#I HAVE A WHOLE STORY PLANNED OUT FOR THIS

[thecchiiiiiiii]

Never Not by Lauv – “From the moment I loved I knew you were the one, and no matter what I do. I will never not think about you" (Megan Skiendel x reader)

Synopsis: Fans find everything no matter how much celebrities hide it. Unfortunately for Megan, they found you; her lover. 

Read Part II here

—☆ 

Megan Skiendel sits cross-legged on the carpeted floor of her dorm room in Seoul, knees pulled up to her chest, a soft lavender hoodie draping over her shoulders like a memory she can’t shake off.

Her phone balances on a stack of song notebooks. The ring light catches on the edge of her iris, turning her brown eyes into shallow pools of something softer than starlight.

Live: 32,923 viewers. Hearts: 1,002,744. Comments: spinning, spinning, spinning.

One million hearts blinking by the second. Her own reflection, slightly delayed. A girl the world thinks they know.

She is 19 now. A daughter of oceans, islands, small dorm rooms turned kingdoms. A girl who once doodled stars on a borrowed guitar and made someone promise to never erase them. A girl who loved so hard it left her ribcage cracked open, soft like the inside of a peach.

She is Megan Skiendel now. Megan Skiendel of Katseye. But in this hush between questions and laughter, she’s Mei again.

A notification pings at the top of the screen.

It’s an eyekon account, they’re called that now, these fans with detective hearts. They dug up a photo.

It’s not scandalous. It’s not even grainy with sin, the way the tabloids like. It’s just soft. Too soft. It’s you, arms looped around her neck, lips pressed to her temple. You’re sitting on a blanket, the Hawaiian sun so bright you have to squint at her.

It’s her favorite picture. She remembers the sound of the waves. She remembers how you kissed her hairline, so gentle, as if afraid your heart might burst.

Her heart always burst first.

It slides into focus: her, in a yellow sundress, in Honolulu sun that smells like salt and sunscreen and freedom. She’s kissing you. You, in your faded blue shirt, a guitar pick hanging from your neck like a secret. You, half her height when sitting but taller when you stand up straight, you with the grin that made her ruin every plan she had to keep her heart safe.

Megan laughs when she sees it. Not the sharp, practiced giggle for variety show— no, this is a sigh turned inside out.

“Oh…” she murmurs into her mic, the word blooming like a bruise.

She touches the corner of her screen, as if by pressing harder she could crawl inside that memory.

Megan swallows. The hearts keep climbing.

She’s on live. They’re watching her eyes dart back and forth. Her manager, maybe, will text soon: Ignore it. Deny it. Smile.

But she’s Megan Skiendel. And you— you are not a rumor she can shut off.

You are her whole goddamn life.

The comments explode. Who is that? Who’s the person? Is that your ex? Who took the photo? MEGAN??? YALL SHE’S SMILING WTF.

Megan tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. The dorm is warm— she pulls her knees closer.

Sophia’s door creaks open down the hall. Megan pretends she doesn’t hear it yet. She wants a moment alone with you again.

She’s careful. She’s always careful. But this is you.

So, she isn’t.

The chat erupts: Megan’s in love??? Look at her smile. Who are they??? HONOLULU??? MEI’S GONE GUYS.

She chuckles at that. Mei.

You called her Mei.

No one says it the way you do— gentle, like a promise you’d keep even if you had to drag your heart through saltwater.

She scrolls. Another photo. And another. A stitched collage now, her at a beach bonfire, you half asleep on her lap. You sitting cross-legged on her bedroom floor, guitar balanced on your thigh, Megan’s bare feet in the frame. A close-up of her doodles on the guitar body— stars, moons, a line that says: Be soft, Mei.

She swallows. Her eyes glitter but never break.

She taps her mic again, leans closer like she’s telling the whole world a secret they don’t deserve but she’ll give anyway.

“Can I tell you a story?”

She closes her eyes. Lets the tide pull her under.

Grade nine. Fourteen and terrified. Her mother’s voice echoing in the hallway. The smell of linoleum and sweaty sneakers. Megan, still just Megan then, scurrying through corridors, clutching her bag to her chest. The dance studio in the back of the building. Her second home. Her knees bruised blue, her elbows scraped raw.

And you—

You with your guitar by the staircase. The echo of nylon strings down concrete. You in your uniform shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair a little too long for school rules. You never looked at her first. You looked at your chords, at your notebook, at your shoes. But you felt her. Always. The way her eyes lingered too long.

The hallway always smelled like old floor polish and sun-warmed textbooks. And there you were, humming Lauv’s Paris in the Rain, fingers soft on the strings, not caring who watched.

She’d slow her steps at the last moment, hoping you’d look up.

You always did.

Eyes crinkled, grin easy. “Hey, Mei.”

Like it was the most obvious thing in the world that you’d be there, waiting for her orbit to collide with yours.

She tells them how she made excuses to hover by the railing. Refilling water. Changing shoes. Picking up a notebook she never dropped. Sometimes just standing there, pretending she forgot where she was supposed to be.

And you— you’d nod your head toward the empty step beside you. “Sit.”

A command disguised as an invitation. She always did.

She remembers how your thigh pressed warm against hers, how she’d rest her chin on her knees, just watching your hands move. How you’d glance at her every so often, as if you couldn’t believe she was real either.

She’s giggling now on live; palm pressed to her flushed cheek. “Oh my god, I was so obvious, guys! I really thought I was slick. Every time my dance teacher said, ‘Water break!’ I ran. Even if I wasn’t thirsty.”

She tells them about the day you finally looked up. How you caught her staring and smiled like it was the best thing that ever happened to you. She tells them how her knees went weak— not from dance practice but from the way you tilted your head and said, “Want to hear a song?”

She did. God, she always did.

She taps one at random: you in her childhood bedroom. The old floral curtains, the paper stars you both cut and taped to the ceiling. Her guitar— your guitar, really— resting by your knee.

You’re laughing in the video, voice muffled because you’re behind the camera this time.

Megan, fifteen, baby-faced, hair too long— sits cross-legged on the carpet, doodling tiny moons on the pickguard.

She glances up, nose scrunched. “You’re filming again?”

“Yeah,” you say. “This guitar’s gonna be worth millions when you become a star, Mei.”

She sticks her tongue out, goes back to drawing.

You laugh. The camera shakes. Then, your voice softer “Keep drawing. I want you all over it.”

She tells them about the first doodle.

How she grabbed a black Sharpie from her pencil case, made a single tiny star near the soundhole.

You raised an eyebrow; she bit her lip like she’d done something unforgivable. But you just smiled, tipped the guitar closer, and said, “Don’t stop there, Mei.”

So she didn’t.

She drew until your guitar became half hers— stars, lines, a moon with a tiny heart at the center. Every scratch a map back to you.

Sophia appears at her door. She’s in pajamas, hair up, teeth sunk into a lollipop. She peeks at Megan’s phone and arches a brow.

“Who are you talking about now?” Sophia says, plopping down beside her, peering into the camera with a sleepy grin.

“My Y/n,” Megan whispers, voice playful but soft.

Sophia freezes. Looks at the comments— sees the flood of hearts. She laughs, nudges Megan’s shoulder. “Should I stay?”

Megan nods. She wants someone here to ground her. Oh, she loves you too much.

She tells them about the night you asked her to be yours.

She remembers you were so nervous you almost dropped your guitar pick into your soda. You were in the school courtyard, after dance practice, the moon big enough to swallow the parking lot whole.

You waited for her like always — back pressed against the old tree that shed pink petals all over her bag every spring.

She remembers you looked up at the sky like you were asking it for courage.

She remembers your voice when you asked, “Mei, if you could pick a home, would it be a house or a person?”

She remembers blinking at you, confused. Then laughing. Then stopping when she saw your face.

She says on live: “I told them, ‘A person, duh. Who wants to live alone in a big house?’”

She giggles. Sophia’s hand finds hers, squeezes.

“And then they said… ‘Good. Pick me, then.’”

Sophia squeals. The comments go nuclear.

Megan hides her face behind her sleeve, eyes squeezed shut, but her smile leaks out. She’s so happy, you’d think this happened yesterday, not lifetimes ago.

There’s more. She tells them how you’d wait for her outside the dance studio door every night.

No matter how late— 9 PM, 11 PM, sometimes 1 AM. Your guitar always strapped to your back like a promise.

Sometimes you’d play softly until the door cracked open. Sometimes you’d be half asleep against the wall, head jerking up when she whispered, “Hey, Mei’s done now.”

She tells them about the nickname, how it used to be only her family’s.

How she hated when other people tried to say it, made her feel small, like a baby.

But when you said it "Mei" it felt like home. Like warmth pressed into her palm on a cold staircase.

No one else got to say it like that.

Katseye knows the name, so do the fans. But they don’t know it the way you did.

Sophia leans her head on Megan’s shoulder now. The dorm is quiet except for her voice and the hearts blinking by the thousands.

She scrolls again, another photo.

Megan’s hand tangled in your shirt. Her eyes closed, nose pressed to your jaw. You laughing into her neck like it’s the only place you want to exist.

Someone drops the photo again in the chat— the one that started it all. The blurry picnic. Megan’s lips curl into her palm. Her eyes glass over.

“That was… our first anniversary. We didn’t have money. We were kids. So they made sandwiches. Cut fruit. Borrowed a blanket from their mom. We went to the park. They played guitar, and I sang. We kissed a lot.” She giggles; cheeks bright pink. “Too much. The seagulls probably judged us.”

The live goes on.

Lara pops her head in. Then Dani. Then Manon, shrieking when she sees the old photos. Yoonchae joins last, hair wet from a shower, crawling right into Megan’s lap like a sleepy cat.

They listen like kids at a campfire, eyes wide, hearts big.

Megan feeds them every story, your guitar, your patience, your grin. The way you’d make her dance barefoot in your living room. The way you called her Mei when no one was listening, and Mei when everyone was.

Megan’s breath catches.

She flips to the link an eyekon sent, you in your bedroom, guitar propped on your thigh, a sticky note with her doodles stuck to the fretboard.

Your voice floats through the tinny phone speaker, soft, raw, cracked at the edges because you never cared for polish.

“Mei, this one’s for you. It’s not done yet. It’ll never be done if you keep distracting me.”

Off-camera, a muffled giggle, its hers. “Shut up and play.”

You strum. You sing. You mess up. You swear under your breath. She laughs again— god, she’s so young in this memory, and you start over.

She’s filming you. You keep glancing back, face flushed from laughing too hard. You toss her the guitar pick. She misses. You scoop it from the ground, tuck it into her pocket yourself.

“Keep it safe, Mei. I need it back when I forget how to play.”

She’d teased, “You’ll never forget.”

You’d smiled, just a little too sad for her to catch then. “Yeah. I guess I won’t.”

The live rolls past the two-hour mark, longer than Megan ever does.

Manon stands behind them, phone in hand, recording short clips for the group’s private album, because God, when will they ever see Megan like this again?

The chat scrolls too fast for Megan to keep up. Tell us more! What were they like? More stories! MEI PLSSSSS This is like a movie.

She giggles. Really giggles, eyes scrunching, nose wrinkled. “You want more? You’re not bored?”

Sophia pokes her side. “We’re not bored! This is better than Netflix. Keep going!”

So, she does.

She tells them about the time you stayed up all night helping her make flashcards for English class. How you lay on her bedroom floor, half-buried in stray papers, strumming your guitar between vocab drills.

How you’d make up songs for the words she kept forgetting, turning ‘benevolent’ into a goofy rhyme that made her fail the quiz anyway because she couldn’t stop laughing in the classroom.

Manon clutches her chest dramatically. “Stop! You two were disgusting!”

“Were?” Megan teases. She glances at the camera, her grin all teeth and secrets. “We are.”

The chat floods with heart emojis. Sophia smacks a pillow over her face to muffle a squeal.

Yoonchae twists around. “Megan, what about—” She pauses, nose scrunched. “You said once you had a box? Like… a box with their stuff?”

Megan’s eyes widen, bright with the thrill of letting them in deeper. “Oh! The box!”

She sets her phone down for a second, the live now at a slightly crooked angle, and crawls to her closet. Her knees knock over Sophia’s gummies. Lara yelps when the screen shows nothing but a blur of Megan’s hoodie. Your hoodie.

Then— a soft ah-ha! and she’s back, a shoebox hugged to her chest like it’s the most precious thing she owns.

The Katseye girls lean in like cats. The eyekons lose their minds. Megan’s box! MEI’S BOX! What’s in it?? SHOW US!

She cracks the lid open, holding it so the camera sees too.

Inside: — Your guitar pick, worn at the tip. — A folded napkin from the diner you both always escaped to after classes, your silly doodle of her with big cartoon eyes and her writing STOP next to it in all caps. — A tiny keychain, a sea turtle, faded from being on her bag for a year before the managers asked her to remove it. — A piece of paper, a ripped notebook corner, her messy handwriting: I love you, dummy. And under it, yours: I love you more, Mei.

— A tiny bottle of sand from that beach. — A photo, the same picnic shot that started all this. You and her kissing, laughing, half a strawberry caught between your lips because you’d tried to feed it to each other at the same time.

Sophia gasps. “Is that the strawberry one?!”

Megan giggles. “Yeah. They almost choked. I had to hit their back so they’d spit it out.”

She sighs, dreamy, looking at the picture like she wants to crawl inside. “But it was cute. We laughed so hard. My mom yelled at us for coming home with strawberry stains all over my skirt.”

Yoonchae’s voice is soft, awed. “What the heck, you really kept all this?”

“Of course.” Megan’s answer is immediate, fierce in the gentlest way.

Sophia’s eyes glisten. “You’re gonna make me cry, you idiot.”

Dani, now at Megan’s feet, head dropping onto her lap. “More stories,” she demands. “One more.”

Megan hums, brushing Dani’s hair back with absent fingers.

“Oh… the aquarium date,” she says suddenly, like the word alone tastes sweet. “Did I tell you that part yet?”

Lara squeals. “Not all of it!”

The chat spams AQUARIUM AQUARIUM AQUARIUM.

Manon claps her hands like a seal. “GO ON! We need the details!”

So, Megan closes her eyes, head tipping back against her pillow, lashes fluttering against her cheeks. When she speaks, it’s like she’s there again, you warm behind her, blue jellyfish pulsing in the dark.

“You know when you’re so happy you feel like you might cry, but you don’t because if you do it’ll ruin it? That was the aquarium,” Megan whispers, voice hushed like a bedtime story.

“We went on this bus— their guitar case kept hitting people’s knees, so they made me hold it on my lap the whole ride. I was so embarrassed, but they just laughed. Said, ‘It’s our baby, Mei. Be gentle.’”

Sophia makes a strangled noise. Yoonchae squeaks. Lara covers her mouth. The chat is just: 😭😭😭😭

Megan goes on, softer now, more dream than memory.

“They planned it all. They packed snacks in their backpack. That disgusting tuna mayo sandwich we still ate, a juice box for me, water for them. They even brought my favorite candy. We ate it sitting by the big tank— you know, the one where the stingrays swim right up to the glass?”

She pauses, blinking. She can feel you there, how you sat behind her, arms around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder.

“They said, ‘When we’re old, we’ll come back here. You’ll have your fancy world tours, but we’ll come here. Just us. Watch fish. Kiss behind the big tank like weirdos.’”

Manon slaps Sophia’s knee so hard the bag of gummies explodes. Lara shrieks. Dani covers her face.

Yoonchae mumbles, half-laughing: “This is like a drama. This is better than any drama.”

Megan opens her eyes, breathes out a laugh that breaks at the edges.

She looks at the camera, all those hearts, all those strangers, and says it like she’s saying it to you: “It was the happiest I’ve ever been.”

Sophia wraps her arms around Megan’s waist. Manon squeezes her knee. Dani’s hand curls around her ankle, warm and grounding. Yoonchae nuzzles her shoulder like a sleepy cat. Lara just sighs, dreamy, the way you do when you see the moon and wish you could pocket it.

And in that soft hush, Megan whispers into her mic, like a confession no one really catches: “I think I’d do it all over again. Even if I knew how it would end. I’d love them exactly the same.”

And then someone asks: Are you two still together?

She inhales. Let the lie taste sweet on her tongue, the only way it ever could be.

“Yes,” Megan says. “We’re together.”

Sophia blinks. Once, twice, and leans closer, hand sliding over Megan’s. She squeezes, saying nothing. The others stay silent too, no one wants to break the spell.

The chat explodes: YESSS NEVER BREAK UP HAPPIEST LOVE EVER PROTECT THIS LOVE THANK YOU MEI

Megan smiles so wide her jaw aches.

She lifts a hand. Waves.

“I love you guys. Goodnight, eyekons. Sleep well, okay?”

And just like that— the live ends.

She crawls under her covers that night, phone pressed to her chest, eyes bright even in the dark.

She opens your last message, the one she can’t delete. I love you, Mei, so muchhh. Like more than my guitar. I love you.

Her breath catches. She taps her screen, scrolls to Twitter, finds the post that asks: Is that really their account? The guitar videos? The old songs?

Fans think they know the ending.

They think they know heartbreak.

They think they know how to read between lines.

They don’t.

When they ask if you’re still together, they think it’s gossip. A headline. A scandal.

But for her— it’s church. It’s holy.

So, she types. "It’s theirs".

She writes. "But now it’s been mine more than theirs ever since they were gone."

