yesterday, you weren’t expecting it would be some other ramen house.

Not just any noodle shop—Home Ramen House.

The ramen house that you and Mingi frequently go to whenever he feels like it. You hesitated, the weight of the memories tied to that place pulling at you. But his excitement was contagious, and before you knew it, you were sitting across from him in the cozy little corner booth you both used to claim as your own. Mingi scanned the menu, his eyes lighting up as though discovering it for the first time. “We’ll have the spicy seafood ramen and the dumplings,” he told the waiter, his voice filled with conviction. You blinked, startled.

It was second nature to him, a detail woven so deeply into his muscle memory that he hadn’t even realized it. The smell of broth wafted through the air, stirring emotions you had buried long ago. As the waiter brought out steaming bowls of noodles and a plate of golden-brown dumplings, the atmosphere shifted. The familiar clatter of chopsticks, the hum of quiet conversation from nearby tables, the way the condensation on the glasses trickled down—it all felt like stepping into a memory.

Mingi leaned forward, inhaling the aroma with a satisfied sigh. “This smells amazing,” he said, his eyes crinkling in that way that used to make your heart skip.

You nodded, stirring your noodles absentmindedly. “It does,” you murmured, trying to focus on the present. The first bite was pure nostalgia. The flavors exploded on your tongue, and you couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at your lips. Mingi noticed, grinning triumphantly. “Glad you still love spicy ramens after you let me sleep on the couch for a week.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. Indeed it was true, it was the first time you tasted spicy food and it took you a lot of milk to calm down your tongue that was numb from the intense spice in it. Because of the influence of Mingi and him laughing at your red face, which he thought is cute, you told him to sleep on the couch.

Conversation flowed easily, much to your surprise. He talked about the food, his thoughts on the day. You found yourself laughing at his terrible joke about dumplings being “wrapped gifts for your stomach,” despite the ache in your chest.

You had been too focused on picking up a particularly slippery noodle, and a rogue strand of sauce had made its way onto your cheek. Mingi notices it and chuckles, without missing a beat, Mingi reaches across the table, napkin in hand. “Hold still,” he said softly, dabbing at the spot.

The gesture was so natural, so tender, that it left you momentarily breathless.

His fingers lingered for just a second too long, and you caught his eyes—warm, familiar, and filled with a fondness that felt achingly real. Your pulse quickened, and you quickly turned your attention back to your bowl, muttering a quiet “thanks.”

As the meal went on, you couldn’t shake the sensation of déjà vu. The way he teased you for eating too fast, the way you both reached for the last dumpling at the same time, the shared laughter—it was all too much and not enough, all at once.

When the bill arrived, Mingi grabbed it before you could protest, his lips curling into that familiar playful grin. “I’m your husband,” he said, his tone light but laced with a deeper emotion you couldn’t quite place. “I should be treating you to the greatest things in life.” He added a playful wink that made you roll your eyes, but the warmth in his voice lingered, disarming you in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

Deep down, it was almost too much—the familiarity of the moment, the ease with which he slipped back into old habits. It felt like walking into a dream you knew would shatter the moment you woke up.

As you stepped out into the crisp night air, the world seemed quieter, the stars scattered above like a tapestry of fragile hope. Mingi tilted his head up, his hands buried in his pockets. The glow of the restaurant’s lights illuminated his face, softening the lines of worry and regret you had grown used to seeing since his accident.

“This feels nice,” he murmured, his voice carrying a hint of wonder, as if he were rediscovering something long forgotten. “Like I’ve found something I didn’t know I lost.”

His words pierced through the fragile walls you had built around your heart. You bit your lip, the ache in your chest swelling.

You did.

It was a truth you couldn’t say out loud, one you weren’t sure you were ready to admit even to yourself. Yet in the stillness of that moment, it hung in the air between you—unspoken but undeniable.

DAY 3:

The day began like any other—quiet, unassuming, and unremarkable. You woke early, your mind preoccupied with a client meeting about revisions to a blueprint. The sharp scratch of your pen against paper and the hum of your laptop filled the air as you scribbled down notes, entirely absorbed in the task.

The faint clink of porcelain pulled your attention. A steaming mug appeared beside you, its rich aroma filling the room. Startled, you looked up to see Mingi, holding his own coffee and offering a soft, familiar smile.

“Have a coffee first, love,” he said, his voice a soothing balm to your busy thoughts.

You took the mug, fingers brushing his briefly, and nodded your thanks. The nickname rolled off his tongue effortlessly now, as if no time had passed since he last used it so freely. It wasn’t just the words, though—it was the way he said them, laced with warmth and something deeper, something unspoken.

But the kisses? Those you hadn’t quite grown used to.

There was the time, just last week, when you’d been rushing around before a meeting, juggling your bag, phone, and scattered papers. Mingi had stepped into your chaos like an anchor, hands firm on your shoulders as he steadied you. He’d kissed your forehead so gently, it left you stunned. Without a word, he handed you a brown bag of snacks and ushered you to the car, driving you to work while you sat in quiet disbelief, his thoughtfulness lingering far longer than the ride.

Now, as he left a kiss on the crown of your head and stepped out of the room, your heart did what it always seemed to do around him these days—it stumbled, tripping over feelings you weren’t ready to name.

Yet, beneath the warmth that spread through your chest, a shadow loomed. With a soft sigh, you returned back to your work.

Later, when your meeting concluded, you found yourself sprawled on the couch, half-laying and half-sitting, as Mingi flipped through Disney+. He eventually settled on an Avengers marathon. The easy camaraderie, the quiet moments together—it felt so natural, so right.

And so unfamiliar.

Just as the movie’s opening credits rolled, a knock at the door echoes. Both of you turned toward the sound simultaneously, like startled meerkats. Mingi paused the movie and moved toward the small monitor connected to the doorbell cam.

“Oh, it’s Seonghwa-hyung,” he announced. Your ears perked up. The memory of your impulsive request to Seonghwa came rushing back. After Mingi had offhandedly mentioned that the apartment did not feel like “ours,” you’d acted on instinct, reaching out to your best friend and asking him to retrieve a box of old photos from your attic.

The door opened, and there he was—Seonghwa, effortlessly chic as always, with his silver hair and the familiar box in his hands.

“Hey, babe!” he greeted, his grin infectious as he breezed in. You smiled back, leaning in for air kisses before he set the box on the coffee table.

“I’d stay and catch you up on all the office gossip,” he said, glancing at his watch, “but my baby mama’s in the ER—she’s about to give birth!”

Your eyes widened. “Oh my gosh, Seonghwa! Go, go, go!”

He chuckled, pulling you into a quick hug before turning to Mingi with a firm handshake and a knowing smile. As you walked him to the door, he shot you a look—one filled with silent understanding and something unspoken. As you walk Seonghwa to the door, Mingi had caught Seonghwa’s knowing look given to you before he left.

The moment Seonghwa was gone, the apartment felt quieter, but in a strangely comforting way.

You turn around with a small smile on your lips, “Well the picture is here, let’s get started?” Mingi had helped you hang up the picture frames, most of them old photos of trips they had taken together. Mingi holding each of the frames made his hand tremble for no reason or that one reason why he suddenly had a flashback of where the same photo shattered on the ground, glass shards glinting like jagged tears in the sunlight. The arguments. The silences. The distance.

“Mingi, you okay?” Your voice, soft with concern, broke through the haze. He blinked, snapping back to the present. Forcing a smile, he nodded and placed the frame on the shelf. “Of course, love,” he said gently.

But you saw it—the flicker of something unresolved in his eyes. A shadow of a past neither of you dared to name but both still carried. You didn’t press him, though. Instead, you continued working side by side, filling the quiet with small, easy conversations. The unspoken truths could wait for another day. For now, this—rebuilding, frame by frame—was enough.