[khb-writes]

So I have a couple of anecdotes to add to this

My second year at uni one of my courses was engineering ethics or ethical engineering, something like that. It was honestly a weird course, it didn't really discuss ethics anywhere near as much as you would think from the title.

It was only one class a week but that took about 3 hours

We were split into groups of 3 and told to each research 3 engineering disasters

Then the class after next each group would come up and talk about one disaster each (there was a guest speaker the week in between)

But you couldn't talk about something twice

I had fully forgotten about this task

My group was second or third, we weren't meant to talk for very long 20 minutes, maybe half an hour, for the whole group

Things like the titanic or the smiler rollercoaster crash came up fairly quickly (though one of my group persuaded the lecturer that they were talking about a different issue in regards to the titanic, so that came up twice)

I had come up with some ideas when the task was set but had just fully forgotten to do anything further

One of my ideas hadn't come up and no one in my group planned to talk about it (we had talked briefly before class started)

We weren't meant to have phones out during class and we weren't allowed to have laptops open while the presentations were going on

It was a weird classroom, designed to easily allow separation into groups and most of the seats (and beanbags) moved easily

So my group sat somewhere that mostly hid me from the lecturer and I quickly read over the Wikipedia page for my more obscure idea (the molasses flood/massacre)

I don't remember exactly how this was graded but I BS'd well enough that no one called me on it and I answered the questions asked of me.

My other story is from when I was in my last year of secondary school (so about 15/16)

I had missed a few days of school due to illness including a physics lesson

In that lesson the class had been told that there was a test the next class

This was my first day back and physics was the first lesson

For all my secondary school was tiny (less than 20 students in my year) we still had multiple classes running at once and all my friends were in a different class

I wasn't really close with the others in my physics class and I don't know whether they intentionally didn't tell me about the test or just didn't think to

But afterwards I realised they were all trying to cram for the test in the time between arriving/the start of school and the first class (it was technically homeroom or something like that but year 11s had a space just for them so we were allowed to just spend the 15-20 minutes there and our tutor would come up if there was anything they needed to tell us)

I hadn't spent the morning cramming, I also hadn't done any structured revision over the weekend before that

I walked into the class and was completely unprepared for a test, it was mostly shorter answer questions with one longer question worth 6 marks where you were meant to write a couple of paragraphs

I got one of the highest marks and the highest mark on the 6 point question (I dropped a mark as I described the thing but forgot the specific term for it and the mark scheme was very specific)

If I had known to revise I most likely would have remembered what the term was (induction if you are curious) but because I was able to just write down enough detail I still got all but that mark (iirc I also dropped some marks due to math errors on other questions, accidentally dropping a negative sign, things like that)

Whenever I think about students using AI, I think about an essay I did in high school. Now see, we were reading The Grapes of Wrath, and I just couldn't do it. I got 25 pages in and my brain refused to read any more. I hated it. And its not like I hate the classics, I loved English class and I loved reading. I had even enjoyed Of Mice and Men, which I had read for fun. For some reason though, I absolutely could NOT read The Grapes of Wrath.

And it turned out I also couldn't watch the movie. I fell asleep in class both days we were watching it.

This, of course, meant I had to cheat on my essay.

And I got an A.

The essay was to compare the book and the movie and discuss the changes and how that affected the story.

Well it turned out Sparknotes had an entire section devoted to comparing and contrasting the book and the movie. Using that, and flipping to pages mentioned in Sparknotes to read sections of the book, I was able to bullshit an A paper.

But see the thing is, that this kind of 'cheating' still takes skills, you still learn things.

I had to know how to find the information I needed, I needed to be able to comprehend what sparknotes was saying and the analysis they did, I needed to know how to USE the information I read there to write an essay, I needed to know how to make sure none of it was marked as plagerized. I had to form an opinion on the sparknotes analysis so I could express my own opinions in the essay.

Was it cheating? Yeah, I didn't read the book or watch the movie. I used Sparknotes. It was a lot less work than if I had read the book and watched the movie and done it all myself.

The thing is though, I still had to use my fucking brain. Being able to bullshit an essay like that is a skill in and of itself that is useful. I exercised important skills, and even if it wasnt the intended way I still learned.

ChatGTP and other AI do not give that experience to people, people have to do nothing and gain nothing from it.

Using AI is absolutely different from other ways students have cheated in the past, and I stand by my opinion that its making students dumber, more helpless, and less capable.

However you feel about higher education, I think its undeniable that students using chatgtp is to their detriment. And by extension a detriment to anyone they work with or anyone who has to rely on them for something.

[julietsf1]

The Girl From APM - Arthur Leclerc x Reader

summary: They met at a gala. He was rude, she was done. It should’ve ended there. But the universe — and Charles Leclerc — had other plans (10.8k words)

content: slow-burn, mutual pining, enemies to friends to lovers, a little tequila, a little lime, a lot of longing

AN: hi angels! sorry for my long disappearance! I've moved to a new apartment which I am so happy about!! lots of arrangements but now finally some time for myself again :) something different today as I saw Arthur Leclerc in front of the carrefour the other week and he looked ridiculously fine IRL oh my daaays!! also got a Charles, Lando and some other non F1 stories coming this week as well! LOVE YALL

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You are not from Monaco.

Not really.

Not in the sense that the locals are, born sun-kissed and fluent in four languages by the age of ten, moving through designer storefronts like it's church, and treating royalty like old classmates. But you're learning. Quickly. And you like to think you're not doing too badly.

It's been three months since you moved.

Three months since you folded yourself into this silken, surreal world like a note into an envelope, signing your new life with a hopeful little flourish.

And today, in particular, feels like a small reward. A golden ribbon of a day, stretching long and sun-soaked across the Riviera, where even the breeze feels curated. You walk along the harbor with Charles, a cone of hazelnut gelato in one hand and your sandals clicking softly along the cobblestones.

He’s already halfway through his second scoop. Some ridiculous mix of lemon and mango because “the sourness balances the sweet,” he claims, although he’s been grimacing through every bite.

“You’re so stubborn,” you laugh.

“And yet,” he says, dramatically licking the edge of the dripping gelato, “I persevere.”

You roll your eyes. “A true hero.”

Charles is easy company. Like a well-worn paperback -- familiar and beloved and a little bent at the edges. You met him during your second week at APM Monaco, at a luncheon for some of the brand’s key ambassadors, where he arrived late, still in race gear, and charmingly out of breath.

He’d called you la gentille tornade, the sweet tornado, after watching you glide between VIPs with an easy grace, all warm smiles and soft-spoken French.

Since then, he’s been something of a big brother. Always checking in, always offering advice. You don’t have many people like that here yet, and you treasure it.

You pause at the edge of the dock to admire a passing yacht. Charles follows your gaze.

“She’s beautiful, no?” he says, gesturing to the boat. But then, after a beat: “My brother would probably say it’s too flashy.”

You glance at him. “You have a brother?”

He gives a small, lopsided smile. “Arthur. Younger. Taller. More moody.”

You laugh. “Oh, I think I saw something about that! Isn’t he joining APM too?”

Charles nods, but it’s subtle. A flicker of something crosses his face -- hard to catch unless you're looking for it. You are.

You tilt your head. “Is he also a driver, like you?”

And there it is. The pause. Not long, but long enough to feel it. The briefest stiffening of posture, the slight narrowing of eyes.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice lighter than it was a second ago. “He is.”

You don’t press. You never do. Your whole life you’ve been the kind of person people tell things to without realizing they’ve said too much which means you’ve also learned when not to ask.

So instead, you offer a bright smile and lick your gelato. “Well, I hope he likes French television galas.”

Charles snorts. “That's this week already isn't it?”

You nod. “He’ll probably be invited too, I guess. All ambassadors are getting a table.”

“God help us,” he mutters. “He’s going to sulk the whole night in a tux.”

You giggle. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He groans. “You don’t know him yet.”

You twirl a little, letting the breeze catch your sundress. “Well, maybe he’ll surprise us. What are you wearing to the gala, by the way?”

Charles raises his eyebrows. “Just a simple suit. Don’t tell me you’re going full couture.”

“I work in luxury,” you reply primly. “It’s in my contract.”

“I thought your contract just said smile at clients and drink too much champagne.”

You grin. “Pretty much.”

He bumps his shoulder against yours. “You’re the luckiest person in the world.”

You finish your gelato as the sun dips lower, casting gold over the water. There’s a peace to the air here, a kind of easy stillness that only exists on slow afternoons like this, when the world feels soft-edged and almost generous.

…

The dress is Elie Saab. Midnight blue. A scatter of beadwork like constellations across sheer tulle, with a neckline that dips just enough to whisper without shouting. The kind of dress that makes strangers glance twice and women in PR nod approvingly. The kind that cinches in the waist like a secret and makes you feel — for a fleeting, flickering second — like maybe you do belong in Monaco after all.

Your driver arrives five minutes early. Jean-Luc, middle-aged, always a little bit too serious, but you like that about him. There’s comfort in people who take their jobs seriously, and tonight, you need all the comfort you can get.

“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle,” he says, opening the car door for you. You thank him softly and slide in, smoothing the gown beneath you.

The ride is quiet. The kind of silence that isn’t awkward but anticipatory. The city lit up like a necklace around the coast, winding through the dark like something from a perfume ad.

When the car pulls up in front of the venue, the light hits just right. You step out into a scatter of flashbulbs, mostly aimed at others but catching you in the corners. You smile anyway. Graceful. Understated. A little shimmer of mystery.

Charles is already there. Of course he is. He’s standing by the APM table with Alexandra, radiant in something silver and backless, and laughing with a group of other ambassadors.

“Regarde qui voilà,” he says, eyes lighting up when he sees you. “Our princess has arrived.”

You curtsy dramatically, making Alexandra laugh.

“You look stunning,” she says, kissing both your cheeks.

“As do you,” you reply, and you mean it.

You greet the rest of the table, dipping in and out of conversations like a practiced hostess. You love these nights, honestly — they remind you of everything you used to dream about when you were still living in that cramped flat in Paris, watching gala footage online while eating toast for dinner.

One of your favorite clients is seated just a few tables down: an older Parisian woman who buys sapphires like they’re candy. You excuse yourself to go say hello, gliding through the crowd with a flute of champagne in hand, keeping your smile ready and your laughter soft.

You stay longer than expected. There’s a warmth to her company. A sort of familiar flamboyance, like an aunt who gives you perfume samples and life advice in the same breath. You lose track of time.

Until—

You return to the APM table. And someone is in your seat.

You blink. Politely, of course.

He’stall, for one.

Sharp jawline. Crisp tux. An expression like he’s only half-paying attention and prefers it that way. You recognize the slope of the nose. The shape of the mouth. There’s a similarity, undeniably.

Arthur.

You step a little closer, voice gentle. “Excuse me! Sorry! I think that was my seat, is it okay if I sit here again?”

He doesn’t look up immediately. And when he does, it’s slow. Deliberate. His eyes are cool, unreadable.

“There’s no place card,” he says.

You blink. “No, but it is actually assigned though! I work for APM—”

“It’s a table,” he says mildly. “Not a throne.”

Oh.

Okay.

You offer a smile, the kind that’s more teeth than warmth. “Noted. Still, I was sitting there before.”

He sighs. Not dramatically. Just enough to let you know he’s annoyed. And then, finally, moves one chair over without a word.

You sit. Slowly. Delicately. Like you’re lowering yourself into enemy territory. The air between you has cooled by several degrees.

Charles leans forward from across the table, smirking. “Ah. So you’ve met.”

“Briefly,” you say, sipping your champagne.

Arthur doesn't answer. He’s watching the stage.

Charles nudges him. “This is the one I told you about. Client development. The really nice one.”

Arthur lifts an eyebrow. Barely. “She seems charming.”

You shoot him a look. “And you seem delightful.”

Charles groans. “Please, please don’t fight at the gala.”

“No promises,” you mutter.

The evening continues; speeches, awards, slow rounds of applause. The food is forgettable, the wine isn’t. You spend most of dinner catching up with Alexandra, who leans in at some point and whispers, “He’s not usually like that, you know.”

You raise a brow. “Then how is he usually?”

She grins. “More grumpy.”

Still, Arthur is not all bad. At one point, he notices your champagne glass is empty and gestures for the waiter.

“One for her too,” he says, then turns back to the stage.

It’s not much. But it’s something.

Later, when the evening winds down and people begin trickling out in glittering clusters, you excuse yourself to head outside. Your driver is already waiting.

The stairs down from the venue are steep, carved stone and poor lighting, and just as your heel catches on the hem of your dress, a hand reaches out.

“Careful.”

You glance up.

Arthur. Holding out a hand. No expression on his face. Just… offering.

You hesitate. Then place your hand in his.

It’s warm. Steady. A little rough around the edges. He helps you down slowly, not saying a word. At the bottom, he releases your hand like it’s made of glass.

You glance at him. “Thank you.”

He nods once.

You open your mouth to say more — something witty, maybe, or kind — but he’s already turning away, adjusting the cuff of his shirt, retreating like the tide.

…

The morning is bright in that peculiar Monaco way; the sky a soft wash of powder blue, the sea glittering like a lie, and everything else too lovely to be taken seriously. You arrive at the photoshoot early, as always, with a coffee in one hand and your phone buzzing in the other.

The terrace has been cleared for the session. White parasols bloom above wicker lounge sets. There are racks of jewelry glinting under diffused light, chilled Perrier lining a tray, and two stylists already fussing over the set like worried mothers.

Charles, of course, is late. But Antoine is not.

He greets you with his usual sleepy grin, camera slung low around his neck. “How’s my favoritte manager? Woke up early to see us shoot your content?”

You smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Such a nice idea of you guys to do some more organic promotions! Your pictures of Charles are always so good.”

“You should join us more often! Charles never praises me like this.”

You tilt your head. “Are you trying to flatter me into staying?”

Antoine shrugs. “A little.”

You laugh, taking a long sip from your coffee. “Tempting.”

By the time Charles arrives, you’ve already reviewed the lighting setup and briefed Antoine about the key pieces from the collection. He waltzes in wearing linen and sunglasses, croissant in one hand, coffee in the other.

“Did I miss anything?”

“Just catching up with Toine,” you say.

He kisses your cheek in greeting, then collapses into a lounge chair with the sort of theatrical sigh only Charles Leclerc can get away with.

“So lovely to meet your brother the other night by the way,” you say after a beat, adjusting a necklace on the velvet bust.

Charles stills. “He was a bit rude, wasn’t he?”

“Mmhmm.”

He grimaces. “I’m sorry. He’s…” he trails off, looking for a word that doesn’t sound like a pain in the ass.

“…Complex?” you offer.

He smiles faintly. “Let’s go with that.”

“I’m sure he’s lovely once he warms up. If he ever does.”

Charles sits forward. “He’s just used to people liking him for the wrong reasons. Or not at all. I think… sometimes he assumes the worst before giving people a chance.”

You blink at him. “Do I seem like someone who judges people by their last name?”

“Not at all,” he says. “But he is a bit stupid sometimes.”

You smile, touched. “Well, I’m just happy there’s at least one very lovely Leclerc brother in my life.”

“Two,” Antoine calls from across the terrace without missing a beat. “Lorenzo’s a gem.”

You laugh, lifting your hands in surrender. “I haven’t met him yet! Can’t say.”

Charles looks up, grinning. “You’re not wrong though. I am the best one.”

“Maybe you should just redo the meet with Arthur, that would be fun, right?” Antoine says enthusiastically, eyes flickering between you and Charles. 

And then — you feel it. That shift in the air. That strange, almost cinematic pause.

Charles is smiling too much.

That’s your first clue.

He does it subtly — the kind of smile people give when they’re pretending something isn’t happening. You’ve seen that smile on hosts who know the risotto has been burnt but insist dinner is going beautifully.

And then there’s Antoine. Who doesn’t bother to pretend at all. He’s grinning like the cat that got the cream, the keys to the penthouse, and your credit card.

You shift your weight. Slowly.

“What,” you say cautiously, “did you two do?”

Charles lifts his coffee cup to his lips in what can only be described as an evasive maneuver. Antoine lifts both hands like he’s been falsely accused. The tension stretches like ribbon between them.

You narrow your eyes. “Tell me you did not.”

“Did not what?” Charles says quickly, which is the exact phrase guilty people use before fleeing a crime scene.

Antoine, for his part, is clearly enjoying himself far too much. “We merely said it would be a shame if two elegant people who enjoy good conversation and moonlight walks never… ran into each other.”

You stare at him. “That’s oddly specific.”

Charles winces. “Okay, fine. Maybe I mentioned to Arthur that we were shooting here today.”

You blink. “Mentioned.”

“Yes.”

Antoine chimes in. “And maybe you said he should stop by here too.”

Charles shrugs. “Only in passing.”

“In passing,” you repeat. “You passingly mentioned that we be at a private terrace photoshoot. At eight in the morning. Picking out your couture jewelry and he should join?”

Antoine snorts. “It was a strong passing.”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Charles.”

“You liked him,” Charles says defensively.

“I did not!” you protest.

“Not yet,” he insists. “But I’m sure you will.”

“I barely spoke to him at the gala—”

“That’s why this is such a good idea,” Charles says breezily.

You spin to Antoine. “You helped him with this?”

Antoine shrugs. “Charles offered me Beef Bar take away tonight. I fold like a deck chair.”

You cross your arms. “We have work to do. I planned a whole shoot for you just to turn it into a trap.”

“It’s not a trap,” Charles says, alarmed. “It’s… a casual, unsuspicious opportunity to let things unfold naturally.”

“In the most unnatural way possible.”

And then, like prophecy made inconveniently real, you hear it.

A car door slamming shut. Two sets of steps — slow and distinct — approaching along the stone path behind the terrace.

Your heart sinks. You freeze like someone who just remembered they left the stove on.

“Tell me that’s not him,” you whisper.

Charles whistles innocently. Antoine lifts his camera, as if preparing for a wildlife documentary.

You turn. And there he is.

He steps onto the terrace like the sunlight isn’t something that applies to him. Olive green shirt, jaw set, keys still twirling in his fingers — and when his eyes land on you, his whole body seems to stiffen by one barely perceptible degree.

You cross your arms. Instinctively.

He stops just short of the seating area and frowns, first at you, then at Charles.

“You said you needed a lift.”

“I do,” Charles says, too quickly. “I mean—I did. But I forgot we still had a few more looks to shoot.”

Arthur’s brows inch up. “You forgot?”

“Yeah,” Charles says, glancing nervously at Antoine. “A couple more shots. The bracelets. And… the rings.”

Arthur blinks. Slowly. Then turns toward Antoine, who is pretending to adjust a reflector with the same commitment an actor gives to dying onstage.

You glance between them, narrowing your eyes. “Wait.”

Charles smiles too brightly. “Since we’re shooting a bit longer, and you’re already here, I thought maybe you could take her home.”

You whip around. “Excuse me?”

“It’s on his way!” Charles says, holding up his hands like a peace offering. “She lives five minutes from you.”

Arthur lets out a breath. “You could’ve just told me this was a setup.”

“It’s not a setup,” Charles insists.

Antoine mutters, “It’s a light suggestion with automotive implications.”

You turn to Arthur. “I can call a driver.”

“I’m already here,” he says, tone unreadable.

You bristle. “Well, don’t sound too enthusiastic.”

“I’m not,” he replies.

You grab your bag a little harder than necessary. “Great.”

“Perfect,” he mutters, turning back toward the stairs without waiting.

You follow, jaw tight, trying not to stomp like a child. Behind you, Charles calls out, “Have fun!” and you resist the urge to flip him off with the delicate hand that wears your nicest APM ring.

Arthur doesn’t speak as he opens the car door for you. It’s the bare minimum of politeness, performed with the detached energy of someone passing a stranger a napkin at a café.

You slide into the passenger seat and stare straight ahead, arms crossed.

He gets in. Adjusts the mirrors even though they’re already perfect. Puts the car into drive. Doesn’t look at you.

After a minute of tense silence: “You weren’t supposed to be there,” he says.

You scoff. “Yeah, I got that vibe.”

“I mean it. I didn’t know.”

“Neither did I, apparently,” you mutter, glancing out the window. “Charles has been watching too many movies again.”

Arthur huffs. “He thinks he’s subtle.”

“He’s really not.”

Silence settles between you again, heavier this time. There’s something coiled in the air — not quite anger, but irritation layered over misunderstanding. Like both of you are reacting to ghosts that haven���t been properly introduced.

You sigh. “Look, if this is awkward, we can just not talk.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” he replies.

You turn your head sharply. “Wow. Okay.”

He glances at you, then back at the road. “I meant—I just don’t have anything to say.”

“You’re so fun.”

He presses his lips together. “Maybe I don’t enjoy small talk.”

“Maybe you don’t enjoy people.”

He says nothing. Just changes gears. Smoothly. Cleanly. As if he’s already learned how to move through life without needing to explain himself.

And maybe that’s what annoys you most.

That you can’t read him.

That he doesn’t let you.

Because usually, you can. You’ve made a career out of reading people. Clients, guests, partners, hosts, you always know how to tilt a smile, how to offer the right word at the right time, how to sense what people need before they realize they need it.

But Arthur?

Arthur is a locked door in a hallway you didn’t ask to walk down.

Eventually, the silence breaks. Not out of comfort. But because you can’t help yourself.

“I do admire how you hold the door for me,” you say, watching the streetlights blur against the glass. “And helped me down the stairs the other night. Very gentlemanly of someone who seems to actively despise me.”

He exhales, contained. Like someone who’s learned to speak carefully, if at all.

“I’ve had time to practice,” he says after a moment. “When you’re the one people don’t expect anything from, you get good at the quiet stuff.”

You blink, turning your head. “Is that how you see it?”

He shrugs. Too casually. Like he’s tossing the comment into the air just to get rid of it.

“You’re friends with Charles,” he says. “That’s usually enough for people to assume they know me.”

You snort softly. “Right. Because God forbid anyone come near you without making it about your last name.”

He doesn’t answer. Just shifts into second gear and keeps his eyes on the road.

You glance out the window again, but your voice comes without thinking:

“You’re not Charles’s brother to me, Arthur.”

He glances sideways. Not fully, just a flick of his eyes. “No?”

“No,” you say, crossing your arms. “You’re just kind of an asshole.”

That lands. A beat of quiet — and then, he laughs. Low, warm, and involuntary. It slips out before he can catch it, and you glance at him just in time to see it settle into the corner of his mouth like a secret he didn’t mean to tell.

“Fair enough,” he says.

The tension shifts. Doesn’t vanish but bends slightly, like metal held too long in a flame.

He pulls up to your building, parking neatly along the curb without asking if this is the right place. It is.

Neither of you moves for a second.

Then he reaches for your bag, already handing it over before you ask.

You pause with your fingers curled around the strap. “Thanks.”

“For the ride?” he asks, dry.

“For not letting me fall on my face in heels the other night.” You tilt your head. “Could’ve let me suffer.”

He glances at you finally, and there’s a flicker of something behind his expression. 

“Tempting,” he says.

You open the door. The hinge creaks faintly. Neither of you moves to say anything more.

Then, because silence never quite agrees with you, you glance over your shoulder, one foot already on the pavement.

“Enjoy the rest of your morning, Arthur.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just rests one hand on the wheel, elbow on the door frame, like he’s somewhere else entirely.

Then: “Sure.”

You close the door behind you.

And that’s it. No smile. No wave. No friendly nod.

Just an unremarkable end to a remarkably strange drive with a man who, for all his detachment, still reached for your bag before you could.

As you head up the steps to your apartment, heels tapping against the stone, you wonder if maybe you were wrong.

Maybe he doesn’t despise you.

Maybe he just hasn’t made up his mind yet.

…

You don’t date.

Not because you’re emotionally unavailable or jaded or secretly in love with a long-lost childhood best friend. You’re just... busy. And good at being on your own. And, if you’re being honest, not particularly enchanted by the idea of someone mispronouncing your name over Negronis while bragging about their portfolio.

But people, friends, colleagues, your mother on every single phone call, keep insisting that the right person isn’t going to climb through your window like a Disney prince. That you have to put yourself out there. Try. Meet someone.

So, you said yes. To Maxime.

Maxime, who had nice enough shoes and a passable smile and worked in logistics, which sounded tolerable at the time.

You arrive at Maison Gigi five minutes early, because old habits die hard. You’re wearing your just in case he’s actually nice dress — a black silk wrap that dips a little at the back and makes your arms look excellent — and a pair of earrings that glitter like they’re pretending not to be expensive.

Maxime is late.

By eight minutes. And then three more.

When he arrives, he kisses both your cheeks too quickly and sits without pulling out your chair.

You make a mental note.

“You’re prettier than your photos,” he says as he folds his napkin. “Don’t see that very often anymore.”

You smile. “Thanks. I guess.”

He grins, unaware it was a jab.

You order sparkling water. He gets a Gin & Tonic and spends five whole minutes describing how the one at Cipriani was better.

By the time the bread arrives, he’s asked how many serious relationships you’ve had, whether you live alone, and if you’ve ever considered getting lip filler “just to define the Cupid’s bow.”

You drink your water and pretend it’s vodka.

Halfway through your seabass, you glance toward the terrace, thinking it might be a good time to fake a phone call. Or a family emergency. Or sudden food poisoning. Anything, really.

That’s when you see him.

Arthur Leclerc.

He walks onto the terrace with that signature, infuriating grace — linnen button up, one hand in his pocket, the other casually gripping a bouquet of pale roses and eucalyptus. As if he just robbed the most angelic florist.

He’s speaking to the hostess. Then he sees you.

And he stops.

Not completely. Just long enough for the pause to say something. His eyes meet yours — and something flickers in them. Recognition, amusement, something a little mean.

He laughs — just once, low and brief — then follows the hostess to the empty table directly beside yours.

“Well, well.”

You blink slowly. “Of course it’s you.”

His mouth curves. “Don’t sound so excited.”

“I’m not.”

“I can tell.” He scans the table. “Date night?”

Maxime shifts on the opposite side of the table. “Who’s that?”

You take a sip of your water. “An acquaintance.”

Arthur’s date appears behind him: tall, lean, slick-backed ponytail and an expression like she’s been forced to attend a work function. She slides into her chair and pulls out her phone before even glancing at the menu.

Arthur doesn’t sit. He lingers beside the table for a second longer, eyes still on you. Then, with all the subtlety of a man setting a trap he wants you to see, he turns to the waitress and says—

“Actually, would it be possible to join the tables?”

You blink. “Sorry?”

He gestures between the two setups, eyes wide with mock innocence. “They’re practically touching already. Might as well make it official.”

“Are you serious?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

You open your mouth. Close it again.

Maxime offers a short shrug. “Sure. I don’t mind.”

Of course he doesn’t.

The waitress hesitates, then starts dragging the tables together with a smile and the weary efficiency of someone who has seen far weirder things in Monaco.

Arthur sits beside you. Not opposite, not across — beside. Close enough that your chairs nudge. Close enough that you can smell something crisp and faintly woody on him.

You don’t look at him.

“Nice dress,” he says, after a moment.

You cut him a glance. “Is that condescension or charity?”

He tilts his head. “You really don’t accept compliments well.”

“I accept them fine. Just not when they’re served with smugness.”

He smirks and leans back, arm resting along the edge of his chair. Which now overlaps yours.

You see Maxime straighten across you.

“So you two… know each other?”

Arthur answers for you. “Hardly.”

You hum. “Wish it was even less.”

Arthur presses his lips together, amused.

His date is now scrolling Instagram with one finger and sipping her wine without ever making eye contact with anyone. She looks stunning. And entirely uninterested.

Arthur notices. He glances at the untouched bouquet on their table. Then, with all the lazy elegance of someone who’s about to do something both thoughtful and infuriating, he reaches for it — gently plucking a single red rose from the center.

And without asking, without a word, he places it beside your plate.

You stare at it.

Then at him.

Then back at the rose.

Arthur leans slightly toward Maxime and says, tone light, “You didn’t bring her flowers?”

Maxime blinks. “It’s just a first date.”

Arthur hums. “All the more reason for a good first impression.”

You exhale through your nose. “Is this part of a new strategy to get under my skin?”

“No,” Arthur replies, shrugging. “That was just a fun bonus.”

You glance at the rose again. It’s fresh. Soft petals, still slightly closed. A perfect center.

You don’t pick it up. But you don’t move it away either.

For a while, the four of you sit like that. The world presses on: waiters weaving through tables, the low hum of live music drifting in from the bar, ice clinking in highball glasses.

Eventually, the noise at the table dips — Maxime focused on his steak, Arthur not filling the space for once.

You’re picking at what’s left of your main when Arthur shifts slightly beside you, elbow brushing the edge of your chair.

“How’s the date?” he says, just low enough that only you can hear.

You glance over. His expression isn’t smug now — just neutral. Curious, maybe.

You shrug. “Not the worst night of my life.”

He softly smiles. “That’s encouraging.”

You smile, despite yourself. “How’s yours?”

Arthur glances at his date, who’s now checking her watch while sipping her wine like it’s her third choice that day.

“Uneventful,” he says.

And then, quietly: “Could be worse.”

You nod once. “Well. At least the food’s good.”

Arthur glances at your plate. “You barely touched it.”

“Appetite died somewhere between 'what's your shoe size' and the phrase ‘how many bed partners have you had.’”

That earns a quiet snort from him.

At the far end of the table, Maxime is now leaning toward Arthur’s date, gesturing with a little too much confidence as he launches into a new topic — something about investment ratios. The blonde is making polite noises, phone finally tucked away, her expression fixed into a smooth, unreadable mask.

Arthur follows your gaze. “They seem to be enjoying themselves.”

You hum. “Maybe we should let them have the rest of the night.”

He arches a brow. “Don’t tempt me.”

You let the comment settle.

A beat passes — not awkward, but unexpected. Neither of you is trying, and that’s what makes it disarming. The sharpness between you has dulled a little. Or maybe it’s just shifted — honed into something quieter, subtler, less performative.

You glance at him sideways. “I thought you didn’t do small talk.”

“I don’t.”

“So what’s this, then?”

Arthur sips his wine. “Unavoidable.”

You exhale a soft laugh.

He doesn’t look at you, not directly. He just keeps that lazy posture, arm draped over the back of his chair, fingertips grazing the space near your shoulder.

“Anyway,” he adds, “I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.”

You pause. “The rose?”

He nods once.

You look at it, still resting beside your plate, velvety and deep red and slightly tilted in your direction, like it’s been watching this conversation unfold with quiet amusement.

“I know,” you say.

Another pause.

“It's kind of sweet,” you add.

Arthur’s gaze flicks to you. Just briefly. But it lingers a half-second longer than it should.

Your water glass is empty. He notices. Doesn’t comment, but reaches toward the nearby jug and refills it halfway before settling back again.

Across from him, his date lets out a gentle, slightly rehearsed laugh at something Maxime has said. She adjusts the strap of her dress and leans in.

Arthur doesn’t seem to notice.

“Not exactly how I thought this dinner would go,” you murmur.

“That makes two of us.”

You glance down at your napkin, smoothing it with your fingers.

He shifts. “You heading home soon?”

You nod. “Probably.”

“I’ll walk you out.”

You blink. “Oh?”

He doesn’t explain. Just pushes his chair back and glances down at you, hand reaching toward the back of your chair.

You hesitate for a second, but he’s already moving — fingers brushing the curve of the seat as he gently helps you up. His other hand picks up your coat from where it’s been folded over your bag.

And then like it’s the most normal thing in the world he holds it open for you.

You slip your arms through the sleeves in silence, your skin brushing his as he eases it up over your shoulders. His movements are smooth, practiced, quiet. Not performative.

Not for show.

Maxime looks up suddenly, clearly clocking that you’re leaving. He shifts in his seat, trying to recover the thread of something he must’ve dropped a while ago.

“You heading off?” he asks, voice too loud for how little he’s mattered in the last thirty minutes.

“Yeah,” you say. “Early morning.”

He nods, leaning back like he’s trying to seem unfazed. “So... maybe I’ll see you again?”

Arthur’s hand rests lightly against the back of your coat, steadying you as you adjust your bag. You don’t look at him, but you feel it. That presence. Quiet but definite.

You glance at Maxime. “Maybe.”

He gives you a tight smile. “You’ve got my number.”

“Sure do.”

And that’s it.

Arthur’s already stepped aside, guiding you gently past the table with a hand barely grazing your shoulder blade. He doesn’t say a word as you walk out together, leaving Maxime blinking behind you like someone who missed the plot twist entirely.

Outside, the air is cooler than before, tinged with salt and whatever perfume clings to the night. You pause just shy of the curb, glancing at your phone.

“My car’s just around the corner.”

Arthur nods, hands back in his pockets. “Then I’ll leave you to it.”

You’re not sure why it suddenly feels strange, standing there in the quiet with him.

Your car rounds the corner. You turn toward it, then back to Arthur.

“Thanks,” you say. “For the rose. And the coat. And the... whatever that was.”

He shrugs. “Anytime.”

You don’t say goodbye. Neither does he.

You just get in the car.

And as it pulls away, you glance into the rearview mirror and there he is.

Still standing where you left him, hands deep in his pockets.

…

There are two kinds of gyms in Monaco.

The first kind is where people wear sunglasses on treadmills and film themselves doing Bulgarian split squats.

The second kind — the kind you specifically asked Charles to recommend — is not that. Or at least, it isn’t supposed to be.

“FitFactory,” Charles had said. “It’s normal. No influencers. No DJs. You go in, you sweat, you leave.”

So this morning, you pull on your nicest Alo Yoga set — blush pink, full-length, thumbholes included — and fill your matching bottle, because coordination is a small kind of control. A mood booster, really.

And you walk to Larvotto feeling tragically optimistic.

Until you see him.

Arthur Leclerc.

Leaning against the lockers.

White towel around his neck. Black T-shirt damp at the collar. His face flushed in that maddeningly attractive post workout way.

He’s looking at his phone. Hair pushed back. headphones looped loosely around his neck.

Then he looks up.

And sees you.

He straightens slightly, clearly just as surprised as you — though you watch him recover faster. Of course.

He blinks. Then smiles, slow and smug, like he’s trying to decide if this is real or a fever dream.

“Well,” he says, tossing his towel into his bag, “if it isn’t Monaco’s pinkest woman.”

You stop. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

“I’m flattered you followed me here.”

You raise a brow. “Believe me I would have sprinted away if I knew you were here.”

He tilts his head, that crooked smile already forming. “All right, fair. But what’s with the full pink situation today?”