The golden afternoon light filtered softly through the windows, casting a warm glow across the room. You were curled up on the couch beside Mingi, your head resting against his broad shoulder, the toll of the early morning meeting plus the small clean up around the apartment made you tired.

The lingering hum of your morning on-call meeting still played faintly in his mind. He had watched you work earlier, eyes fixed on your focused expression as you scribbled notes and responded to clients, your determination unwavering even through the early hours. Now, it was just the two of you, cocooned in the quiet intimacy of the moment. The world outside felt distant, irrelevant, as if it had been locked away somewhere far beyond the safety of your small apartment.

The silence between you wasn’t heavy. It was peaceful, almost sacred.

Beside you, Mingi shifted slightly. His fingers reached out, adjusting a photo frame on the coffee table without thinking. His gaze lingered on it—a snapshot of laughter frozen in time—before wandering toward the bookshelf by the window. The sight of the cluttered shelves, books stacked without rhyme or reason, brought a small, almost imperceptible smile to his lips. Some of those books he recognized as ones you’d read until the pages frayed; others were strangers to him, spines barely creased.

Then, like a wave crashing without warning, the memory hit him.

The bookstore.

His hand froze, mid-movement, gripping the edge of the couch as the vivid recollection unfolded in his mind. He could feel the chill of that rain-soaked day, the dampness clinging to his skin as you guided him through the streets after picking him up from the hospital. The weight of the moment had pressed heavy on his chest—uncertainty, exhaustion, and the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, things would be okay.

You had found refuge in that tiny, unassuming bookstore. Its wooden shelves lined with worn books and the comforting smell of paper and ink offered a sanctuary neither of you had expected. You’d both lingered there, surrounded by stories belonging to others, as if searching for something in the words you didn’t yet know how to say to each other.

The memory of your hand reaching for his, tentative and warm, surfaced with startling clarity. It was a touch that had pulled him out of his own head, grounding him in the present, in you.

“Hey,” your voice now pulled him back to the room, gentle and curious. He blinked, his grip on the couch loosening as he turned to look at you. The concern in your eyes was subtle but unmistakable. You always seemed to notice when he drifted too far into himself, and for that, he was endlessly grateful.

“Just remembering something,” he murmured, his voice low but steady.

Your head tilted slightly, an invitation for him to share if he wanted to. He didn’t, not yet, but the way you leaned into him, your warmth so close, was enough to soothe the tightness in his chest.

The photo frame sat untouched on the table, a silent witness to the weight of the past and the fragile beauty of the present.

The memory of the rain, the bookstore, and your hand in his still lingered, but now, it felt less heavy. It wasn’t just a memory of pain anymore—it was one of quiet strength, of a moment where everything else had fallen away except for the two of you, finding your way back to each other in the most unexpected places.

Mingi sighed, his hand settling lightly over yours. “Thanks for being here,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your skin in an unspoken promise. The quiet sincerity in his voice hung between you, tangible and real.

Your eyes fell to his hand resting on yours, tracing the way his fingers seemed to fit so naturally. Without thinking, you gave his hand a gentle squeeze. The warmth of your touch sent a flutter through him, “Thank you for letting me stay,” an inexplicable yet familiar feeling, like a forgotten piece of a puzzle finally sliding into place.

For a moment, the world seemed to shift, the sunlight filtering through the window growing softer, warmer, as if the connection between you had become the room’s very heartbeat. Quiet. Steady. Unbreakable.

And yet, beneath the tranquility, a faint ache lingered.

Why did he feel like something was missing?

“Do you remember the library we went to?” His voice broke the silence, soft and tentative, as though reaching for something fragile.

You looked at him, noticing the way his gaze wavered, a flicker of something unspoken glinting behind his eyes. Hesitation? Longing? It was hard to tell, but you could feel it—something pulling at him, tethering him to a memory his heart wasn’t ready to let go of.

You sat up slightly, your movements drawing his attention like a moth to a flame. His eyes followed you, searching, waiting.

“Do you want to go to the bookstore, Min?” you asked, your voice gentle, careful.

The nickname rolled off your tongue, easy and familiar, but to Mingi, it was both a comfort and a quiet reminder of something he couldn’t quite grasp. The corners of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, as his heart reacted before his mind could catch up.

He nodded, almost absentmindedly, his eyes still on you as if the answer lay in the way you moved, the way you spoke. There was a dullness in his chest, a faint shadow of the vibrant emotions he once knew, but even in its muted state, it yearned for something more.

As you stood and moved toward the bedroom to grab your things, Mingi stayed rooted on the couch, watching you disappear through the doorway. His hand lingered on the cushion where yours had been moments ago, his thoughts a quiet storm.

The memory of rain-soaked streets and the quiet sanctuary of the bookstore flickered to life in his mind, tugging at the edges of his consciousness. He didn’t fully understand why the thought carried such weight, but the pull was undeniable. He exhaled softly, the sound almost lost in the stillness of the room. Maybe, just maybe, revisiting that moment would help him find what he felt was missing—something intangible, yet so profoundly important.

The rain caught them off guard. One moment, the sky was a dull gray, and the next, a torrential downpour had them sprinting down the street, their laughter mingling with the sound of splashing puddles. By the time they ducked into a small, tucked-away bookstore, both were drenched, water dripping from their hair and clothes.

The rain stopped a few hours ago and the blue sky was enough evidence to not bring any umbrella yet they should have still brought it. Mingi shook his head like a dog, sending droplets everywhere and earning a half-hearted glare from her as she squeezed the water from her sleeves. He grinned sheepishly, running a hand through his damp hair as he took in their surroundings.

The bookstore was charming in an old-world way—creaky wooden floors, overstuffed chairs, and the comforting scent of aged paper. His gaze wandered over the shelves, the rain outside creating a rhythmic backdrop.

“This place…” His voice trailed off as something stirred faintly in the back of his mind. “It feels familiar.” She glanced at him, her expression guarded, but said nothing.

Mingi meandered through the aisles, his fingers brushing the spines of books until one caught his eye—a worn-out copy of a novel that made his heart stutter.

Why this book?

He pulled it out and stared at the cover. A wave of warmth and nostalgia washed over him, but it was laced with something he couldn’t quite name, like trying to remember the details of a dream slipping through his fingers. Turning to her, he held up the book, a small smile playing on his lips. “Didn’t we read this together? I think I remember… something about this story. It’s special, isn’t it?”

Her eyes flickered with an emotion he couldn’t place, but it wasn’t the joy or excitement he expected. Instead, it was heavy, almost bittersweet. “You… you said it reminded you of us,” she replied softly, her voice tinged with a sadness she tried to mask.

Mingi frowned, his thumb brushing the frayed edge of the book’s spine. “I did?”

There was a beat of silence before she spoke again, her tone carefully neutral. “You did.”

His gaze remained fixed on her, studying the way her eyes avoided his, the way her smile didn’t quite reach them. Something about her felt different—familiar, yes, but distant. Her eyes, he realized, didn’t shine the way he remembered. There was something missing, a light he couldn’t name but that he was sure used to be there. He had always told her that her eyes were like stars, vibrant and full of wonder. Now, they were like stars lost behind clouds.

The thought sent an uncomfortable ache through his chest.

“Are you okay?” he asked, stepping closer. She nodded quickly, too quickly, and busied herself with flipping through the pages of the book. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He wasn’t convinced, but he let it go, turning his attention back to the book. Sitting down in one of the overstuffed chairs, he motioned for her to join him. She hesitated before settling into the chair across from him, and they both fell into a comfortable silence.

The sound of rain against the windows, the scent of old paper, the warmth of the tiny space—it all felt so… intimate. As if they were stepping into a memory.

Mingi began reading aloud, his deep voice filling the space. He didn’t understand why the words felt so familiar, why they tugged at something deep inside him, but he didn’t question it. When he looked up, he found her staring at him, her expression unreadable. He grinned, holding up the book. “You always said I read too slow.”

Her lips twitched, and for a brief moment, there was a spark of something—something that reminded him of the past, of those star-like eyes. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by the same guarded look.

Mingi leaned back in his chair, the ache in his chest deepening. Something was missing, something important, and it wasn’t just the gaps in his memory.

The rain had finally stopped, leaving behind a serene stillness that seemed to blanket the world in a gentle calm. The two of them stepped out of the bookstore, the sound of their footsteps splashing against small puddles on the cobblestone street. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the earthy scent of rain-soaked ground and the faint aroma of nearby flowers.

Mingi glanced around, taking in the scene. The streetlights cast a warm, golden glow that reflected off the rain-slicked surfaces, making the entire place shimmer as though it were draped in a thousand tiny diamonds. It was breathtaking, the kind of beauty that made him feel small and yet deeply connected to the world around him.

He turned his gaze to her. She was walking slightly ahead of him, her silhouette framed by the soft glow of the streetlights. The way her hair caught the light and the way her steps seemed to glide over the wet pavement—it all felt so familiar.

A tug in his chest pulled him closer to her. Without even thinking, his hand reached out, his fingers gently brushing against hers. She turned her head slightly, her eyes meeting his in the dim light. He hesitated for a moment, his hand lingering, unsure if she would pull away. But then, her fingers curled around his, and Mingi felt a warmth bloom in his chest.

To him, it felt like home.

Her hand in his was soft and warm, fitting perfectly as though it had always belonged there. He squeezed gently, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand. There was a comfort in the gesture, a sense of belonging that he couldn’t quite put into words.

For her, the touch was bittersweet. It felt like a memory, distant yet vivid, as though it were something she had dreamed of many times before. She glanced at him, her heart catching in her chest at the way he looked at her. His eyes held a softness, an affection that seemed unguarded, almost innocent.

The quiet between them wasn’t heavy or awkward. Instead, it was filled with unspoken emotions, the kind that didn’t need words to be understood.

The streets around them seemed to come alive in the aftermath of the rain. Raindrops clung to the leaves of the trees, catching the light and sparkling like tiny jewels. The occasional chirp of birds returning to their nests added to the tranquil ambiance. It was as though the world itself was holding its breath, watching them, waiting for something to unfold.

Mingi finally broke the silence, his voice soft and contemplative. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The way everything sparkles after the rain… It feels peaceful.”

She nodded, her eyes drifting to the shimmering reflections on the ground. “It does. Like everything’s been washed clean.”

His gaze lingered on her, a small smile playing at his lips. “You always used to say that, didn’t you? That the world looks brighter after the rain.”

She stiffened ever so slightly at his words, the smile on her face faltering for a brief moment before she quickly recovered. “Maybe I did.”

He frowned, his brow furrowing slightly as he studied her expression. There it was again—that fleeting look in her eyes, as though she were hiding something. It was like a veil had been drawn over her emotions, keeping him at arm’s length.

But then, she turned to him fully, her hand still in his, and smiled softly. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

Home.

The word echoed in his mind, and he held onto her hand a little tighter. The apartment they were heading to didn’t feel like the home he remembered, but her presence made it feel closer to what he thought home should be. As they walked side by side, the cool breeze brushing against their skin, Mingi couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this moment than he could understand. Her hand in his, the glimmer of raindrops on the leaves, the gentle hum of the world around them—it all felt so right, so familiar, yet tinged with an unspoken melancholy.

And for her, each step they took together felt like she was walking through fragments of their past, pieces of a life they had once shared but could no longer fully claim.

The rain had stopped, but the storm within them lingered, quietly shaping the path they walked together.

DAY 4

The sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm, golden glow across the small apartment. You woke to the soft clatter of dishes in the kitchen, the familiar sounds weaving comfort into the quiet morning. Stretching lazily, you padded out of the bedroom, your footsteps light as you made your way toward the source of the sound.

And there he was.

Your feet slowed, hesitating as your eyes locked onto his figure. For a moment, the world seemed to blur, leaving only him—the man standing in the kitchen, framed by the warm glow of morning sunlight. A wave of nostalgia hit you, so sudden and raw it almost stole your breath. Your throat tightened as memories clawed their way to the surface, unbidden yet familiar. How many times have you stood right here, watching him? The way he swayed softly to the music playing from his phone, completely unaware of how the light kissed his side profile, softening his edges and making him seem almost otherworldly. Majestic, yet achingly human.

It was so vividly him. And yet, it wasn’t.

Because now, the unspoken weight of six years—years filled with pain, silence, and the harsh reality of your separation—stood between you. The barriers of divorce and his amnesia loomed like shadows, carving a chasm between what was and what could never be again.

You wanted to step closer, to reach out and shatter the invisible wall that had formed over time. But the ache in your chest reminded you that the past was no longer yours to claim, and the present...

The present felt fragile, like the sunlight itself—beautiful but fleeting, slipping through your fingers no matter how desperately you tried to hold on. And yet, you stayed there, rooted to the spot, watching him as if the act alone could bridge the gap between your pain and his.

You brought yourself back to reality, sighing as you made your way to the kitchen. Mingi stood at the counter, his back to you as he brewed coffee, his movements unhurried. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the aroma of sizzling eggs, creating a symphony of warmth that filled the air.

“Good morning,” you greeted softly, your voice still touched with sleep yet a hint of heaviness in them. He turned at the sound of your voice, his grin easy and familiar. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

You nodded, stepping further into the room. “I did. Coffee smells amazing, by the way.”

“Help yourself,” he said, gesturing to the counter as he flipped an egg in the pan with practiced ease. “I figured I’d return the favor this morning.”

Your heart gave a small flutter at his words, a sensation that left you momentarily speechless. Grabbing a mug, you poured yourself some coffee, the rich aroma filling your senses as you watched him move around the kitchen. There was something almost mesmerizing about the way he carried himself—calm, assured, and so at ease.

“You always wake up this early?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“Old habits,” you replied, shrugging. “And someone has to make sure the coffee gets made properly.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and contagious, as he turned to set two plates on the table. “You really do make a great wife,” he said offhandedly, his voice casual yet filled with something unspoken. Your hand froze for a fraction of a second, your heart tripping over itself before you forced a small laugh. “Maybe… I did.”

The two of you sat down to eat, the conversation flowing effortlessly between bites of food and sips of coffee. Mingi asked about your day, your work, and the little details you often overlooked. Yet, hearing his interest in the mundane felt oddly comforting, as though he wanted to be a part of every piece of your life, no matter how small.

When breakfast was over, you reached for the dishes, but he stopped you, his grin playful but firm.

“You cooked. I’ll clean,” he said, already gathering the plates before you could protest. Your eyebrow furrowed, “But … you cooked,” You whisper but he ignores your words and proceeds to lean against the counter, you watched as he rolled up his sleeves, his movements unhurried as he rinsed the plates. He hummed softly under his breath, a tune you couldn’t quite place but that filled the space between you with warmth.

And in that moment, something inside you tightened.

He looked so natural, standing there with soap suds on his hands and the morning sunlight catching the curve of his smile. So much like the man you remembered, but lighter now, as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Yet, there was a bittersweet edge to it—a gentle ache that reminded you how fleeting these moments might be. You couldn’t help but wonder if he felt it too, the quiet push and pull of time and memory, weaving something fragile yet undeniably real between you.

As he turned back to you, drying his hands on a towel, his smile reached his eyes, soft and knowing. “Thanks for letting me stay,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent.

You offered him a small smile, your chest tightening. “Thanks for being here.”

And for a moment, it felt like the sunlight wasn’t just streaming through the window—it was radiating from the two of you, filling the small apartment with something unspoken yet profound.