You glance down at your set — soft blush from top to toe — then meet his eyes, unbothered. “Coordination builds morale.”

He hums. “You look like a strawberry.”

You shrug. “I happen to love strawberries, thank you very much.”

His grin grows. “Of course you do.”

You motion toward his cheeks. “Well. Look who’s accidentally matching me.”

He laughs under his breath. “Is this your subtle way of flirting?”

You smile. “If it were, you’d know.”

He grins. “Noted.”

You walk past him toward the mats. Toss your bag down. You expect him to keep walking — to head out the way he was clearly planning to — but instead, you hear the quiet thud of another bag hitting the floor.

You glance up. Arthur sits down beside you like he owns the mat.

“You’re done,” you say flatly.

“I am.”

“So go home.”

He leans forward, stretching lazily. “Cooling down.”

“In the women’s section?”

“It’s unisex.”

You stare. “You were literally at the door.”

“And now I’m here, cherie”

You look away, lips twitching in spite of yourself. Unfortunately.

Arthur lies back, popping one headphone back in. Arms folded behind his head, posture entirely too relaxed.

You side-eye him. “Let me guess. Adele?”

He nods. “All I Ask. Better than any preworkout.”

“You’re broken.”

“I’m serious.”

“She’s devastating.”

“Exactly! That’s why. Sad music is the best for gymming.”

You lie back too, ponytail fanning out across the mat, pulse beginning to settle. “I’m not in the mood for existential cardio today.”

He hums, eyes closed again. “So why come?”

You shrug, the motion subtle as you lie back against the mat. “I miss feeling strong.”

That quiets things.

For a beat, it’s just the muffled thrum of someone’s bassy playlist in the weight section, the soft exhale of air conditioning, the distant clink of dumbbells.

Then he turns his head toward you. Just one glance, slow and deliberate.

“That makes sense,” he says.

You don’t know what to do with that, the gentleness of it. How unguarded it sounds. So you do nothing at all. Just close your eyes and pretend this is routine. That silence is normal between you two.

A moment passes.

Then, softer, like he’s speaking more to the ceiling than to you: “Monaco’s small, apparently.”

You let out a faint huff. “Apparently.”

Another pause. Then, with zero warning, he says, “Do you actually like Maxime?”

Your eyes snap open. “Seriously?”

He doesn’t look over. Just lies there, like he’s asking about the weather.

“No worries,” he says easily. “Just curious.”

You sit up slightly, stretching one leg out across the mat. “Not really.”

He props himself up on his elbows. “Then why waste your time? You are a busy woman, right?”

You glance at him, but there’s no challenge in his expression. No bite. Just a quiet question, laid bare between you.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Everyone keeps saying I should try. That I need to get out there more. That the right person won’t just materialize one day.”

He watches you carefully, like he’s trying to figure out what part of that you actually believe.

 “Maybe they’re wrong.”

You blink. “About what?”

“About needing to try so hard. I think it just happens one day when you don’t expect it.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. There’s something in it that throws you off-balance, not quite sympathy, not quite sarcasm. Something close to understanding.

“It’s the same for me. I also go on dates already knowing she’s not the one, hoping I’ll be proven wrong. With the right girl you just know, it’s different.”

You hold his stare, and for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a dare.

Just two people. Sitting in a gym. Wearing too much pink and not enough armor.

You exhale a soft breath. “You’re surprisingly philosophical for someone who listens to Adele during ab circuits.”

He grins. “She’s a muse.”

You snort. “You’re unwell.”

He lies back again, smug and unbothered. “Takes one to know one.”

You smirk. “Touché.”

…

You’re tired.

A specific form of silk-laced exhaustion that settles behind your eyes after twelve hours of pretending to be slightly more charming than you feel.

Your heels click against the cobblestones as you pass the flower stand that’s just starting to close, the petals half-wilted in the July heat. You’re fishing your phone out of your bag, already composing a mental list of things to forget until tomorrow, when—

“Look who’s out of the office before midnight.”

You look up, visibly shaken.

Charles is grinning, of course. Draped in weekend denim and that effortless posture of someone who’s never had to rush a day in his life.

Next to him stands Alex, all grace and sunglasses even though the sun’s nearly gone.

And Arthur.

Arthur, whose laugh you must have heard first, though you’re only registering it now. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly, eyes already on you like he knew you were coming.

You slow as you reach them, tucking your phone away. “How is it you are everywhere these days?”

Charles smirks. “Summer break, baby! Enjoying my rent this month.”

“As if you pay rent.” You laugh. 

“I am seriously worried about the hours you’re making, how is it nearly 9PM already?” Alex says with a frown.

“I survived. Barely. But my assistant reminded me I’m not allowed to perish before the Monday debrief.”

Charles snorts. “Corporate martyrdom.”

But Arthur hasn’t said anything yet. Just watches you with a look that’s difficult to read — not indifferent, not exactly fond. Somewhere in between. Studied.

“Hi,” he says, finally.

You smile, soft and unguarded. “Hi.”

It’s strange, how that single word feels suddenly heavier than the rest of the conversation. Like it lands somewhere deeper. Warmer.

The four of you begin to walk, but it’s not long before the spacing shifts — Charles drifting toward a shop window, Alex distracted by something across the street. You’re left side-by-side with Arthur, not by design, but by some subtle gravity that’s starting to feel familiar.

He says nothing at first, just walks beside you, steps even with yours, eyes skimming the buildings as they turn golden in the falling light.

“I saw your campaign today,” you say, voice casual but purposeful. “The new one. The watch close-up was a little dramatic, but you looked handsome.”

Arthur turns his head slightly. Just enough for you to catch the flicker of surprise — and then something gentler.

His cheek colors, almost imperceptibly, but you catch it.

“Thanks,” he murmurs.

You glance sideways, amused. “Blushing?”

“It’s warm out.”

You hum. “Right. Must be the sun, at 9PM. Or maybe compliments just throw you off.”

“I’m not used to them from you.”

“Am I making you shy?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, and for a moment, it’s easy, lighter than it’s ever been.

And just like that, the tension thins. For a moment, the two of you walk in easy rhythm, the kind of quiet that doesn’t need filling.

You pass a fountain bathed in the last of the sun, the spray catching amber light. Monaco is winding down. Fewer people on the street now. Just the shuffle of steps, the scent of pastry dough cooling in bakery windows, the hush of something private between the two of you.

“You always walk home this way?” he asks.

“Nice scenery,” you say. “Helps clear my head.”

He hums, glancing over. “You should do it more often.”

After a beat, he nods toward a storefront with a sleepy golden retriever curled in the window. “You’re a dog person, right?”

You blink. “Yeah... I am.”

Arthur keeps looking ahead, a little too nonchalant. “Figured.”

You narrow your eyes. “How’d you figure?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know. You just seem like the type.”

You snort. “What type is that?”

“Someone who secretly carries treats in her handbag.”

You laugh, but the question still lingers behind your teeth. He didn’t guess that. Not out of nowhere.

And then, almost too casually, he adds, “Charles mentioned something about you wanting a rescue.”

You turn your head sharply. “Did he?”

Arthur’s jaw twitches — the tiniest tell.

You don’t call him out. You just smile, a little too knowingly. “You two talk about me often?”

He doesn’t answer, but the silence is enough. He’s not smug. Not flustered. Just caught.

And when he finally does speak, it’s quieter. “He said you’ve been thinking about names.”

Your smile softens. “I have.”

Arthur nods, eyes fixed ahead now, like he’s trying not to press.

“I was leaning toward something French,” you say. “But I also kind of like the idea of naming her after a pastry.”

His lips twitch. “Like… Brioche?”

You grin. “Don’t judge. Brioche is adorable.”

He lets out a soft laugh. “Of course.”

You glance over again, this time lingering. He looks different in this light. Less calculated. Less aware of how he’s perceived. Just a boy walking beside you, saying too little and giving away too much.

And something about that makes your heart ache a little.

But not in a sad way.

Just in the oh, I didn’t expect this kind of way.

You slow as you reach your building, the familiar stone steps painted gold by the setting sun.

Arthur stops with you, just slightly to the side, hands still tucked in his pockets.

“Thanks for the company,” you say.

He shrugs, eyes flicking to yours. “Didn’t mean to. It just sort of happened.”

“That’s the best kind of thing.”

You hesitate, the moment stretching just wide enough to step into.

And you do.

“You can walk me again sometime,” you offer, voice lower now. “If you want.”

He tilts his head, almost like he’s studying you. “Yeah?”

You nod. “I mean, Monaco’s small. And I run into you all the time anyway.”

That makes him laugh, a quiet, honest sound.

You take a step back toward the stairs. He follows just slightly, and before you can retreat entirely, you lean up and press a kiss — featherlight and instinctive — to his cheek.

It lands just beneath his eye, where his skin is still a little pink.

Arthur goes very still. Like something inside him paused to catch up.

You pull back slowly, your eyes meeting his. The air feels different now, charged, but not heavy.

“I’ll see you around,” you say softly.

Arthur blinks once, then twice. And then he smiles — small, real, slow.

“You will.”

You climb the steps, hand grazing the railing, not looking back until you reach the door.

…

There’s something in the air, lavender tangled with engine smoke, sea breeze sticky with heat, that makes everything buzz a little louder. The kind of atmosphere where even the shadows wear cologne.

You don’t usually do clubs. And you definitely don’t do them alone.

But when Alexandra texted you two hours ago saying, “Just come. It’s casual. Charles says it’s basically just everyone from karting acting like idiots,” you said yes.

Mostly because she added: “You can borrow the red Sandro dress. It makes your legs look stupid good.”

So now you’re here. In the dress. And the heels. Walking through the velvet ropes of Jimmy’z like you belong here — which, technically, you kind of do. Charles had your name added to the list.

Inside, the bass is already vibrating through your teeth. There’s a fog machine going off in the corner. A bottle girl walks by holding a flaming sparkler.

You spot Alexandra before she sees you, curled into a booth on the far side of the room, next to a man you assume is Carlos (based on the hair, mostly) and a woman you don’t recognize. She’s talking animatedly to Alex, gesturing with a cocktail straw.

You approach just as Alex looks up and lights up like she won the lottery.

“You came!” she shouts, standing up to pull you in for a hug.

She smells like citrus gin and too-expensive perfume.

“I almost didn’t,” you admit.

“Well, thank God you did. I’m outnumbered by motorsport and testosterone.” She waves you toward the booth. “Come sit.”

As you slide into the booth beside her, Alexandra immediately drapes an arm around your shoulders like she’s waited all night for this.

“There she is,” she says, grinning. “The one and only.”

Then she gestures across the table. “This is Rebecca — she’s with Carlos. Works in fashion. Rebecca, this is the girl from APM I’ve been telling you about. My future sister-in-law.”

You laugh, surprised. “Wow. That escalated quickly.”

Rebecca’s eyes light up — piercing blue, framed by a halo of soft curls. “You should’ve heard her earlier. You are as gorgeous as she said you’d be.”

“Alex,” you groan, but she only squeezes your arm.

“It’s not my fault,” she says. “You look unreal in the red dress. I had to brag.”

Rebecca smirks. “She’s not wrong.”

You like her instantly. There’s an ease about her, confident, yes, but kind. The sort of person who would wait to drive off until you are inside.

Next to her Carlos is sipping something expensive and staring blankly into the middle distance.

You tilt your head. “Is he okay?”

Rebecca snorts. “He has this a lot, don’t worry. Carlos. Earth to Carlos.”

He blinks, then turns slowly. “Huh.”

Alexandra howls. “Carlos, for the love of—”

Somewhere behind you, someone screams “I’m not doing that unless you carry me!” followed by a crash.

You turn around just in time to see a guy in a backwards cap — who you can only assume is Lando — slipping on a tray of ice cubes while another guy films it, hysterically laughing. Probably George, judging by the neat button up and pinstriped trousers.

Alexandra sighs. “I’m so sorry in advance for everything that’s going to happen tonight. They are always like this when they’re all together.”

Someone is doing the robot in the middle of the dancefloor.

“…is that Charles?”

Carlos, still half-lost in his drink, lifts it in salute. “You should see him when there’s a live band.”

Before you can ask what that means, a tall guy with sharp cheekbones and a gentle blink like he’s still catching up slides into the booth. He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, then offers a crooked, apologetic smile.

“Hi. Oscar.” he says, nodding to you before sitting down at the table. “Sorry I’m late. Have I missed anything besides interpretive dance?”

Rebecca lets out a soft laugh, her eyes bright. Alexandra grins and nudges him with her elbow, clearly fond of him already.

The table hums with low, easy chatter. Someone orders another round. Carlos eventually resurfaces from whatever quiet spiral he’d been in and launches into a heartfelt argument about the best burgers. Rebecca counters with a story about a chef in Milan who swore by adding peas instead of tomatoes.

The night softens. And for the first time all week, you’re not watching the clock.

You’re two sips into your cocktail when Alexandra leans in again, eyes sly.

“Look who just got here.”

You blink. “Who?”

She nods across the room.

You follow her gaze.

And then you see him.

Arthur Leclerc.

He’s leaning against the bar beside Charles, sleeves rolled up, hair tousled like he’s been running his hands through it. There’s a faint flush to his cheeks and a slightly amused look on his face.

You don’t even have time to pretend you weren’t looking before he glances up and catches your eye.

And, of course, he winks.

You groan softly.

Alexandra smirks.

“Don’t,” you say.

“Too late.” she says, already linking her arm with yours. “Come say hi.”

Alexandra doesn’t wait. She drags you through the crowd, weaving past elbows and champagne flutes, laughter folding in around you. And Arthur doesn’t look away — not once — as you make your way toward him.

“Bonsoir,” Alexandra says brightly, kissing Charles on the cheek. He pulls her in to say something you don’t catch.

You stop in front of Arthur.

He straightens a little, gaze dropping down the length of you before returning to your face — and staying there.

“You’re…” he starts, then pauses, the corners of his mouth tugging. “Somehow even more beautiful than usual.”

The words land low in your chest, like a match struck in velvet. You mean to say something — to throw back a comment, make a joke, anchor yourself with the familiarity of deflection. But nothing comes. Your mouth opens, then closes, and for once, you let the silence live.

He steps closer as his eyes dip over your dress and back up again.

“Do a spin,” he says, voice low.

You blink, startled. “What?”

Arthur lifts one hand, loose and casual, the ghost of a grin playing at his lips. “Show me your dress. You look stunning.”

So you do.

Not dramatically, not like you’re putting on a show, but slowly, carefully, letting the silk sweep around your legs as you half-turn on the spot. Your hand slides along your hip as you move, more for balance than performance, though you feel the heat of his gaze tracing every inch.

When you come back around to face him, something has shifted. He’s no longer smiling.

Not entirely, anyway.

There’s still a pull at his mouth — but his eyes, those eyes, have darkened slightly, soft and locked on yours

He leans in. Not so much invading your space as inhabiting it. His voice when it comes is quieter than before. Just low. Just meant for you.

“Don’t act so shy,” he murmurs. “Not when you look like this.”

And then, barely a breath later, his hand finds your waist.

The touch is light — featherlight — but it lands like gravity. The pad of his thumb grazes the fabric of your dress, a quiet hello written in the space where your body curves. You feel it in your spine. In your throat. In every place that’s ever wondered what this might feel like.

He smells like warm bergamot and something a little deeper, wood, maybe, or leather. The kind of scent you don’t notice right away, but later find on your own hands and wonder how it got there.

Your fingers lift before you’ve decided to move. They find his collar, crisp and just slightly askew from the heat of the crowd, and smooth it back into place.

“You don’t look too bad yourself,” you murmur, only barely able to hold his gaze.

He doesn’t move. Not yet. Just watches you, his expression unreadable in the half-light, as though trying to memorize this exact version of you. The pink in your cheeks. The way your lips part like you’re going to say something more but don’t.

Your heart drums fast. Too fast. You wonder if he hears it. You almost want him to.

…

It starts with Charles dragging you onto the dancefloor.

One moment you’re standing by the booth, cooling down with a half-finished cocktail, and the next he’s tugging at your wrist, all flushed cheeks and breathless laughter. “Allez! On danse!”

You try to protest but the music is pulsing and warm and far too good. Someone has shifted the playlist to something shamelessly nostalgic, all thumping basslines and sweaty joy. And Charles is a surprisingly good dancer for someone clearly three drinks past his limit.

So you dance.

And you laugh — the kind of laugh that bubbles up from somewhere physical. Rebecca joins for a bit, Oscar is there too, doing something that vaguely resembles choreography, and even Carlos has snapped out of his quiet trance, nodding along from the edge of the crowd like a sleepwalking club king.

You don’t know how long it goes on for. Just that the lights swirl, the music climbs, and somehow — somehow — you keep finding yourself closer to Arthur.

You don’t mean to. Not deliberately.

But every time you spin, every time you fall back into the rhythm, he’s there. Somewhere on the edge of your vision. Smirking from the booth. Sipping his drink by the bar. Sliding past behind you like a slow, orbiting moon.

And then, all at once, he’s not just near.

He’s there.

A hand brushes the small of your back. You turn. Arthur. Standing beside you now, dancing in that effortless, casual way that makes it look like he doesn’t care.

You raise your brows. “Didn’t take you for a dancer.”

He leans in, voice low against your ear. “I make exceptions.”

Your heart stutters.

Before you can reply — “Shots!” someone yells.

Lando, naturally.

He’s halfway onto a velvet bench, waving a napkin like a victory flag as two waitresses arrive with trays. Tequila. Dozens of them.

Oscar stares at them like he’s witnessing a crime. “I’m going to regret everything,” he mumbles.

You’re laughing as Lando thrusts a shot into your hand. “To making Charles dance like a divorced uncle at a wedding!” he cheers.

The group howls.

You’re mid-laugh when a hand curls at your waist.

It’s familiar now. The shape of it. The ease. And the warm weight of his palm, anchoring you just enough to still the world for a second.

You turn, breath catching, to find Arthur already close.

The kind of close that makes your pulse skip. That makes sound dull and the light tilt.

He’s looking at you with a glint in his eye, just this side of trouble.

“Want to help me with my shot?” he says, low enough that only you can hear.

You blink. “Your shot?”

He raises the glass and a torn salt packet between two fingers. His expression? Barely contained mischief.

“Come on,” he says, “I’ll talk you through it.”

Before you can protest or agree he steps in even closer.

“Hold still.”

Then, soft as anything, he bends toward your neck.

His lips graze just beneath your jaw — a featherlight kiss, deliberate — hot and slow. Just enough moisture for the salt to stick, but too much heat to ignore.

You go still. Entirely. Your breath catching in your chest like something hooked.

Arthur pulls back an inch, and his eyes flick up. He sees it. How still you’ve gone. How wide your eyes are. And he smiles like a secret.

“Just there,” he murmurs, and sprinkles the salt onto the spot he just kissed, watching it cling to your skin.

You open your mouth to ask what the hell just happened but he’s already moving.

“Now,” he says, more softly, reaching for the lime wedge, “open.”

Your lips part before your brain can even process the command.

He gently tucks the lime between them. The pads of his fingers brush your lower lip as he does.

Then he pauses. Right there. Inches away.

And his eyes catch yours — clear and gleaming.

“Careful,” he says, smiling lazily.

You blink. “Why?”

He leans in, eyes dancing. “You keep looking at me like that and I’m going to forget we’re in public.”

Your heart thuds — once, hard.

He bends again, slower this time, and his lips brush your skin first, almost like a question. Then his tongue follows — warm and deliberate — dragging a hot, slow line over the delicate curve just below your jaw.

The contact sends a tremor through you. It's not just the heat, or the pressure, it's the absurd intimacy of it, the way your skin prickles in response.

A sound escapes before you can catch it. soft, involuntary, somewhere between a gasp and a sigh.

You suck in a breath, spine locking in place. Your fingers curl reflexively into your dress.

Arthur tips his head back, downs the shot with that maddening ease, and then leans in for the lime. His mouth brushes yours as he bites into it, the citrus tang sharp in the air, his breath warm, not a kiss, but not not one either.

And then it’s over.

But your skin still hums.

You’re left standing, reeling, skin burning like a fire lit just beneath the surface.

He swallows, tongue sweeping briefly across his lower lip, then grins down at you.

“You’re really cute when you try to act unbothered,” he says.

You scoff. “I’m not.”

“No?” His brow lifts. “So this is you naturally flustered?”

You cross your arms, shifting your weight, but the heat still lingers at your collarbone. “It was just a shot.”

He chuckles — quiet, cocky, low in his throat — and tugs you in again by the waist, easily, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“That little noise you made?” he teases, voice rough at the edges. “Might be my new favorite sound.”

You can’t answer. Your brain won’t give you words.

Arthur draws back slightly, his gaze lingering for just a moment too long. He looks like he might say something. Maybe something stupid, or soft, or—

“Putain, je vais vomir.”

The words slice through the music, slurred and loud and unmistakably French.

You blink. Arthur blinks. You both turn.

Charles is standing a few feet away, clutching the edge of a table for dear life, his expression caught somewhere between awe and horror.

“Je rigole pas,” he insists, eyes wide. “Je vais vraiment vomir.” (“I’m not joking. I’m really going to throw up.”)

Lando wheezes with laughter. Alex looks mildly alarmed. Someone shouts for water.

You stare.

Arthur turns, sighs like a man aging in real time. “Of course he is.”

You blink. “Wait, is he—”

“Yep.” Arthur groans, and glances back at you, rueful. “Duty calls.”

You nod slowly, still breathless, your skin still singing.

He leans in one last time — his voice a murmur against the shell of your ear.

“Don’t disappear.”

You watch him go, reluctantly, honestly, and the second he’s gone, your fingers lift instinctively to your neck.

The spot still tingles.

…

The car hums softly through the still streets of Monaco, headlights cutting through the early dawn like silk.

Charles is slumped against the window in the backseat, lips slightly parted, one arm draped over Alexandra’s shoulder like he lost control of his limbs an hour ago. She’s half-asleep, face pressed against his collarbone, her sparkly heels kicked off and tucked beneath the seat.

Up front, it’s just you and Arthur.

He’s driving with one hand on the wheel. The other rests on your thigh — warm, firm, steady. His thumb strokes slow, absent circles over the fabric of your dress, so light it could almost be imagined.

You haven’t said anything about it. Neither has he.

But you feel every brush like it’s a lit match dragged across your skin.

The city is quiet. Streetlights flicker gold across cobblestone. A bus dozes at a stop. A cat weaves through the shadows. The kind of moment that feels suspended in amber — like if you speak too loud, it’ll all crack.

Arthur glances over at you once.

You don’t look back. Your heart’s already beating too fast.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, still watching the shadows. “Mm. Just tired.”

He hums. His hand tightens slightly when you shift.

“I’m sorry about Charles,” he says after a moment. “He’s an idiot. Especially when he drinks.”

You laugh under your breath. “He’s always an idiot. Don’t worry.”

Arthur smiles. You can hear it without turning.

“That’s fair,” he murmurs. “Still. You didn’t deserve to have your night end like this.”

You glance sideways, and catch the profile of him in the streetlight. The curve of his jaw. The faintest flush still lingering on his cheeks. He’s focused on the road, but there’s something else under it — that pull that’s been between you all night. Maybe longer.

“You’re driving me home, sounds like a great end to me,” you say softly.

There’s a beat of quiet. Then, his thumb presses a little more deliberately into your thigh — just once.

You shift in your seat.

The air between you thickens.

He pulls into your street too soon. The tires crunch softly against the curb, the engine purring low before cutting off entirely. Your apartment glows softly up ahead, washed in early dawn light — a sleepy kind of golden.

Neither of you moves.

Then he reaches for the door handle and gets out. Walks around. Opens your side.

You step out, and your hand finds his without thought.

It’s warmer than you remember.

He doesn’t let go as he shuts the door behind you.

Your shoes click lightly against the steps as you walk toward your door, his fingers brushing against yours with every step. You can feel him close — not just physically, but in the air around you, the quiet press of something heavier than what’s been said.

At your doorstep, you pause.

You turn.

Arthur’s standing just behind you, one hand sliding instinctively to your waist. His thumb brushes against your ribs. His eyes meet yours.

And stay there.

A silence stretches. The quiet of the night wraps around you like a blanket. The air is thick with all the things you both want to say but can’t.

His eyes dip to your mouth.

Your breath catches.

Then you move — slowly — rising to your toes.

The first press of your lips to his is featherlight. Testing. A peck more than a kiss.

But his grip on your waist tightens.

And then he kisses you back.

And this time, it’s not careful. Not measured. It’s hot and deliberate, his mouth parting against yours with a quiet hunger that coils low in your stomach. He tilts his head just slightly, his free hand rising to cradle your jaw.

You sigh into it, helplessly, fingers curling into the lapel of his jacket.

Arthur pulls you closer. His nose brushes yours. Your lips part again, and it’s slower this time — more languid, more sure. Your mouths move like they’ve done this before in a dream you forgot you had.

He tastes like lime and champagne. His hand anchors you at the hip like he doesn’t want to let go.

The kiss deepens. It's a little greedy now, a little breathless until the whole world feels like it’s wrapped around this one, impossibly good moment.

Then—

A mechanical whirr slices through the quiet.

The car window slides down.

“ARTHUR,” Charles groans in the sloppiest French you’ve ever heard. “C’est pas le moment pour flirter, j’ai envie de mourir…” (This is not the time to flirt, I want to die…)

Arthur freezes. His forehead still rests against yours, and for a moment neither of you moves — just caught in the laugh building behind your teeth.

You break first.

A soft, giddy giggle slips out of you, and Arthur smiles too, eyes still locked on yours.

He brushes his thumb gently across your waist. His voice drops to something quieter, something warm.

“Night,” he murmurs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You nod, still slightly breathless. “Night, Arthur.”

He gives you one more kiss on your forehead — this one quick — then takes a step back and jogs to the car.

The window is already rolled back up. Charles is asleep again.

But Arthur?

Arthur looks over his shoulder just before he slides back into the driver’s seat.

And for the second time tonight — you catch him watching you like he’s been doing it for longer than you realized.

…

The café is quiet — that post-party hush where even the espresso machine seems to steam more gently, as if nursing its own hangover.

You’re already at the corner table, sunglasses on, a cappuccino cooling between your palms. Charles slides into the seat opposite you with a grunt and a grimace, his hoodie pulled so low over his head it might as well be a blackout curtain.

Antoine follows more gracefully, camera bag slung over one shoulder, fresh as if he hadn’t spent the night dodging partygoers to capture candids in impossible lighting. He nods at you, lifts two fingers toward the waiter, and sits.

“I’m never drinking again,” Charles mutters into the wooden table.

You lift your cappuccino to your lips, smirking behind the rim. “Right. That’s your fourth time saying that since April.”

“I mean it this time.”

Antoine lets out a quiet laugh, glancing up. “You also said you were going to learn to cook.”

Charles lifts a hand, index finger raised in weary protest, but doesn’t dignify it with a response.

The server returns with Antoine’s espresso and an orange juice for Charles, who receives it like an offering from the gods and sips slowly, eyes closed— just as the bell above the café door rings.

You glance over your shoulder. And there he is.

Arthur.

Gray T-shirt. Wind-tousled hair. Sunglasses hooked into the collar. Hands in his pockets, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them.

Charles straightens up a bit, blinking like he’s trying to determine if he’s hallucinating.

Antoine looks between the two of you, then back at Arthur.

Arthur nods at the table, casually. “Morning.”

Charles stares. “What are you doing here?”

Arthur’s eyes find yours, warm. “She invited me.”

You sip your cappuccino. “Figured it’d be good to get some real food into you.”

Charles blinks again. “You two… text now?”

Arthur slides into the chair beside you like it’s nothing, like this has always been normal. His knee brushes yours. Doesn’t move.

Antoine takes a sip of his coffee, wisely staying silent — but his expression is all observation.

“I don’t remember anything after Oscar was spinning on the floor like a Beyblade,” Charles mutters, rubbing his temple.

“That was before the shots,” you say.

Arthur smirks. “Yeah, way before.”

Charles groans. “Oh god. Don’t tell me I did something embarrassing.”

You and Arthur exchange a glance.

“No more than usual,” Arthur offers.

“Perfect,” Charles sighs.

A moment of silence falls. Antoine pulls out a roll of film and threads it into his camera. The sun filters in through the café window, catching Arthur’s hair just so, and you’re suddenly aware of how calm it feels now. How natural. How easy.

Arthur leans in slightly. His voice is quiet, only for you.

“You’re really going to pretend last night didn’t happen?”

You glance sideways, hiding your smile behind the rim of your cup. “You mean Charles puking or you kissing me?”

His lips curve. “You kissed me first.”

“Really?” You tease. “Doesn’t sound like me.”

“You kissed me first,” he teases, leaning in, “but I’m very happy to return the favor.”

His fingers brush beneath your chin — gentle, steady — coaxing your face toward his.

His lips are warm and gentle against yours. His hand stays beneath your jaw, steady and gentle, and the slight pressure of his fingers makes your breath catch.

You feel it in your stomach first, that fluttery pull that tightens low and lingers. His mouth is soft, his skin smells like clean soap and something familiar you can’t name, and for a moment, you forget where you are.

The rest of the world recedes, the clinking of glasses, the murmur of other tables.

It’s just this.

When he pulls back, it’s only a breath of space. Enough to see the quiet gleam in his eyes. Enough to know he means it.

You blink once. Smile.

And so does he.

Charles, still staring down into his juice, mutters something under his breath. “I swear, I black out one night…”

You reach over and gently clink your mug against his glass. “Then consider this your morning recap.”

Arthur laughs under his breath, watching you with that same soft look from the night before.

Charles pretends to gag. “I hate it here.”

Arthur bumps your shoulder. “I don’t.”

Your smile lingers a second longer than it should.

[itzariafiles]

love, patrols, and other christmas miracles

— one-shot | fluff | gn!reader

— ft. s. todoroki

— file brief: Shoto’s a busy pro hero. So are you. It’s Christmas Eve, and you both swore you’d make it home for dinner. Keyword: swore.

— sensitivity log: lighthearted (off-season) holiday fluff, mild hero-related chaos, soft romance

— author’s note: this was a sweet and fun request from a lovely user — hope it turned out close to what they imagined! and to everyone else: hope you love this much-needed dose of (off-season) Christmas fluff <3

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Shoto Todoroki had never been one to celebrate Christmas — or anything, really — for obvious reasons.

And somehow, he landed the most beautiful person alive, who casually celebrates every holiday and birthday like it’s a full-time job.

That morning, you both woke up early, just like any other day. Patrols on opposite sides of the city.

You went through your routine: showered together, got dressed, had a quick breakfast, and headed for the door.

But there, right on top of your Christmas-themed rug, sat a basket.

Full of food.

“What—?”

You both stared at it in silence.

Shoto instinctively closed his fists, prepared to dismantle it in case some villain thought poison was a festive gesture — until you gasped and bolted into the living room.

He followed, slightly alarmed.

“Love, what’s wrong?”

You were frozen in front of the wall, eyes wide. Did you… forget to cross off the 23rd yesterday?

Because either your Santa-themed calendar — the one where he’s wearing a kiss the cook apron and Mrs. Claus is giggling — was right, and it was the 23rd and the basket had just arrived early… or—

“It’s December 24th, Sho. That basket — they didn’t get the date wrong, right?”

You whipped out your phone.

6:45 AM. December 24th.

It was Christmas Eve.

And you were running late.

“I ordered the basket like a month ago ‘cause I knew we wouldn’t have time to cook, but… we completely forgot.”

“We’re both on patrol until ten,” Shoto said calmly, although there was a small furrow between his brows. “That only leaves us with fifteen minutes before the ‘mandatory’ holiday dinner begins.”

“We always have dinner together on Christmas, Sho. Even if it’s just us. We eat. We sit by the tree. We watch some cheesy movie. That’s the whole thing!”

Shoto gently took your hand and led you to the door. The basket was already inside. “We’ll be back in time. I’ll finish patrol as fast as I can.”

You nodded quickly. “Okay, but it has to be exactly 10:15 PM. Deal?”

The elevator reached the ground floor. The cold air hit your cheeks the moment you stepped outside. Shoto leaned in and kissed you.

Soft. Tender. Cold — like him. In the best way.

“Have a great day, Sho!”

He gave a tiny smile.

But before he could say anything, his phone rang.

You both stared at it.

His agency.

Yeah. It was going to be a long day.

He took off running, phone pressed to his ear.

“Ten-fifteen, Sho!!”

You yelled after him.

But the world, as always, had other plans.

For starters, that call Shoto got?

Santa. Robbing a store.

Terrifying kids because — why is Santa stealing?? Isn’t he supposed to be magical? Doesn’t he have elf labor and flying deer?

The agency gave clear instructions: “don’t traumatize the kids unless absolutely necessary.”

So Todoroki spent half an hour chasing a fully-costumed Santa Claus through a mall, trying to detain him without scarring toddlers for life. He finally caught him outside, calmly freezing his boots to the pavement.

Zero kids cried. Success.

Meanwhile, on your side of the city, a group of idiots decided Christmas Eve was the perfect time to rob a bank. While drunk. And with quirks.

Hostages, chaos, glitter explosions (don’t ask), and three hours later, you were still cleaning up ice cream from the ceiling — long story.

Then Shoto got assigned crowd control at a broken-down amusement park. Thirty-five civilians stuck at the top of a rollercoaster. In the spirit of practicality (and, fine, Christmas), he made an ice slide for them. Another hero caught them at the bottom. Safe. Efficient. Cold.

And just when things started to calm down as you layed down at your agency’s sofa…

Boom. Another emergency call.

“What could it possibly be?”

You grunted as you picked up the phone, not even trying to hide your exhaustion.

It was a message from your agency’s emergency team.

[Text received — 8:45 PM]

“We need backup. Hostile quirk incident near Hanamachi Station. Multiple injuries. Low hero presence in the area. You’re the closest.”

You blinked. Let out a breath.

“Of course.”

You grabbed your gear again, threw your scarf around your neck, and texted Shoto quickly:

“pls don’t be dead

also I might be late

still aiming for 10:15 tho

I am so tired

ily sho”

You jumped out of the window, because honestly, it was faster than stairs at this point.

Meanwhile, at the same time, Shoto’s phone buzzed. He was mid-evacuation of a warehouse that had partially collapsed due to a villain’s quirk surge.

He glanced at the notifications on his lock screen and read your texts.

He exhaled through his nose — that was his version of a laugh right now.

He typed back, one-handed as he helped someone walk:

“copy that. not dead. yet.