Later that day, you find yourself walking through the bustling streets with him— Mingi wanting to walk around to memorize the place— the two of you weaving through the scattered crowd. The sun shines brightly overhead, and the remnants of yesterday’s rain glisten on the leaves and pavement, creating a shimmering path beneath your feet. As you turn a corner, his gaze shifts, locking onto an elderly woman struggling to carry several heavy bags of groceries. You watch as he pauses for only a moment before stepping forward, his long strides quickly closing the distance.

“Let me help you with those,” he offered, his tone gentle and reassuring. The woman looked up at him, surprised but grateful, as he effortlessly took the bags from her. “Thank you, young man. I didn’t realize they’d be this heavy.”

Mingi carried the groceries to her car, his movements easy and practiced. It was as though helping others was second nature to him, something he didn’t even have to think about.

You watch from a few steps away, your heart aching at the sight of him.

He’s always been like this—fiercely kind, endlessly giving. It’s one of the things you loved most about him. Memories flood back unbidden: the countless times he’d gone out of his way for you, fixing a broken appliance late at night, or carrying you in his arms when you sprained your ankle during that unforgettable hike. His kindness was a constant, a thread woven through every moment of your shared life.

When he returns to your side, his smile is radiant, his mood seemingly lighter. “Ready to go?” he asks, his tone so casual, so familiar.

You nod, forcing a smile. But as you fall into step beside him, the bittersweet ache in your chest deepens. The man beside you feels like a dream you once lived in—a beautiful, fleeting thing you can’t quite hold onto anymore.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks suddenly, his brows furrowed in confusion.

You blink, startled. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been quiet,” he says, his voice softer now, tinged with concern. “Is something wrong?”

The words catch in your throat. You hesitate, searching for a response that won’t betray the truth. “No, it’s just… you remind me of someone I used to know.”

He tilts his head, a teasing grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Someone as charming as me?”

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes, lightening the heaviness in the air for just a moment. “Maybe,” you reply, shaking your head.

But as the two of you walk on, your smile fades. Watching him help the elderly woman had stirred something deep within you—a longing for the man he used to be, and for the love you once shared. To him, it was just another act of kindness. To you, it was a glimpse of the man you still love, even if the cruel truth of reality says he’s no longer yours to love.

Later, the afternoon sunlight pours through the apartment window, painting everything in a soft, golden glow. He sits cross-legged on the couch, flipping absently through a magazine he picked up from the bookstore. Across the room, you busy yourself at the kitchen counter, organizing the groceries, keeping your hands moving so your mind doesn’t linger too long.

“Can I ask you something?” His voice cuts through the comfortable silence, startling you.

You pause, glancing over your shoulder at him. “Of course.”

“Back there, when I helped that woman… You looked at me like I’d done something surprising,” he says, his tone light but his gaze steady, searching.

You set down the box of tea bags, turning fully to face him. “I guess I was just reminded of how naturally kind you are,” you say carefully. “You’ve always been like that—helping people without expecting anything in return.”

He tilts his head, his expression softening into something you can’t quite decipher. “I don’t think that’s anything special. Isn’t that what anyone would do?”

You move toward him, settling on the couch beside him. “Not everyone,” you reply, your voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “You’ve always had a way of putting others first, even when you didn’t have to. It’s… one of the things I admire about you.”

He holds your gaze for a moment longer, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes, but neither of you says more. You wonder if he feels the weight of what you’ve left unsaid. Or if the truth, the one you’ve been carrying alone, will shatter the fragile peace of these moments when it finally comes to light. He watched her carefully, the faintest hint of a frown tugging at his lips.

“You talk like you’ve known me forever. Like we’ve been married for a long time.”

Her breath caught in her throat, the weight of his words pressing against her chest. Because honestly, it was true—every single word. Way back then, when your love was untainted by time or circumstance, the two of you had been inseparable. Two years of dating felt like an eternity and yet not nearly enough, as if every moment was still just the beginning.

Mingi had been everything—your best friend, your partner, your home. He had this way of looking at you, like you were the answer to every question he didn’t even know he was asking. And on your third anniversary, he did the one thing that solidified the depth of his love.

He proposed.

It wasn’t grand or extravagant, but it was perfect. The way his hands trembled, holding the ring box, his eyes shining with a mixture of nerves and joy. His voice cracked when he said, “Across all these universes, may my soul search for yours, destined to find you, to love you in every single one.”

He used to say your love was stronger than gold. To him, it wasn’t just a sentiment; it was a promise. He saw a future so vivid, so tangible—one filled with laughter, shared dreams, and the quiet comfort of growing old together. He had been excited to spend his life in your arms, to build something lasting and unbreakable.

And yet, here you were now, standing in the fragile ruins of what once was. The man who once held your world in his hands now looked at you with the same hopeful eyes, completely unaware of the truth that would break him.

The truth that your love, though still stronger than gold in your heart, had been twisted and reshaped by time. That his future, the one he envisioned so clearly, now belonged to someone else.

The ache in your chest grew unbearable, your breath hitching as the memory of that proposal flashed behind your eyes like a cruel echo. How could something so beautiful, so full of life, turn into this? How could you bear to look at him, knowing what you know?

And yet, you smiled, hiding the storm raging inside you, because this wasn’t about you anymore. This was about him, his recovery, his healing. The sacrifice of pretending, of playing your part, weighed heavily on your soul, but you’d carry it for as long as he needed.

Even if it meant breaking your own heart in the process.

DAY 5

The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, but the weight of yesterday’s conversation still lingered in the air. You moved about the small apartment with a practiced rhythm, avoiding looking at Mingi too directly. He seemed more pensive than usual, his usual chatter subdued, as if he were trying to process something just out of reach.

The knowledge that he’d be returning to his family in just three days gnawed at you. The purpose of his stay was clear—these days together were supposed to help him recover before transitioning back to the care of his parents. But your heart ached at the thought of him leaving, even as your brain screamed at you to protect yourself, to not let him back into the fragile pieces of your heart you’d painstakingly put together after the divorce.

“I’m going for a walk,” Mingi announced suddenly, breaking the stillness of the afternoon.

You had come to terms with yourself, silently agreeing that this moment might be your only chance to recreate a life you once cherished. It was fleeting, you knew, but being with this version of Mingi again—so unburdened, so much like the man you had fallen in love with—made you feel like the person you had been six years ago. Even if it tore at your heart, the thought of reliving those moments, even for a little while, was worth the pain.

“Do you want some company?” you asked before you could stop yourself. He paused, his boyish grin spreading across his face in a way that sent a pang through your chest. “Always.”

The two of you wandered through the lively streets, the world around you a gentle hum of activity. The buzz of conversation from passing strangers, the distant laughter of children playing, the occasional bark of a dog—it all blended into a comforting symphony. At first, the silence between you was tentative, but as the minutes passed, it softened, giving way to something familiar.

Mingi seemed more relaxed, his long strides unhurried as he pointed out little details that caught his attention—a street performer playing a wistful tune on a violin, a quirky storefront painted in bold, mismatched colors, the way yesterday’s rain sparkled like diamonds on the leaves of a tree. His enthusiasm was infectious, and you found yourself smiling, your heart lighter than it had been in days.

Then, as you passed a photo booth bathed in colorful neon lights, he stopped abruptly.

“Oh!” His exclamation startled you, his face lighting up with a mischievous sparkle that made him look impossibly young. “Let’s do it!”

“What?” you asked, blinking in confusion as he tugged at your hand.

“The photo booth,” he said, already pulling you toward it. “Come on, it’ll be fun!”

You barely had time to protest before you were crammed together inside the tiny booth, your knees brushing against his as the screen flickered to life.

“Pose!” Mingi commanded, throwing up a ridiculous face that made you burst into laughter.

The countdown began, and for the next few minutes, the two of you dissolved into pure, unfiltered joy. Silly faces, exaggerated poses, and moments of shared laughter filled the air. You forgot everything—the pain, the truth, the weight of what you were hiding. For a brief, blissful moment, it was just the two of you, exactly as you had been.