10:15 or we riot.”

He pocketed the phone, lifted two unconscious workers, and muttered, “Ten fifteen. No matter what.”

10:08 PM

You were both running — from different sides of the city.

Your hands were cold. Your feet ached. But you ran.

Shoto, who only resorted to this in real emergencies, used his ice to slide through the streets.

10:14 PM

You nearly collided outside your building.

“My dear boyfriend!”

You threw your arms around his left side, grateful for the warmth radiating from it.

He chuckled — genuinely — and pulled you close.

“Dinner is waiting, pretty,” he said softly, guiding you toward the elevator.

Two pairs of exhausted feet trudged toward your apartment.

In the end, you shared the basket dinner you received that morning.

Curled up on the couch. Wrapped in blankets. A cheesy Christmas movie playing quietly in the background.

The tree lit up the room.

The hot cocoa steamed gently on the coffee table.

Everything was soft. Familiar. Peaceful.

There was only one thing left: gifts.

“Love—”

Shoto turned to you, but you were already asleep on his shoulder.

He smiled.

“The gifts can wait until tomorrow,” he whispered, adjusting you gently against his side to make sure you were warm and comfortable.

And there, wrapped in the soft glow of the tree, you both drifted off.

Behind it, hidden just out of sight, sat a small velvet box.

Shoto’s gift to you.

A diamond ring — waiting patiently for morning.

It could wait.

It had waited this long.

But it was ready — for when you were.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

hot take: stealing is cold. - shoto todoroki

© itzariafiles 2025 ✧ don’t copy, translate or feed to AI.

[madamechrissy]

HEY GIRL, I love/ AM OBSESSED with your emperor Gojo fanfic and can’t wait for upcoming chapters, without any pressure I thought of a chapter idea you can add. I’m not sure if you’ve watched attack on titan but Geto and the reader remind me a lot of Historia and Ymir so I was thinking,

about a time where readers old kingdom combines with Gojo’s on a mission. Gojo meets Geto for the first time on that mission and then Gojo realises Geto was the man the empress spoke about, he was pissed at first so they beef but then Geto asks Gojo about her and as Geto spoke about her, he realised how much Geto actually cared for her. Then some magically problem appears where Geto dies and before he dies he asks for Gojo to deliver him a note to you. Kinda like Ymir and Reiner scene delivering the note to Historia.

To my dear, princess

As I write this Satoru is standing by my side. He knows that this is a love letter and his still sneaking peeks. Honestly, I can’t believe you’re married to such a creep. That said, he did give me his word that he’d deliver this letter to you. He said he owes me for the time I took care of you when he wasn’t there. Truthfully I’m sorry, I couldn’t take care of you longer. Though I’m glad there’s a man who loves you just as much as I loved you maybe even more.. I’m going to die soon, but I’ll die without regrets or that’s what I’d like to say truth is, I do have one. It’s that I never got to marry you.

With love,

Suguru Geto

Another scene could be some Geto angst where he sheds a tear about reader. Cause basically the whole of JJK is Geto angst. If you do like this idea you can change it up and make it longer, add anything you’d like. No pressure to add this I’m generally so into your book either way it goes😛💗 WISH YOU THE BEST MWAH MWAH

OMG your idea is SO beautiful I really wanna share it here so ppl can see your take on Veiled Secrets <3 Ofc I've seen AOT it's one of my faves.

I'm going just a completely different direction that I think will surprise a lot of people :') but the angst and mess will ABSOLUTELY be there, and more letters (also a certain dickhead emperor MAY or may not find out eventually) this story will def be a ride. So although that's not where my plan is, I still love seeing your takes on this!

I'm so glad you feel reader's pain through those letters and her love for her knight Suguru. Thank you sm for sharing and taking the time to write this for my story!! smoochesss 💗💗💗

[marymary-diva17]

Newlyweds

The whole city of Gotham is focused on Bruce Wayne, the former billionaire bachelor who has finally married. The women he married were not shocked, as Bruce had married his childhood best friend. Once the engagement was made, it became one of the many stories talked about among the public. Bruce Wayne had found happiness with the woman who had always been beside him. 

Y/n " ....."You are standing outside enjoying the day and some peace. It has been a few days since the wedding, and you are still getting used to being your best friend's wife. 

Bruce: " Is everything okay, y/n."

Y/n " Oh yes, everything that is fine. I'm just getting used to being your wife and living here. I had ways to visit you or stay a bit, but now I will live here with you as husband and wife."

Bruce: " Yes, I know it will take time to get used to, but I know you will do your best, my lovely wife."

Y/n " So how much are you enjoying calling me your wife, Bruce?"

Bruce: " Enjoying every bit of it."You had laughed, getting Bruce to smirk as he soon kissed your forehead."

Y/n " We both know that the media was most shocked that former bachelor rich boy Bruce Wayne was finally going to marry someone." 

Bruce: " The media can say whatever they wish, my love, and they shouldn't have been that shocked when you became my bride."You giggled at Bruce's words. Only a select few knew that you and Bruce had been dating until the public got word. 

???? "Sorry to interrupt Master Bruce and Mistress y/n." 

Bruce " Alfred, no need to apologize. Is everything okay?"

Alfred: " The delivery man has arrived with the wedding portraits and some gifts. Please follow me to the living room, and I will make some tea and dessert for you both to enjoy."

Y/n " Come on, let's see this wedding portrait that has been made, as well as the gifts, so we can send thank you cards out."

Bruce: " Yes, dear."You and Bruce walked into the manor and soon followed Bruce into the living room, where the delivery people dropped off gifts and portraits. 

Y/n: " There is more than one. I thought we only ordered one portrait and are framing the rest." The delivery group had soon left after getting paid by Bruce, as you looked at the covered portraits. 

Bruce: " Well, yes, that was the original plan, but I thought about it and spoke with Alfred and Seline. They thought this would be a great idea." 

Y/n " So you and Seline are becoming closer friends, I see." 

Bruce: " Well, since I married her best friend, I have to become friendly with her." 

Y/n " Good." Alfred had soon removed the cover from the portraits, one of you in your wedding dress and Bruce in his tux, and the second one was of the two of you, similar to his parent's portrait. 

Y/n " Bruce." 

Bruce: " I thought it would be special, and my parents always love you. If they were here today, they would be happy to see you as my wife." 

Y/n " I love it, Bruce. Thank you." 

Bruce: " I'm happy you do, and I'm sorry we can't have a honeymoon yet, but one day we shall." 

Y/n " I understand the city and the people need you, and I knew that when I said I do to marry you and the hero you are as well." 

Bruce: " Thank you." 

Y/N: " So now that I'm your wife, do I get a free pass to the bat cave?" 

Bruce: " Well, seeing that you are my wife and know my secret, that seems like a good deal, and I might need you and Alfred's help out there." 

Y/n: " I love the sound of that, and hey, maybe these portraits might not be the only ones we have of just us; maybe one with kids of our own." 

Bruce: "As a father, that will be interesting to see." 

Y/n " Oh, come on, Bruce Wayne has become a married man. He might have what it takes to be a family man or a father figure in the end." 

Alfred: " I have to agree with y/n on that, master Bruce." 

Bruce: " Then we have to wait and see what happens, my wife and Alfred, and maybe this manor might not always house the three of us forever."You smiled and kissed Bruce as Alfred set down a tray of cookies and tea. You and Bruce sat down and started looking through the gifts and writing down names to thank later in the week. Bruce Wayne had made you his wife and you will stay his wife until the end of time, in Wayne manor that have new members in the family throughout their years of marriage.

[xxfangirl365xx]

OKAY I NEED TO PUT MY THEORY OUT HERE I WAS TALKING ABOUT ON DISCORD LAST NIGHT SO IF I AM RIGHT I CAN LOOK BACK AND SEE!!!

so, I think every show will be different, it will all be different props,costumes,scripted pieces and be more like a whole musical being acted out every night until we get to the end (the Mexico city shows) where they have "unfinished business"

because the other shows in south east asia r NOT marketed as long live shows. They dont have the font and any of the marketing the long live ones do.

I think the black parade is going to overthrow the dictator and we will get to watch them go on a crazy rampage around the country before ending it in Mexico.

(edited at 1:27 pm cause I didnt read something fully oops)

I need to find the interview but there is a interview of gerard from 2014 (ish) during HA era and he says about how they were planning for paper kingdom (ik this tour is not paper kingdom btw) they wanted to do a whole stage production, like a play and costumes and scripts and acting it out.

SO WHAT IF THEY R DOING THAT NOW

THIS COULD BE A MUSICAL LIKE PRODUCTION HE HAD WANTED TO DO BEFORE THE BREAK UP!

SO NOT THE SAME STORY BUT THE PRODUCTION VIBE!

timestamp 1:13

so I think this is the vibe chat!

let me know what u think tho and ofc don't forget frank telling us were not prepared for what they have in store <3

[laursdomain]

Hi🫶🏻 can I request current boyfriend trend with Xaden or Liam pleasee 🙌🏻

current boyfriend

pairing: Liam Mairi x fem!reader

genre: fluff

synopsis: Liam loved pranks, until he’s the victim of one. A cruel, yet funny, prank comes to mind at breakfast with two mischievous individuals who love helping you make your fiancé’s life a living hell. 

warnings: mentions of violence, fluff

w/c: 871

a/n: i'm back!! a small little blurb for tonight! not my best work, but hoping to slowly get back into writing :)

ྀིliam mairi masterlist

☄. *. ⋆

Liam loved pranks. You knew it. He knew it. Your friends knew it. If there’s one thing that has been consistent in your relationship with Liam, it’s the silly pranks you two play on each other. 

“You should do the current boyfriend prank on Liam,” Quinn giggled, keeping her voice low as your fiancé was sitting with Xaden a couple tables away. Something about an important conversation. You were half asleep when Liam told you.

“The what?” You question, furrowing your brows. Quinn was your go-to girl when it came to finding new ideas for pranks to play on your boyfriend, especially after one he just played on you. 

“The current boyfriend prank,” she rose a brow, quickly realizing you didn’t know what she meant. “A couple of cadets in First Wing started it, apparently. You introduce your husband or fiancé to someone as your ‘current boyfriend.’ The whole point is to get a reaction out of them. Some girl did it with her fiancé, he didn’t take it well.”

“Interesting,” you mumble, forming a plan in your head. You two have been engaged for long enough, long enough to the point where you couldn’t easily make the mistake of calling him your boyfriend instead of your fiancé. “I would need someone he’s never met to be in on it, but that’s hard, as Liam knows everyone.” 

“I have a cadet in mind,” Imogen adds, leaning on her marked arm. She had remained visibly quiet during the conversation, more focused on eating her breakfast than forming a plan for your prank.

You and Quinn shared a look, both confused on who Imogen could be speaking about.

The plan was diabolical to say the least. Imogen was brutal, but this may be ruthless. Her grand idea was to introduce Liam to an infantry cadet. Infantry and Rider don’t necessarily intermingle…or get along for that matter. You weren’t sure how Imogen has this connection, but the infantry cadet, who you now know is named Clyde, is more than willing to pretend to be your ex. He willingly agreed to the physical reaction Liam may have. 

“So who are you introducing me to?” Liam asks, hand firmly wrapped around your own as you lead him to the meet-up spot. It was in town, somewhere that can be easily accessed by both parties.

“A friend,” you lie, hoping your fiancé wouldn’t see right through it. The story was that you and Clyde used to date as young teenagers, but broke up when he decided to start his Infantry training. Since then, you’ve been on good terms and are friends.

“Y/N!” Clyde calls out, putting on a friendly demeanor. 

You wave back at him, pulling Liam towards him. Liam stumbles behind you, though you could practically feel his confusion. 

“Liam, this is Clyde, my ex-boyfriend.” 

“Your what?” Liam questions, glaring at Clyde.

“Don’t worry, we’re friends now,” you reassure, squeezing his hand.

“It was ages ago, we were young.” Clyde comments, smiling warmly at Liam. You two share a look, both easily recalling your conversation from yesterday on what your backstory was. Maybe, after this, he’d actually become a friend. That is, if Liam doesn’t try to kill him.

“Right,” Liam’s voice loses any warmth it usually has, clearly not trusting Clyde. Your fiancé looks him up and down, clearly not impressed.

“Anyways,” you quickly attempt to change the topic, hoping to smoothly transition into the main part of the prank. “Clyde, this is Liam, my current boyfriend.” 

Liam’s head snaps towards you, absolutely appalled.  “I must’ve misheard you, love. What did you just call me?” Liam questions, tilting his head. 

You look at him, doe eyes and everything. Playing dumb, “my current boyfriend!”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Clyde plays along, but it’s no use. To Liam, Clyde is not there. It’s just you and him and how you dared to call him such a name.

“Last I recall, that ring on your finger says otherwise,” Liam narrows his eyes, his usual playfulness slowly seeping in. He glances down to the sparkling ring on your finger, the one he slid on four months ago. The one he so intricately chose. The one that used to be his mother’s, though modified to symbolize your relationship.

“Oh! I must’ve forgotten, silly me.” You playfully roll your eyes, “you’re my old boyfriend!”

Liam groans, throwing his head back. “Quinn put you up to this, didn’t she?” 

Your jaw falls agape, “how’d you know?” 

“Violet did it to Xaden. It did not end well.”

You feel laughter bubbling up, quickly forming your lips in a tight line. Though, it’s no use. You begin laughing, watching as your boyfriend and new friend laugh with you. You can only imagine the look on Xaden’s face when Violet referred to him as such. 

“Just so you know, if you do try to do something like this again, I will murder the alleged other boyfriend.” 

“Okay, baby,” you laugh, shaking your head at his antics. 

You reach up, planting a gentle kiss on his lips before returning to your height, watching as any of his previous negative emotions quickly disappear. All that’s left is your Liam. Your fiancé, not current boyfriend.

☄. *. ⋆

[ruby-red-inky-blue]

okay I made this point rather pissily in the replies to some post or other, so I will try to make it again a little calmer in its own post but

my least favourite thing about the backlash to Andor overall and especially Season 2 and the resurgence of the discussion about the versions Rogue One went through as it became the movie we got (which is great and very interesting and Jesus Christ, some justice for Gareth Edwards and his team!!)... is this weird vibe I'm starting to get from a lot of people where "we really, really like this imperfect but very good movie" is shifting into "there was a version of this movie that I would have loved, but instead we got the worst version".

Like, I'm not trying to tell you what to think! And I too would be interested to see the original plans for the story! But... sort of in the same way I would love to see more concept art for my favourite animated films: because I'm interested in the craft and the process, not because I think the unfinished version was better and Tony Gllroy "ruined" it.

Because friends, let's face it: He didn't. We would all not be here if he had. We loved the movie that we saw in theatres, and we got attached to the Jyn we saw in theatres - and I use "we" deliberately, because I've seen all the gorgeous fanwork you all have made about the story we got over the years. And - again! - I'm not saying I wouldn't be interested in seeing a second version, one where Jyn was allowed to be more consistent with her backstory, and be a badass criminal, and one where we get an explicit romance. But honestly? I don't think I would have fallen in love with that story nearly as much as I did with the one we got.

I liked that Jyn wasn't mostly badass competent girlboss at the start. I'm not saying that she necessarily would have turned out to be some sad sexist caricature like... other... Star Wars ladies - but honestly, I have characters like that. And we got characters like that, by the way, because we got Saw! But mostly, honestly, I always thought "we're all Rebels, aren't we" and "I rebel" were kind of cringe, and I was delighted that they weren't in the final product. Because I think it's weird how they imply that being a rebel is sort of a purpose in itself for her - like it's not about who or what she's opposing so much as that she's being rebellious and contrarian and not like other girls people. That's something you see in fiction a lot, and it's always something that has never felt very real to me. That's not a sustainable motivation! You don't loose everything you have and keep going just because "fighting back" is who you are. And also, as someone extremely steeped in people privileged enough to exist and persist through two dictatorships in three generations by keeping their heads down, "it's not a problem if you don't look up" hit me like a ton of bricks. It's so good. It's so real. And Felicity Jones is a good enough actress to deliver that line in the one way that makes it work, where you can tell she doesn't mean it, and doesn't believe in it, but believes that it's the only way to live - and hates herself for believing that, and adheres to it anyway. I think allowing her to initially give in to survival instinct instead of being the brave strong self-sacrificing hero the story wants her to be is fascinating, and honestly narratively way cooler than having her also be a committed rebel who will stop at nothing to attain her goals. We already have that character. It's Cassian.

The way some people in my niche, who I know love this character and this movie at least as much as I do, are taking to talking about Jyn and the movie as a whole feels kind of disingenuous to me. And again, I'm not saying they're lying about their stances to make a point or anything. I'm just saying I think some of us are starting to loose the forest for the trees at this point. Like did you really always think that Jyn was actually a bad part of this movie and that she was a squandered opportunity and that she conformed too much to what the sad old brothers Gllroy want women to be? Because I think in many ways Jyn became a little better of a female character via the changes - the only thing that's changed post Andor is realising that this was probably fully an accident. Because yes, they were trying to diminish her and tone her down, but I actually think that turned out very much for the best. It gave her more of an arc, and also it allowed her to be flawed in an uncool way, which female protagonists are so rarely afforded. It wouldn't have struck me as much if her flaw had been that she was ruthless and efficient (which, again, she still is in the movie we got, we just don't see as much of it). She got to be imperfect in a way that isn't admirable, but human, and I really think that's better, and I'm willing to bet a lot of you also thought that. Don't let it get lost in the very valid criticism of Gllroy's unending sexism towards his leading ladies, but especially towards Jyn.

Also, is his obsession with who Cassian is and isn't fucking and is and isn't in love with at any point in his life deeply strange and offputting? Sure is! Doesn't change the fact that I think the change from a semi-established relationship that ends in survival and marriage to an unspoken blossoming something that got cut short by a heroic act of sacrifice is a better story. Again, I am discovering that Gllroy apparently didn't understand what he did right at all, but it is a better story. Also, sorry to say, I will sooner take all the meekness and reduction in the female lead and all the Bor Gullet nonsense over not having this story end in a total party kill. Everything this movie is to me came from the fact that they went there knowing it was suicide and then it was. Because that is so rare, and such an infinitely good, correct move for all those characters and the story they're in. Again, just my two cents, but this strange new drift that actually, we always thought all of the changes were kind of bad and oh if we could only live in the world where we got the og story... I get that you're curious, but I'm also very, very certain that I would still prefer the version we got. Even if Gllroy clearly had all the wrong reasons for changing it and it's great someone is calling that out, I still think ultimately we all got so upset with it because we did love the story that we got, and I'm getting a little tired of people increasingly acting like that wasn't any good, actually.

You're giving this clown too much credit.

[powderpinkprincess]

Safe Haven - nine [Carlos Sainz & daughter!OC]

Carlos Sainz never expected to become a single dad, but when three-year-old Isa is suddenly left in his care, he’s forced to face the truth about what she’s been through… And what kind of father he’s willing to become. A story about family, healing, and learning to parent in the fast lane. find the list of chapters here & send me a sign if you want to be added to the taglist:)

When Carlos woke up the next day, Isa was still asleep, curled up beside him. Mornings like this were rare. Most of the time, she woke Carlos up, climbing on top of him or squirming under the blanket.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. He didn’t dare. Last night, it was so hard to lull her into sleep. She missed Vivian. Carlos didn’t want her to be exhausted the whole day on top of her emotional vulnerability. He just stared at her, watching the way her brow furrowed slightly even in sleep. He reached down, gently adjusted the blanket over her back, his chest aching with something deep and sharp.

This wasn’t how he imagined fatherhood would be. Nothing about this was fair. Especially not to her.

Eventually, he sighed and turned on his back. He reached for his phone on the nightstand and opened the messages. He tapped the conversation with Vivian.

“Are you free to call soon? Isa misses you.”

Seen. He sent this message before Vivian got the notice from the court. She opened it, along with the ones Carlos sent him in the past two weeks, and didn’t even bother to answer. She used to call Isa when she came over. Isa remembered that, too.

She even asked a few times, “When will Mommy call you?” And Carlos didn’t know how to answer. He checked his phone obsessively at first. Surely Vivian would at least ask how Isa was. But she didn’t. Not a single message, not a call, no reply to his texts. She didn’t pick up the phone. The only time she showed any sign of life was a voicemail, slurred and furious, two nights after the ruling. She accused Carlos of stealing her child and swore that she would take revenge for that. Isa never heard it. Carlos decided to ignore the voicemail.

Instead, he focused on what he could control. Meals. Sleep. Comfort. Safety.

Soon, Isa stirred awake next to him. She rubbed her face with her little palms and yawned. Carlos offered her a warm smile and stroked her cheek with his fingers.

 “Buenos días, Isa,” he murmured as he let her shift closer to his body. Isa understood some Spanish, but she didn’t speak it. In the past weeks, Carlos settled by talking mostly in English to her, hoping the language she knew best and was most comfortable with would bring her comfort. These days, he decided to switch languages in scenarios that would be easy to understand even if she wasn’t sure of the meaning of his words.

He knew raising a child wasn’t supposed to be about him, but he still wished Isa would start speaking Spanish, his native language that he loved so much.

She stretched her arms above her head and yawned again. Then, she looked at him and asked, “Are we going to the airport today?”

Carlos wasn’t sure if she didn’t understand, or if the reality was too big and painful for her little heart to take in. He reached out and pulled her close to his side, his fingers smoothing back the dark, messy hair from her face.

 “No, cariño. We’re staying home today,” he answered. He wondered when the time would come when thinking about their situation wouldn’t bring tears into his eyes.

 “Why?”

Carlos took a deep breath. “Because plans have changed. Do you remember what I told you yesterday? That your new home is here with me now?”

Isa nodded but didn’t say anything.

Carlos leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Te quiero, Isa.”

---

In the following days, Isa clung to him. Wherever he went in the house, she followed, silent and attached like a shadow. She wanted to be in his lap, in his arms, tucked into his chest all the time. She didn’t even ask anymore. Just reached for him like it was the most natural thing in the world. If he sat on the floor, she crawled into his lap. If he stood in the kitchen, she tugged at his pant leg until he picked her up. Then she took her thumb in her mouth, her free hand gripping his shirt, silently watching whatever he was busy with.

Carlos didn’t mind, not even a little. But it scared him. It wasn’t a regular clinginess. It was grasping. Desperate. Like somewhere deep down, Isa was afraid he might disappear, too.

After a while, she stopped asking when Vivian was going to call or when they were leaving for the airport. Carlos would’ve thought it was a sign of healing if her play hadn’t lost its colour as well.

She didn’t sing, she didn’t hum, she didn’t mumble dialogues under her breath like she used to. She just picked up her ponies or her wooden zoo, lined them up, then switched the order, over and over again. But there was no story behind it. Not anymore.

When Carlos sat down with her and offered her a plot, she always joined, at least for a while. How about we do a carnival? Let’s play nursery with them. And Isa would smile, telling Carlos what a real carnival looked like or who should be the teacher. Then, after a few minutes of playing, she always dropped her toys like she was never even absorbed in the first place.

She also started having trouble with her stomach. Small at first, quiet. Then more often. She’d press her hands to her belly and curl into a ball. She didn’t eat much.

Carlos worried he’d changed things too fast. He shifted Isa’s diet completely. He cooked soft chicken, roasted vegetables, and rice. Blended fruit smoothies with spinach. He tried to get her to eat eggs, lentils, and beans. He read articles late into the night about nutrition for toddlers with iron and vitamin deficiency. He felt like maybe, if he could get her stronger physically, everything else would follow.

So, he cut back the fiber. Added more water. He cut out certain ingredients, adjusted portions, and tried bland foods. Nothing seemed to help, so he called the pediatrician.

---

Dr. Clarke welcomed Isa like she had only seen her yesterday. She even remembered what kind of a sticker Isa got from her after the blood test. Carlos expected Isa to cry, but when her mouth first wobbled, she handed Isa the teddy again, and it distracted her just enough.

She checked Isa thoroughly. Even sent her to an ultrasound. It was in the same building, and they didn’t have to wait for long, so Dr. Clarke called them back right after.

She sat on her rolling chair and folded her hands. “So, physically, she looks fine.”

Carlos blinked. “But… She’s in pain. She’s been crying about it for days.”

 “I believe you. And I believe her. But this doesn’t seem to be a gastrointestinal issue. Her belly is soft, no inflammation, no fever, no signs of infection. Everything is normal.” Dr. Clarke took a soft breath and glanced down at Isa, sitting in Carlos’s lap, clenching his shirt like a baby koala. “Sometimes children somatise emotional distress. Especially at this age.”

Carlos frowned slightly. “You mean… This is psychological?”

 “Yes. I remember your story. When children experience hard feelings, their bodies often translate them into physical pain. It’s more common than people realize, especially when kids don’t yet have the words to describe what they are feeling.” She smiled faintly. “But their bodies speak.”

Carlos didn’t know what to say to that.

Dr. Clarke continued. “You’ve both been through something major. And I’m sure you're doing your best. That counts for more than you think.”

Carlos nodded numbly. He didn’t feel like he was doing well. He felt like he was just barely keeping her head above water… And his own.

 “What do I do then?” he asked.

 “Keep a routine. She needs predictability. Let her feel safe and let her express what she can. Drawings, pretend play, and even acting out work, whatever she is most comfortable with. Validate her. Don’t force explanations, but don’t avoid them either. And yes, it would help to work with a child psychologist who specializes in attachment trauma.”

Carlos nodded again. “Yes, we have another appointment coming up with Mrs. Berger.”

 “Good,” Dr. Clarke smiled. “She knows how to help.”

chapter ten

👑: @guacala @dreaming-starlet @freyathehuntress @smithieandy @maggiedog98 @ndiff @anunstablefangirl @sabrinaselina55 @becasworldsstuff @kenkozkmg

[nej-ma]

jon moxley about his texas death match vs hangman adam page at revolution ‘23, and audience interactions in general

excerpts taken from way of the blade: AEW edition by phil schneider, art by chris bryan

(transcript below the cut)

(transcript below the cut)

“Yeah, that whole thing was cool because I don’t know what the plan would have been if he hadn’t got knocked out. It’s supposed to be a one-off, me and Hangman. But in the little build, it was the first time we’d ever interacted really seriously. I’m sensitive to the people, whether it’s something they want to see. Me and Hang just, like, felt good.

“So we were only going to do the one-off. But I was already thinking like, ‘man, we should keep this going.’ But then he gets fucking knocked out. I don’t even think I hit him that hard. It was one of those weird things. The ref was like ‘he’s snoring.’ I’m like, ‘what the fuck?’

“Whatever. So anyway, he gets knocked out. Instantly, I’m like, ‘we have to fucking make a story out of this.’ Like, that night. I’m like, ‘well, I mean, let’s all hope that he’s okay and make sure he gets his MRI and everything. But after that, we have to go back to this.’

“I love that fucking motherfucker. He’s easy as fuck to work with. Going back-and-forth. He always brings the fucking energy when you need him to. We just kept it really simple. One of the first matches, I forced him to watch fucking Cody Garbrandt versus TJ. Dillashaw (a UFC fight). Not for any of the moves they’re doing or anything, but just for the momentum, how it goes way hard the one direction and then it just goes way hard back the other. Cody fucking knocks him down. Round two, TJ knocks him down. And then, as soon as it starts going the other direction, it just fucking goes all the way to the finish.

“I was like, ‘that’s exactly what we need to do.’ Like, fuck all this back and forth and double downs and horse shit and let the fucking people chant and everything. Like, no, fuck that. I’m going to start beating the fuck out of you. You just came back from a concussion. You’re in danger. I’m going to start beating the fuck out of you. People are going to be like, ‘oh, no.’

“And then once it flips, just fucking ride that shit all the way through until you fucking knock me out with a goddamn clothesline. And it’s over. Fuck all these wrestling formulas. Let’s make people not know what’s going to happen. And that worked out fucking perfect.

“The Texas one, by that point in the feud and working with him, I was so confident and comfortable and no worries. And I was like 100 percent certain. Like, never have I been more certain that we’re going to go out there and just fucking tear it up. And it’s going to be awesome and easy. I’ve never been more relaxed before a fucking Texas Death Match on a pay-per-view in my life. Just total confidence.

“There really wasn’t any crazy story of how any of those spots came together. It was just like by that point, we were just:

‘What do you want to do?’

‘Maybe this.’

‘Fuck, throw some of that in there.’

‘Okay.’

‘All right, well, fuck, see you out there.’

“And the cool thing about Hangman is, I like to call a lot of shit out there. And he’s totally cool with me calling something to him. He’ll be like, ‘oh, yeah, good idea.’ And he’ll just do it. He’ll ad lib. We’ll get mileage out of little shit.

“By that point, we were like a well-oiled fucking machine. So it was an easy match. I like to fucking fuck with everybody’s rhythm and time signatures and shit. Because people talk about, ‘yeah, there’s lucha libre style and like a Japanese style’ and whatever. Oh, yeah? Well, that was true years ago. Now everybody does modern, integrated, international shit. If you watch the lamest match on Monday Night Raw, they’re going to be doing head scissors and fucking power bombs and Japanese moves and shit. That was like cutting edge in the 90’s but it’s pretty ubiquitous. Pretty much everywhere, you see it. Everybody does modern moves.

“But the thing I’ve noticed is different is the timing and the pacing and the kind of rhythm of the matches and shit. WWE has a certain style. New Japan has a certain style. The cool thing about AEW is that there’s no certain house style. So you get like Penta and Fenix and Kommander. And these motherfuckers are doing pure lucha straight out of fucking Mexico City. Jim Ross was about to have a coronary the first fucking few months of the company. Because he just couldn’t understand why these motherfuckers weren’t grabbing the tag rope? It’s like, ‘they’re just doing it man.’

“And like fucking Ishii comes in. He’s doing his stuff. So it’s different psychologies. But, I like to fuck with shit. We did the shit with the brick. I remember, in the moment, I was like, ‘I’m going to roll out and grab that brick so fast and smash his fingers with a brick so quick that nobody’s going to even be able to fucking digest what they saw.’

“Which would normally go against completely against Wrestling 101. Like, you don’t want to do anything too fast because people have to be able to absorb what they see. And if you do it too fast, they won’t be able to react to it. So you want to slow everything down and play to the last seat in the audience. Play to the nosebleed seats. And so everybody can see and everything. I did the opposite— just to see what would happen.

“I’ll do that a lot of times just to play with these fucking rules that everybody says are rules and just see what happens. I could have brought out the goddamn brick and been like, ‘hey, everybody, here’s the brick.’ And they’d be like, ‘oh, no, a brick.’ And then do whatever the fucking spot we did. And then they’re like, ‘yay’ or ‘boo’, depending on who took the brick. But by that point, they’re not as shocked by the brick.

“So, I’m trying to sneak this brick out with no fanfare. I don’t even care if you notice or not. Roll out. Grab the goddamn brick. Snatch his fucking fingers. Then it’s different. It’s like, ‘what the fuck just happened? Was that a goddamn brick? Oh, my God.’ You know what I mean?

“I’m two or three steps ahead, just moving on without them. And they’re getting left in the dust, and they’re like, ‘what the fuck is going on?’ And they’re desperately trying to keep up, this match is out of control. ‘Oh, my God.’ That way, when the match is over, they’re tired, they’re exhausted, and they’re out of breath. And they’re like, ‘what the fuck was that? That wasn’t even wrestling. That was some kind of fucking horrible shit. What did I just see?’

“That’s the kind of reaction you want if you’re going to call it a death match. If I’m having some kind of crazy ass death match, I want people to be uncomfortable. I don’t want people to be like, chanting, ‘this is awesome’ and shit. I don’t want them to have time to fucking understand what I’m doing and knowing when they can pause to chant, ‘this is awesome.’

“And when it’s over, it’s like mercifully over. The key thing about death match psychology to me is that when it’s over, it’s not like, ‘yay.’ It’s like, ‘oh, my fucking God. Thank fucking God it’s over. Are they okay? What the fuck?’ It’s hard to put into words, but I’m trying to fucking freak people out.

“There’s a bunch of motherfuckers all around this business that are really good, that have great fucking physiques, they can talk and they can do a 450 and a fucking flippy doo springboard and a moonsault, and they can fucking gorilla press a motherfucker. And they know how to work and they understand how a fucking 25-minute PWG match is fucking built. When we do a double down, and when we no sell super kicks, and when we all fucking lay there so people clap for us and all that.

“There’s a bunch of those motherfuckers around and there’s a bunch of them that nobody gives a fuck about because they’re just doing, like, what they think a good wrestler is supposed to do. They’re not doing anything that’s surprising the fans, because they pattern themselves using shit fans see every fucking day. I don’t want to name anybody.

“But my favorite part of the Texas Death Match was, right around when it was starting to get nuts, a smattering of people tried to get a ‘this is awesome’ started. But they couldn’t get attention from the rest of the people because the rest of the people were, like, murmuring to each other in shock and fucking trying to figure out what was going on.

“And it was, like the greatest sound ever because it’s ten times better than we do a double clothesline, we fall down, and everybody in the building knows they’re supposed to start standing and chanting ‘this is awesome.’ Or ‘fight forever’ or whatever the fuck. But at that moment in time, when a few people were trying to get a chant together but the whole rest of the audience was just in an uproar, nobody knew what the fuck was going on. Nobody was on the same page.”

[chiisana-sukima]

you are so right about the whole - what about x treatment made logical sense to the show runners - because honestly when you go back and look at it/even in the moment there’s just so many reactions (mostly to sam 🙄) that are just. not just illogical but also kind of weird for the characters around him. they just wanted him to suffer 😔

In regards to this post.

Right??? And it was the heavy hitters who wrote those episodes too: Edlund, Gamble, and Kripke.

I do have a theory, based partly on reverse-engineering the weird parts that don't make sense onto the structure of what's generally considered good story structure, partly on fan beliefs about Sam's character, partly on Kripke's newly revealed rejected ending, and partly on conditions in the writers' room and on set. But of course, there's no way to know without someone involved coming out and saying it or something directly contradictory to it. My theory is not very complimentary to the showrunners.

So, for a hero's journey-style story structure, ideally you start with characters who have some flaws and then they face challenges that reveal their flaws to both themselves and the audience. They're offered the opportunity for growth, and then at the end, they overcome their flaws in the final big climax, right?

When Kripke outlined his preferred ending in that recent episode of spn then & now, he said Sam would go to the Cage and Dean would marry Lisa and have a kid, because Dean's growth was letting go of Sam. And then the cycle would start all over because Kripke's a horror writer and also imo kind of a douche. And at the beginning of Swan Song, when Dean agrees to Sam's plan, he does say it's not his place to make that decision for Sam because he (Dean) needs to accept that Sam is an adult and can make his own decisions, which sounds basically like the same thing.