As the timer ticked down to the final shot, Mingi’s laughter faded, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. Before you could process what was happening, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss.

It wasn’t rushed or hesitant—it was tender and full of longing, as though the six years that had separated you had never existed. Your mind reeled, your heart hammering in your chest. The world outside the booth seemed to vanish, leaving only the sensation of his lips against yours, soft yet insistent, familiar yet new.

It was the same as the first time he kissed you—the same warmth that spread from your chest, the same dizzying sensation of the world tilting on its axis, the same undeniable certainty that this was where you belonged.

The flash went off, its light momentarily blinding, but you barely noticed. Your world had narrowed to the feel of his hands and the taste of the kiss that lingered, soft yet searing. Your fingers had moved instinctively, gripping the fabric of his jacket, as if holding onto him could stop time, could keep him from slipping away again. His fingers lightly cupped your jaw, grounding you, pulling you closer as if he, too, was afraid to let go.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours, the faint warmth of his breath ghosting over your lips. His eyes, soft and searching, met yours, and in them, you saw everything you had once known—love, hope, and the promise of forever.

But the ache in your chest only deepened. He looked at you as though no time had passed, as though the years of separation hadn’t carved out pieces of your soul. Yet here you were, on opposite sides of a chasm you’d helped create.

He pulled away slightly, his gaze lingering, filled with an almost unbearable tenderness. It made your heart ache—an ache that spread through your whole being, a longing to pour out the words that had been locked inside you for so long.

You wanted to tell him how much you regretted signing the papers, how you had spent countless nights replaying every moment that led to that decision. You wanted to confess that you should have fought for what you had, that you should have held on tighter when everything was falling apart.

But everything was too late. Six years too late.

You blinked back the tears that threatened to spill, forcing a fragile smile as the photo booth’s mechanical hum brought you back to reality. And as the moment passed, slipping through your fingers like sand, you realized that some wounds, no matter how much time passes, never truly heal.

The booth fell silent except for the faint hum of the machinery spitting out the photo strip. Your emotions were a whirlwind—confusion, longing, hope, and a pain so sharp it was almost unbearable.

Mingi’s eyes searched yours, his expression soft yet unreadable. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

“For what?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“For forgetting,” he said, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. “For making you carry this alone after the accident.”

Your breath was caught in your throat, some tears threatened to spill in the corner of your eyes. The accident. Not the divorce, not the heartbreak you thought he meant. His words held the weight of sincerity, of regret for memories stolen rather than choices made.

Your heart clenched, the ache deepening as you realized he was apologizing for something entirely out of his control. “Mingi…” you whispered, your voice barely holding steady.

The machine beeped softly, a sound that felt louder in the confined space, breaking the spell of shared laughter and fleeting joy. Mingi turned slightly, retrieving the freshly printed photo strip from the slot. As his eyes scanned the series of images, a small, almost wistful smile tugged at his lips, a mix of nostalgia and something unspoken shimmering in his expression.

“Look,” he said, his voice soft as he held the strip out for you to see.

Your breath falters as your eyes fall on the final frame. It wasn’t a silly pose or a playful expression like the others. Instead, it was a moment you hadn’t expected—a soft, unplanned kiss. His lips touched yours, the emotion behind it was unmistakable.

It was hauntingly familiar, a mirror of a moment from years ago—the tender kiss that sealed your vows on the altar. The memory crashed over you like a wave, unearthing a rush of feelings you thought you had buried.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air felt heavy, charged with a mix of longing and heartbreak. His thumb traced the edge of the photo strip absently as though trying to etch the memory into his mind.

“Mingi…” you began, your voice trembling. He looked at you, his eyes searching yours for something—perhaps understanding, perhaps forgiveness. “I don’t know why,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “But this… it feels like something I should never have forgotten.”

His words hung between you, pulling at the threads of your carefully guarded heart.

For now, you let him fold the photo strip and tuck it into his pocket. As you stepped out of the booth, the cool air hit your face, grounding you. Mingi walked beside you, his boyish grin returning as he pointed out a street performer nearby, as if nothing had changed.

But something had.

As you walked back home, the atmosphere felt quieter, almost solemn, as if the world had slowed just for the two of you. The rain from yesterday had left everything glistening, tiny droplets clinging to the edges of leaves and the curves of streetlights. The golden afternoon sun filtered through the canopy of trees, casting a soft, ethereal glow that felt almost too perfect for a moment like this.

Without warning, Mingi reached out and took your hand.

His fingers laced through yours, warm and steady, grounding you in a way that sent a ripple through your chest. You glanced at him, startled, but his gaze remained fixed ahead, a slight furrow in his brow as though he were lost in thought.

“It feels right,” he murmured, his voice barely louder than the whisper of the wind. The words settled between you, simple yet profound, leaving you unsure whether he was speaking to you or to himself. Your steps faltered slightly, but his hand tightened, a gentle reassurance that he wasn’t letting go—not now, not yet.

The warmth of his touch lingered as the two of you continued down the glistening path, your heart a conflicted mess of emotions. You wanted to pull away, to keep your walls intact, but the pull of his presence was undeniable.

That night, as the city outside settled into its usual hum, you lay awake, staring at the faint patterns of moonlight on the ceiling.

The memory of his hand in yours, the quiet conviction in his voice, echoed in your mind. The fifth night had come and gone, and still, your thoughts revolved around one question.

Was this fleeting comfort worth the risk of reopening wounds that had never fully healed?

Day 6

The tension from the previous day clung to you like a second skin, heavy and unshakable. It had been impossible to look Mingi in the eye that morning, his boyish charm and newfound tenderness pulling at strings you thought were severed long ago.

As you finished tying your shoes near the doorway, you glanced at him hesitantly. Mingi was standing by the window, a book in his hand as his eyes skimmed on the letters inside, the golden morning sunlight casting a warm glow across his face. He seemed lost in thought, his fingers tapping lightly against the spine of the book.

“I’m meeting Seonghwa for coffee,” you said softly, your voice careful, testing the waters.

He turned to you, his expression unreadable at first. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Okay,” he said simply, his tone gentle but distant.

You blinked, surprised by the lack of resistance. “Okay?”

Mingi’s gaze softened, his hand snapped the book close as he walked toward you. “Okay,” he repeated, and for a moment, you thought that was the end of it.

But then he stopped in front of you, so close you could feel the warmth radiating off him. Before you could say anything, he leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. The tenderness of it made your breath hitch, your heart lurching painfully in your chest.

“Be safe,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “And enjoy your time with Seonghwa-hyung.”

You stared up at him, caught off guard by the quiet sincerity in his words. The warmth of his touch lingered long after he pulled away, leaving you standing there, feeling as though the ground beneath you had shifted.

“I… I will,” you finally managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

He offered you a small, boyish smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes but still carried a trace of the man you once knew. And as you stepped out the door, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of his gaze on your back, a silent tether that refused to let you go.

You were desperate for clarity, for a sense of balance, which was why meeting Seonghwa now felt so vital. As you slid into your usual seat at the café, your chest tightened, and the weight of everything threatened to pull you under.

Seonghwa arrived moments later, his presence as steadying as it was piercing. His warm gaze swept over you, concern evident in the slight downturn of his lips.

“Hey,” he said softly, sitting across from you. His voice was gentle, but it carried an edge—a readiness to say what you weren’t ready to hear. You forced a smile, wrapping your hands around the warm coffee cup in front of you. “Hey.”

The soft hum of the café enveloped the quiet between you, but Seonghwa didn’t let it linger. He leaned forward, his elbows settling on the table, his fingers grazing yours with a touch that sent sparks up your arm. His voice was steady, yet his gaze carried the weight of unspoken truths. “Are you doing this for yourself, or for what you think you could have saved?”

His words hit like a jolt, unraveling the fragile composure you had carefully held together. Your pulse raced as you turned away, pretending to find solace in the rain-streaked window. “Seonghwa…” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the soft patter of rain.

“I’m not mad at you, babe,” he interrupted, his voice faltering on the last word, betraying the calm facade he was trying so hard to maintain. His eyes shone with a mixture of anguish and desperation as he leaned forward. “But I’m terrified. Terrified that you’re tying yourself to the past again, to him, when it nearly destroyed you the first time.”

The sharpness of his tone cut through you like a blade, leaving a dull ache in its wake. Your chest tightened as you fought to steady your breathing, to keep the tears threatening to spill at bay. “It’s not like that,” you whispered, though the tremor in your voice gave you away.

“Then what is it like?” he pressed, his voice softening but losing none of its intensity. The air between you crackled with unspoken truths and heavy silences. “You could’ve told the truth—” He exhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a brief moment as if bracing himself for the storm his words would unleash.

He opened his eyes, his gaze locking onto yours with a quiet pain that made your heart shatter. “The truth that his wife is now conscious in that hospital room. Why didn’t you?”

The night after you and Mingi shared a quiet walk under the stars, your phone buzzed with a message. It was from the doctor—the one who had delicately outlined Mingi’s condition, her words laced with a cautious hope that had felt fragile but comforting.

"Mingi's wife has regained consciousness. She’s currently in surgery, slowly recovering from the head trauma."

The words blurred as your eyes scanned them again, your breath catching in your throat. At first, they felt distant, like they belonged to someone else’s story. But then, the meaning sank in like a weight dropping in your chest.

Mingi’s wife.

The words struck you like a lightning bolt, jolting you into a reality you had somehow let yourself forget. His wife—the legal wife. The woman whose place you could never fill, no matter how fleeting the moments you shared with him had been.

Your heart plummeted as the realization hit you with earth-shattering clarity. For days, you had let yourself sink into the illusion of being close to him, of stepping into a role you had no right to play. And now, like heaven and earth colliding, you were reminded of the truth you had buried so deeply.

Mingi was never yours and no longer yours.

The thought tore through you, an ache blooming in your chest as you tried to steady your breathing. The walls of the room seemed to press in, the space shrinking with every passing second. Relief warred with despair, confusion tangled with longing, and you could barely grasp at the threads of your own emotions. Somewhere, the rational part of you knew this was how it was supposed to be—that Mingi would return to her arms, to the life he had built with someone else. But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

The question struck like a hammer to your chest, robbing you of breath. You turned your head away, your eyes squeezing shut as if that could block out the weight of his words. The ache of emotions you had buried deep within clawed its way to the surface, and you felt the sting of suppressed tears.

“Because…” you began, your voice barely above a whisper, raw and broken. “Because he needed someone.” You forced yourself to meet his gaze, your eyes swimming with unshed tears. “He woke up not knowing anything, Seonghwa. Not even himself. How could I just leave him to that kind of emptiness?”

His jaw tightened as he searched your face, his shoulders slumping with the weight of his frustration and fear. “And what about you?” he asked, his voice trembling, barely holding together. “What about your emptiness? What about the nights you couldn’t breathe, the times I had to hold you together because you couldn’t stand on your own? What about everything you’ve been through?”

You couldn’t answer. The words lodged in your throat like shards of glass, too sharp to speak.

He reached out, his hand hovering near yours before retreating, his fingers curling into a fist. “How do you think this ends for you?” His voice cracked, and the vulnerability in it made your chest tighten further. “Do you think this fixes anything? Or are you just breaking yourself all over again for someone who might not even give a second look the moment they remember?”

Tears brimmed in your eyes as you met his gaze, his expression so raw, so full of love and worry, it almost undid you. “I don’t know,” you said honestly, your voice barely a whisper. “But he’s not the same, Seonghwa. He’s… different. He doesn’t remember the fights or the divorce. He doesn’t remember why we fell apart. He only remembers me—us. And it’s…” You trailed off, your voice breaking under the weight of unsaid words.

“It’s what?” Seonghwa prompted, his hand reaching across the table to hold yours, grounding you.

“It’s killing me,” you confessed, the tears spilling over now. “To see him like this, to see him not remember the life we had—or the pain that ended it. It’s like I’m living in this cruel, beautiful lie.”

Seonghwa inhaled sharply, his grip tightening on your hand. “You’re not responsible for fixing him,” he said firmly, though his voice trembled with emotion. “You’ve already given so much of yourself to him. I’m scared you’ll lose what’s left.”

The rawness in his voice shattered something inside you, and for the first time, you let yourself feel the full weight of his words.

“I just…” You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself. “I needed to be there for him. Even if it’s only for now.”

The weight of the unspoken hung heavily between you and Seonghwa, a reminder of the ticking clock counting down the days until he would leave. You tried to ignore it, burying the ache deep within, but it clawed relentlessly at the edges of your resolve.

Before either of you could say more, your phone buzzed against the table, the sound jarring in the heavy silence. You glanced down and froze when you saw Mingi’s name flashing on the screen.

Seonghwa’s eyes flicked to the phone, his expression calm but his jaw tight. “Answer it,” he said softly, though the tension in his voice betrayed him.

With trembling hands, you swiped to accept the call. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Mingi’s voice came through, warm and familiar. For a moment, it felt like coming home. But there was an edge to his tone, a weight you couldn’t quite place. “I was just thinking about you. Can we talk when you get back?”

Your heart clenched at his words, his longing bleeding through the line. “Yeah,” you managed to say, your voice thick with unspoken emotions.

When you hung up, Seonghwa was watching you, his dark eyes searching yours. “He remembers you,” he said quietly, each word measured. “But not the pain. Not the fights. Not the divorce.”

You nodded, your fingers trembling as you wiped at the tears threatening to fall. “And I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.”

Seonghwa reached out, his hand finding yours again. His thumb brushed softly against your knuckles, grounding you in the present even as the past threatened to overwhelm. “I’ll support you, no matter what,” he said, his voice steady but laced with quiet anguish. “But promise me, if it gets too much, you’ll walk away. You deserve a future—not a life trapped in the shadows of what could’ve been.”

You nodded, but the promise felt fragile, like a thread stretched too thin. “I’ll try,” you whispered.

His gaze softened, though the worry lingered in his eyes. “That’s all I ask.”

“A drive?” you repeated, startled. On the way back home and after bidding goodbye to Seonghwa, your nerves were everywhere, anxiety rising as to what Mingi wanted to talk about. Your mind races with many thoughts and one of them were the conversations you just had with Mingi and dread washed over you.

“Yeah,” he said, already standing. He was already in his sweater and jeans, the keys juggling in his palm, “It’s been so long since I’ve just… gone somewhere for no reason. You in?”

The logical part of you wanted to decline, to keep the boundaries clear, to protect your heart. But the part of you still tethered to him—the part that had never quite let go—nodded. “Okay.”

The car hummed softly as it came to life, the familiar sound filling the quiet. Once you hit the open road, Mingi rolled down the windows, letting the cool night air rush in. It carried the scent of damp asphalt and distant pine, and for a moment, you felt like you’d stepped back in time. He fiddled with the radio, flipping through stations until a familiar melody filled the car. A smile spread across his face. “Remember this?”

You nodded, the song tugging at memories you thought you’d buried. It was your song—the one that played on countless late-night drives, the soundtrack to a thousand shared moments.

Mingi’s grin widened as he sang along, his voice exaggerated and dramatic. His arms gestured wildly, just like he used to, and you couldn’t help but laugh. The sound bubbled up, surprising even you, cutting through the heaviness that had settled in your chest.

“Your turn,” he said, glancing at you with a teasing smile.

“I don’t sing,” you replied, shaking your head.

“Your voice is my favorite song,” he said, the words slipping out so naturally they caught you off guard. Your laughter faded, replaced by a quiet ache. You turned your gaze to the window, watching the darkened trees blur past. “I hope you still do.”

The miles stretched out beneath you, the city lights fading into quieter, darker roads. The wind whipped through your hair, wild and untamed, but you didn’t bother to fix it. For a fleeting moment, it felt like nothing else mattered—just the open road, the music, and him.

But the memories crept in, unbidden and sharp. The countless nights spent in this very seat, his hand brushing yours on the gearshift. The shared dreams, the unspoken promises, the way you’d believed you were untouchable.

“Mingi,” you said softly, your voice barely audible over the engine’s hum.

He turned to you, his expression curious.

“Why did you want to go for a drive?”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering to the road ahead before answering. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I do remember, this is our sweet grand escape.”

You nodded, your throat tight. “It is.” And in that moment, with the road stretching endlessly ahead, you wondered if you’d ever truly move forward—or if some part of you would always be here, caught between what was and what could have been.

The road ahead stretched out in silence, the hum of the engine blending with the soft whispers of the wind. By the time you turned back toward the city, the air had grown colder, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth. The stars above were scattered like fragments of light against the inky blackness, their brilliance mirrored in your quiet longing.

Mingi reached over, his hand finding the console between you. His fingers brushed against yours—light, tentative, as if testing the boundaries of something fragile. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver through you, and your breath hitched before you could stop it.

“I don’t know what it is,” he said, breaking the silence. His voice was quiet, as though he feared the weight of his words might shatter the delicate moment. His eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the vulnerability etched into his profile.

“But being with you…” he continued, his words catching slightly, as though they carried more than he could say. “It feels like I’m home. Like I’ve been away for a long time, and now I’m finally back where I belong.”

The confession hung in the air, raw and unfiltered, seeping into every crevice of the space between you. Your chest tightened, the ache blooming anew. You wanted to hold onto his words, to let them wrap around you like the warmth of his touch, but they carried a bittersweet weight that was impossible to ignore.

You swallowed hard, your gaze drifting out the window as you struggled to steady the storm of emotions inside you. The city lights glimmered in the distance, but they felt impossibly far away—like the future you’d once dreamed of with him, now nothing more than a faint glimmer on a distant horizon.

He took a quick look at you, his eyes held so much love— like he was carrying the entire aurora borealis in his eyes, “You’re my home.”

Your breath caught in your throat, the weight of his words crashing over you like a wave. You wanted to tell him the truth, to let him know that this wasn’t his home anymore—that you weren’t his home anymore. But the words refused to come.

Instead, you let your hand slip into his, your fingers intertwining as naturally as they always had. And for the rest of the drive, you let yourself believe, just for a little while, that you could still be his home.

Day 7

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” You nudged Mingi gently, your voice soft but insistent, fingers brushing against his arm. He stirred, blinking up at you with groggy confusion. “What time is it?”

You gave him a soft smile, “Just get up.” He groaned but sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Without protest, Mingi followed you, the two of you making your way out into the quiet stillness of the world before it woke; yet the weight of what was to come pressed heavily on your chest.

Last night had been a sleepless one. After the late-night drive, you had returned to the stillness of your shared space, the echoes of his laughter and the warmth of his presence lingering in the room like a ghost of the past. But the peace you so desperately wanted to hold onto eluded you. Instead, your mind raced, caught in a storm of emotions that refused to settle.

The entire week with him had felt like an unraveling—his presence a salve to old wounds that had never fully healed, yet at the same time, it had torn open scars you had worked so hard to seal. Being near him again, feeling his touch, hearing his laugh—it was everything you had once dreamed of. Everything you had wished to return to, even when you told yourself it wasn’t possible.

But the truth loomed over you, undeniable and inescapable. Mingi deserved to know it, deserved to have the clarity you had ignored for so long. As the hours dragged on and sleep remained a distant hope, you had spent the night removing the shards embedded deep in your heart, one by one.

The memories were sharp, cutting with each recollection: the way he looked at you with those eyes full of unspoken longing, the touch of his hand brushing yours in the car, the sound of his voice when he said you felt like home. Every moment was a reminder of what you had lost—and what you could no longer pretend to have.

Your tears had soaked into the pillow as you wrestled with the decision, the battle between selfishly holding onto these fleeting moments and doing what you knew was right. You couldn’t let him live in the illusion any longer. He deserved the truth, even if it shattered the fragile connection you’d rebuilt.

The air was crisp, carrying the biting chill of dawn that made you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself. Above, the sky remained a canvas of deep navy, stars beginning to dim as the first strokes of orange and pink teased the horizon. The world felt suspended in a quiet hush, the stillness amplified by the faint rustle of leaves in the cool breeze.

You led Mingi to a secluded hill overlooking the city, the spot you’d discovered during one of your solitary escapes. It was a place of solace for you, where the sprawling cityscape seemed small and far away, swallowed by the vastness of the sky.

Neither of you spoke as you sat side by side on the damp grass. The cold seeped through your clothes, grounding you in the reality of the moment. The faint hum of distant traffic mingled with the melody of birds waking to the light. Slowly, the darkness began to yield, giving way to the soft warmth of the approaching sunrise.

Mingi’s breath fogged in the air as he spoke, his voice quiet, almost reverent. “It’s beautiful.”

You nodded, your gaze fixed on the horizon. The first rays of sunlight painted the edges of the sky in hues of gold and pink, chasing away the night. “I thought it’d be a good way to end things.”

He turned to you, his brow furrowing in confusion. “End things?”

The words hung in the air, heavy and unspoken. Mingi’s heart thudded unevenly in his chest, a gnawing sense of unease creeping through him. Your tone wasn’t cold—it was resolute, distant in a way that felt unfamiliar and wrong. He opened his mouth to respond, to ask what you meant, but the words tangled in his throat.

His mind raced, flooded with fragments of emotions and half-formed thoughts. What’s happening? Why does it feel like something’s slipping away? He searched your face, looking for answers in the curve of your lips, the downward tilt of your gaze.

Is this why you’ve been so quiet? Why your smiles seemed forced? He thought of the past week, the stolen moments of warmth that felt almost too fragile, too fleeting. His chest tightened. Were those memories or just illusions of something we used to have?

Were those moments we shared just days ago … were my memories?

And then there were the flashes—images that didn’t make sense but stirred something deep and aching within him. Your tear-streaked face, eyes red and swollen, though he couldn’t recall ever seeing you cry. The ghost of your voice, trembling with words he couldn’t quite grasp.

Mingi wanted to ask, to demand why this felt like goodbye when he wasn’t ready for it. But fear held him back, rooting him in silence. What if asking makes it real? What if I lose you all over again?

You exhaled slowly, breaking the silence. “Mingi… you’re going back to your family tomorrow. This…” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “This was temporary. A way for you to heal. But it’s not real. Not anymore.”

His breath hitched, and he turned his gaze back to the horizon, unable to meet your eyes. His thoughts screamed against your words, but his voice refused to cooperate. The truth loomed like a shadow he wasn’t prepared to confront, a storm he couldn’t outrun.

The sunlight began to spread, illuminating the city below in soft, golden light. Mingi clenched his fists against the damp grass, the weight of the moment pressing against his chest. He wanted to reach out, to tell you that it was real, that you were his anchor in a sea of uncertainty.

“I love you…” he said suddenly, his voice soft yet firm, like a whisper of truth he couldn’t hold back any longer. His hand finding yours, squeezing it as if telling you to stop joking yet none of your eyes says that you were.

It felt like a dam had broken within you. The walls you had so carefully built to protect yourself crumbled, and the flood of emotions hit with brutal force. Your shoulders trembled, a sharp inhale escaping you as your head shook, denying the reality of his words. You fought with everything you had to stay composed, but your heart betrayed you, a painful ache spreading through your chest.

“No…” you whispered, your voice cracking under the weight of everything you had buried deep inside. It was more than just the words, more than just the confession— it was everything you couldn’t say, everything that had been left unsaid for far too long.

Tears brimmed in your reddened eyes, threatening to spill, but you willed yourself to hold them back. Every part of you screamed to push him away, to refuse him, but a deeper part of you— the part that remembered the love you once shared, the tenderness and joy— fought against the words that had already formed in your throat.

“No, you don’t.”

The words left your lips in a breathless rush, the weight of them heavier than anything you had ever spoken. Your chest tightened with the unbearable pressure of it all, a battle raging inside you. The pain, the confusion, the loss.

Mingi tilted his head, confusion clouding his expression as he tried to make sense of it all. “But I’m married to you.”

A bitter laugh escaped your lips, sharp and hollow. It was a sound of disbelief and pain, born from the weight of everything that had happened. Your gaze fell to your intertwined hands—a fragile semblance of connection in a world that had shattered between the two of you.

You pulled away with sudden resolve, the movement decisive. It felt like a necessary break—like something had to give for you to survive this moment.

“Was,” you corrected softly, your voice trembling but steady. “I was married to you—before we divorced.”

The words hit the air between you like an invisible force, heavy and unrelenting. His mouth opened as if to argue, to hold onto something that didn’t belong to either of you anymore, but you stopped him before the denial could take form.

The quiet strength in your voice broke through his confusion. “You left me, Mingi.”

Your tone softened, the bitterness giving way to something raw, something vulnerable. The weight of years—of heartbreak, of unanswered questions—had finally found their voice. “You said you didn’t feel the love between us anymore. That you found it with someone else. And now…”

Your voice faltered, breaking like the tender thread of a once-beautiful memory. You balled your hands into fists at your sides, trying to hold onto what little strength you had left. “You already belong to someone else. Someone who isn’t me.”

The silence stretched between you as the sun climbed higher, its golden rays casting light on his face. But the clarity in his eyes wasn’t there—only the raw confusion, the hurt that mirrored your own. He struggled to process your words, his fingers twitching as if to reach for you, but they stopped short, hanging in the air with unspoken regret.

“I don’t remember that,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, the pain in his tone cutting deeper than anything before.

You nodded slowly, your heart aching as the tears you had tried so hard to hold back slipped down your cheeks. “I know,” you whispered back, the sorrow in your voice thickening with each breath. “And that’s why I wanted to do this—because I needed to let go. I needed to find closure—for the both of us.”

Mingi stared at you, his eyes locking onto yours as if searching for the pieces of himself that had slipped away, hoping they were hidden somewhere inside your gaze. His lips parted, but no words came out at first. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, as if trying to reconcile the weight of his feelings with the reality of what had been lost.

“But I feel it,” he said finally, his voice breaking with desperation. “I feel like I love you— No! I love you, you’re my home. How can that not be real?”

The words—those words—shattered the last vestiges of your composure. You smiled through your tears, the smile that came from a place of bittersweetness—an expression that was both tender and laced with pain.

“Because sometimes, love isn’t enough to keep something whole,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. “And sometimes, it’s about knowing when to let go.”

The finality in your voice hung in the air like a heavy fog, and the truth of it sank in, sharp and undeniable. You were letting go. You were finally releasing everything you had tried so hard to hold onto.

You looked at him one last time, your gaze lingering, as if you were trying to memorize every detail—his mole on the left side of his cheek, the sharp curve of his nose, the way his eyes crinkled into that crescent-shaped smile that always made you feel like the world had melted away. In that instant, you allowed yourself to drown in the present, to feel the weight of everything that had once been yours.

But it was fleeting. Too fleeting.

This—this moment—was all that was left of him, the man who had once been everything to you. The man you loved so fiercely, so completely, and yet, whose love had faded as quickly as it had come.

As you stood there, watching him in all his vulnerability, you finally allowed the tears you had been holding back to fall freely. There was no more hiding, no more pretending. This was the end. The closure you had been yearning for was finally here.

“I’ll miss you, Min,” you whispered, your voice cracking as the weight of your words took hold of your chest.

The name—his name—felt like a dagger, sharp and bittersweet, as it slipped from your lips. You closed your eyes for just a moment, and in that second, the rush of memories hit you like a wave. The laughter, the tenderness, the warmth that used to fill every space between you two. But as quickly as the memories came, they were replaced by the painful reality that this was no longer your life. He wasn’t yours anymore, and you weren’t his. Not in the way you once were.

“I love you, Tulip,” he whispered, his voice breaking like shattered glass, his hand reaching for yours with a desperate kind of tenderness.

But you pushed his hands away, the motion sharp, your heart aching at the rejection you had to force upon him. “Stop, Mingi,” you said, your voice trembling with raw emotion, your bottom lip wobbling as tears streamed unchecked down your cheeks. “I’m no longer your wife.”

The words fell like a gavel in a silent courtroom—final, undeniable. They echoed in the small space between you, shattering whatever fragile illusion of reconciliation had lingered in his hopeful gaze.

Mingi stood there, frozen, his hand still hovering mid-air as if waiting for a different outcome, one that would never come. His lips parted, and for a moment, it seemed he might argue, might plead, might try to close the gap between you. But then he saw the anguish in your eyes, the pain you carried, and it stopped him in his tracks.

“I don’t understand,” he murmured, his voice laced with confusion, his gaze darting between your face and the floor as though searching for answers that didn’t exist. “I feel it, Tulip. I feel this love—so real, so strong. How can you say that we’re not—”

“Mingi.” Your voice cracked as you interrupted him, your tears falling faster now. “The love is there. I know it is. But it’s not enough anymore. It died six years ago.”

His shoulders slumped as if the weight of your words had finally crushed him, the realization dawning painfully slow.

“I don’t remember the fights,” he said quietly, his tone almost childlike in its confusion. “The hurt, the divorce… I don’t remember any of it. All I know is what I feel now. And it feels real. It feels like I love you— No! I love you and I’ve always loved you.”

Your breath hitched, the raw vulnerability in his words cutting through you like a knife. You reached up, covering your mouth as a sob escaped.

“It’s not about what you remember,” you said, your voice trembling. “It’s about what we’ve both lived through. The pain, the betrayal, the breaking of something so beautiful—we can’t just erase that. We can’t rewrite the past, no matter how much we want to.”

His eyes filled with tears as he took a tentative step closer. “But Tulip…”

You shook your head, the motion small but resolute. “You might not remember the scars, but I do. They’re a part of me now. A part of us. And I— We can’t keep living in this unfair nostalgia, holding onto something that’s already gone.”

Mingi’s face crumpled, his tears finally spilling over as he stared at you, helpless. “So that’s it?” he whispered, his voice breaking. You looked at him for what felt like the last time, your gaze lingering on every detail of the man you once called your everything. His mole on his left cheek, the sharp bridge of his nose, the way his crescent-shaped eyes still managed to smile even through the tears..

Your hand reached out, trembling, to settle on his cheek. He leaned into your touch without hesitation, his eyes fluttering closed as though savoring the moment. Your breath caught in your throat, a lump of sorrow and love you couldn’t swallow.

Maybe untying the fragile, fraying knot that held together your broken strings would set you both free—free to be bound to something stronger, something whole.

“I’ll miss you, Min,” you whispered, your thumb catching some of his tears, the words so soft they almost dissolved into the air, but their weight carried the entirety of your heart. Mingi’s lips parted, his gaze snapping to yours, as though he wanted to protest, to hold you there with him forever. But no words came. He simply stood, frozen, as you turned away.

He watched you walk away, each step you took feeling like it carved pieces out of him. The silence between you was deafening, each footfall heavier than the last.

The words weren’t just a goodbye—they were a love letter to the life you had shared, the dreams you had built, the memories you would carry forever. The unfair nostalgia lingered in the air between you, thick and suffocating, a reminder of what once was and what could never be.

Again.

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