So Dean and Bobby prior to that when they say Sam is weak and selfish and not good enough etc are, I think, supposed to be demonstrating outright the flaw they've been also embodying, but more subtly, earlier in the arc of thinking of and treating Sam too much like a selfish kid playing hero whose messes they have to clean up, rather than, you know, an actual hero. I personally find this a really difficult sell because who treats someone they see as a child like that??? But given that multiple people invited to spn then & now and both hosts have all said that a) Singer is like a father figure on set and b) per various reports, including his own, apparently Singer's management style is ignoring you unless you do something wrong and then yelling at you and rumor also says throwing things, this may in fact be how everyone involved sees treating someone as a subordinate/child.

So what about Sam's flaws? It pains me to say this because it's so insane and horrible--but again, doing well both in the writers' room and on set, per everyone's own reports, involved working through a lot of abuse and getting along to go along--I think Sam's flaws are supposed to be that he's arrogant and selfish and inappropriately angry, all as evidenced by his initial belief that he was better than his family and could escape from it, and then expanded on in s4. This is what fans who don't like Sam say about his character too, and it makes sense of that bizarro line where Sam says he knows he's "the least of them all" while volunteering to sacrifice himself to an eternity of torture. He's learned his lesson and is now humble and good.

I mean, it makes sense in an unbelievably horrible way, right? He was bad for thinking he was too good to staying in an abusive family. How else can you make up for that but repent on your knees and then volunteer to go stay with an even worse abusive family, literally forever?

[mysteriousxgirls]

Harmony closed her eyes and tilted her face toward the sun, letting its warmth kiss her skin as she rested against the man who anchored her. Nate’s arms around her were steady, grounding—like they always were when the world felt too heavy. She could hear the soft hum of conversation nearby, Harper’s laughter dancing through the air, and for a rare moment, everything felt… normal. She didn’t think about her phone being hacked two weeks ago. Didn’t think about Morta Fenice. Didn’t think about the fear that clawed at her when she pictured labor, or the shadow that sometimes followed her around whispering that happiness wasn’t hers to keep. She was just here. Just a woman, in love, building a future. They had started looking into therapy together—something that once terrified her. But now? It felt like hope. Like maybe, for once, they had a real shot at being okay. “To be honest…” she started, her voice quiet, almost hesitant. Her gaze drifted toward the table, lingering on the pastel cake she had decorated with so much care. “I’m happy. But…” Her voice faltered, dropping into a whisper. “Every time I let myself feel that way—warm, safe… like I might actually deserve this—something bad always follows. Like I jinx it just by believing I’m allowed to feel okay.” The weight of her own words hit her and she quickly masked it with a soft smile, turning her face toward Nate. “But I’m good,” she said, eyes shining too much for the lie to land clean. “I’m good, baby.”

Monica tilted her head, studying the way Jayden didn’t flinch or pull back—not from her story, her energy, or the edge in her voice. If anything, it only seemed to pull him in deeper. She smirked, letting her fingers brush his on the counter again, slow and deliberate. “You can stop by anytime,” she purred, her voice low and velvet-smooth. “But maybe I should give you my number first. Just to make sure I’m around… when you’re in the mood for a private show.” She winked, her lip caught between her teeth in a flash of bold flirtation. Sara gave a breathy laugh when Sam asked how she got into stripping, but there was a quiet truth behind her grin. “Might be the classic case of daddy issues,” she said lightly. “He went out for milk when I was sixteen… never came back.” She shrugged, tone too casual for the heaviness of the words. “Didn’t really have a plan B. My mom passed when I was a baby, so it’s been me ever since.” She sipped her drink like it was nothing—like survival was just another Tuesday. “You learn how to make it work. Make it look good.”

Ivy chuckled, leaning in and giving Rhett’s hand a soft squeeze. “Behave,” she whispered, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Your daughter’s high on sugar and Harms future in-laws are lurking. I don’t think they’re ready for loud Ivy.” She shot him a teasing wink. But when the mood shifted, she nodded, serious again. “Yeah. I’ll talk to Nate. Later. This is their day—I don’t want to cloud it with Carla’s bullshit.” She took a breath, like she was filing the weight of it away for now. “Let’s just enjoy what’s left of the sunshine.” She walked over to where Nate and Harmony sat, her smile warm as she dropped down beside them onto the cushions. “Alright, lovebirds, break it up,” she teased. “Time for the rest of us to crash your romantic bubble.” She looked around, her eyes catching on the cake, the carefully placed décor, the cozy spread around them. “Seriously, Harmony… this whole setup?” She let out a low whistle. “You outdid yourself. Honestly, just marry me.” She grinned, playful and bright. “We would be a killer team.”

Nate chuckled softly, the sound warm and steady as he tightened his arms just a little around Harmony. “Dangerous, huh? I didn’t realise I was such a threat,” he teased, a playful grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But hey, if forgetting your back hurts is my superpower, I’ll take it.” He shifted slightly so he could look down at her, his eyes gentle and full of care. “How are you, really?” he asked quietly, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. Nate pressed a soft kiss to her temple again. “I promise, we’re gonna be fine. All of us. I’ve got you.” His voice was steady, sure—an anchor in the quiet room. “No matter what comes next, we’re in this together.”

Jayden’s smirk deepened as Monica revealed her wild past, the fire in her eyes matching the playful spark in his. He leaned in just a bit closer, voice low and smooth. “Sounds like you’ve got a thing for danger, you’re trouble.” His fingers lightly brushed hers on the counter, eyes locking with hers. “I might have to see that performance sometime.” His grin turned wickedly charming. “You ever get bored of being the one to take off your clothes?” He smirked, the subtle hint drifting into the air. Sam chuckled warmly at Sara’s quick wit, raising his glass in a friendly toast. “You definitely know how to keep people on their toes,” he said with a grin. “Lawyer, stripper — sounds like the perfect combo for some interesting stories.” He nudged her lightly. “So, how did you get into that?”

Rhett’s grin stretched wide at Ivy’s words, a spark lighting up his eyes. “Now I’m picturing you dragging me to a corner and having your way with me and I’m bricked up.” He let out a low laugh, running a hand through his hair. But then, when she pulled back with that playful grin, the excitement got clipped just a bit. “Wait... so that was just a distraction?” He mock-pouted, but there was no real edge to it—just playful disappointment. He squeezed her hand gently, voice dropping to a softer tone. “Maybe we don’t mention what Nate’s mum said to you—no need to stress Harmony over it today.” He glanced over at Nate and Harmony, then back to Ivy. “But you might wanna warn Nate, just in case. Better he hears it from you than it coming out sideways.”

[gorgiawrite]

Rabbot fic in the work

So, I've started a story that spans over 3 months after Pittfest. I fudged the timeline a bit (I didn't find out Pittfest happened on September until later), so the story will include the 4th of July, and some other fun events for the Emergency Department to deal with. It's gonna be a full cast (I deliberately picked 3 months to follow a full 12 weeks rotation for Javadi and Whittaker, I have plans for everyone) and I can already tease a "Sexuality Crisis" tag. Also, it shall be rated E.

This is a sneak peak of what my story plans look like. I did the full 3 months like that, because I'm an insane person. Below is what my writing looks like.

The governor visits the PTMC...

“Thank you for all your extraordinary work. I cannot imagine how much more losses we would have had to endure without it.” 

The governor had a sensible, context-appropriate expression, with camera-ready make up on. Robby shook his hand, right after Abbot, swept up in the performance. The whole ED staff, it seemed, was gathered around them.

Robby had voted for him. He was the lesser of two evil : a democrat, as likely to gut healthcare’s budget as the other, but less enthusiastic about it. At least he had the good sense to not bring any camera in the ED. Although Robby should probably give Gloria credit for that : she knew high mortality areas and visual press didn’t make for great PR.

Still, there was one journalist : he was introduced as a reporter for the Washington Post. Gloria preened in his presence, even more so than in the governor’s. He had an old fashioned notepad, but Robby was quite certain he was also recording audio with his phone.

“We do our job,” Robby answered simply. He eyed, over the crowd, Doctor Mohan who kept tabs on the boarders during this commotion, assisted by McKay.

There were gurneys in the hallway, as always, and maybe a few more wheelchairs than usual. Robby might have done one last pass in triage, picking up non-criticals with the most visible, impressive looking wounds to fill up the floor.

“Doctor Robinavitch is too modest,” objected Gloria, moving to his side. “He’s one of the best Emergency Physician of the country.”

“It was a team effort,” Robby retorted, voice grating, with a shake of his head.

“Well, I wanted to salute you all personally,” the governor nodded, looking over at the rest of the staff assembled around them.

“Unfortunately,” said Robby, glancing toward Gloria with a sardonic smile, “you won’t get to meet most of the people who worked that night. We are sorely understaffed, so a lot of those who volunteered their time are off right now to keep the department going,” he explained, intonation rising. “And the charge nurse leading during the MCI quit because she was assaulted. We don’t have enough security either.”

Glory, whose eyes had gotten a little fixed when he started talking, stepped forward, right in front of him. “What he means is, unfortunately the public-”

“What I mean,” Robby said louder, to cover her voice, “is a patient punched a nurse in the building-”

“She was outside.”

“She was by the door in the ambulance bay,” Robby corrected, facing Gloria, “and she stayed to do her job, despite a fractured nose, because she knew we can’t afford even an hour without one of our staff.” Robby turned to the governor. “And that’s how she ended up working past the end of her shift, through the pain, to save dozens of people. But our establishment doesn’t pay her a living wage, and that punch was the last straw. All my nurses are taking four to five twelve hours shifts a week, which is above the national or recommended average-”

“Robby,” Collins spoke, stepping forward to his side. He was raising his voice, he now realized. He didn’t acknowledge her presence, but took a breath.

“And we are months away from being put under corporate management,” he continued, more evenly, “which would deprive this city of its biggest trauma center—because I can assure you, that is the way it goes. Because while the number of lives we save is very high, our patient satisfaction averages are in the toilet. Because people wait eight to twelve hours sitting in a crowded waiting room, and then spend days right here, in the hallway,” he waved to the multiple gurneys lined against the walls “hoping for a bed upstairs. Which we have-”

“Doctor Robinavitch-”

“Which we have,” he said again, talking over Gloria, “but can’t staff because the wage we offer is substandard.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Robby could hear the beeping of machines and the soft whisper of nurses still working with patients from across the room. Everyone was staring at him : some wide eyed, some pitying ; Collins looked, worried, between him and Gloria.

The governor, who had nodded gravely through all this, had a frown between his eyes. Robby could feel Abbot at his back ; moved closer in the last minute.

Gloria plastered on a polite smile, the skin around her eyes gone tight, and she gestured a hand, good-naturedly, at him.

“As you can see,” she told the governor, with a nod to the journalist, “our doctors are very passionate about the care they provide. The Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center is a big family, and we have, like many other across the country, suffered greatly in the aftermath of the COVID pandemic. We do wish to improve the working condition of our nurses. ” She smoothed down her cerulean blue jacket in a practiced move. “Our board have put down several requests, for the last three years, for some special state funding to be granted to trauma centers like ours, so that we may provide our citizens with the best healthcare there can be. The nursing shortage is nation wide, but there is no reason Pennsylvania can’t put itself at the forefront, when it comes to creating more nursing jobs and ensuring a higher standard of care.”

She ended her sales pitch with a raised chin.

“Well, that is worth discussing,” the governor answered, nodding with a stiff smile.

A hand closed tightly over Robby’s shoulder, squeezing painfully. He realized the chief medical officer had taken her guest farther, toward the ambulance bay. She was introducing him to Ahmad : his security badge gleamed as he shook the politician’s hand. While she did some damage control, the Pitt crew had moved back to their posts.

Robby could hear his heart beating, a shrill whistling in his ears covering the ambient noise. He’d spaced out again.

“Lets go get some air, brother.”

Robby nodded listlessly. He let Abbot direct him toward the elevator, eyeing automatically the board, the patients and his team as he walked by. But everything seemed in order, and ambulances were temporarily directed to West Penn for the duration of the governor’s tour.

When they reached the rooftop, Robby felt like someone had cut off his strings. He barely made it to the guardrail, draping himself over it, head hung low above his crossed arms.

“Well, that was something,” Abbot declared in his sarcastic drawl.

“She won’t fire me.”

“No. But she can force you to retire.”

Robby turned his head, laying his forehead against the cool metal of the rail to get Abbot in his eyesight. The man was resting near, looking down at him, an amused tilt to his lips.

“Then I’d have nothing to lose,” Robby replied.

Jack Abbot smirk faded, a little nod of acknowledgement his sole answer.

Gloria was smart. She was going to be a pain after this, but there was a reason she hadn’t fired Robby so far. Hell, she’d already turned this thing to her advantage. He hated it, how easily she’d sided with him, like she wasn’t part of the problem.

“You had any day off since Saturday?” Jack asked.

Saturday. That had become the code word for Pittfest. Most of them couldn’t name it, these days. Or they just didn’t risk it around him. Robby wasn’t too sure.

“I was supposed to get Sunday, but there was too much to catch up on,” he answered, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I have a four day break starting tomorrow, but I’ll be here Friday, since I’m missing a senior resident.”

Langdon was another name he’d rather not hear or speak.

“You going to the memorial, Saturday?”

Robby nodded yes. The whole city was in mourning. Not that you’d notice, in the echo chamber that was the ED. Abbot turned his back to the guardrail, resting the hollow of his waist against it. He was mulling over something, Robby could feel it.

“You thought about what I told you?”

Robby straightened, confused. “About?”

“I got an appointment with my therapist tomorrow I need to cancel. I’m needed for a consult I asked for a patient at the VA. You could take it, if you wanted.”

The reflective no hit the back of his teeth. Robby hadn’t been sleeping. His department was a mess, he was loosing his grip on the one thing he could always count on—his professional acumen—and Jake still wouldn’t talk to him.

“It won’t be a problem?”

Abbot’s ability to keep the surprise off his face was commendable. He only blinked his eyes pleasantly. “I’ll shout him a text. Tell him to expect you.”

Robby turned to look over the city, in a silent assent. Next to him, he felt Jack moving ; could see him, out of the corner of his eye, typing on his phone. Rule number one of flighty patients and uncooperative next of kin : the moment you get an agreement, you set things in motion. Don’t give them the time to change their mind.

Robby forced the tension out of his shoulders, pushed himself away from the guardrail and gripped both ends of the stethoscope around his neck. “You sticking around?” he asked.

“Not in the ED” Abbot answered, slipping his phone back in his pocket. “I’ll make a round with the patients upstairs, see if Head and Neck is ready to sign off on its MCI charts.”

They walked back companionably toward the elevator.

“Shouldn’t Walsh do that?” Robby asked once they were inside, his mind catching up slowly. “She was Primary Surgeon.”

Abbot smiled—the closed-mouth one he only displayed in good company. He pressed on the fourth floor button.

“Flores is being a pain, as usual. Emery has been bitching about it for the last two shifts. If I handle this one, chances are I’ll get a very cooperative Trauma Surgeon on consults for at least a week.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Nice change of pace.”

Robby snorted. “You’ll just get bored.”

The elevator doors opened and Jack stepped out. He taped the side of his fist on the metal as he turned before it closed : “I think we could all do with a little boring, right now.”

Back down on the Emergency Department floor, Robby checked prudently for any sign of Gloria before going in. But it seemed the danger had passed.

“Doctor Robby.”

Perlah made a bee line to him. He was walking toward the staff lounge, slowing to let her join him on the way.

“Did Dana really quit? I thought she was on leave.”

Robby nodded noncommittally, glancing at the nurse’s expectant face. Her hijab, today, was green, and her lips were pinched. He poured himself a cup of coffee.

“She’s still on leave,” he confirmed, leading her back out in the hallway. “But she did give her resignation. Gloria talked her into taking two weeks first, to think it over.”

“You have to convince her to come back. We need her. I can’t be a charge nurse.”

“Yes, you can. You did great on Bridget’s day off”, said Robby, taking a tablet from the nearest station. “But we’re not there yet,” he quickly added when he saw Perlah’s expression. “I talked to Gloria. She wants Dana gone even less than we do. She’s been trying to convince her to come back. Hopefully she’ll find the right argument.”

He checked the board with a glance and went to Collins, who was overseeing McKay’s work on a broken arm waiting for the OR. “Hell, Dana might negotiate us an extra security guard for the ED,” Robby told Perlah when she kept pace with him. 

“The anaphylactic shock in South 20 is ready to be discharged,” Doctor Collins reported when she saw them approach. “And I put King, Santos and Javadi on all the extremity lacs that suddenly got admitted en masse” She gave him a pointed look. “So that we can clear up the hallway a little.”

“Who’s on chairs?” asked Perlah.

“Jesse is keeping an eye out, and I’ll be back there now that you are here,” she addressed that last part to Robby. He nodded, after checking the labs of South 20 on his tablet.

“Good work Doctor Collins. Perlah, we can discharge Mr Rodriguez. Make sure he has his script. And ask Bridget if she can get some update from her spies in the ICU : we need to snatch beds while everyone is still distracted with Gloria’s little press tour.”

The next hour went on as usual. The kids made quick work of the injuries that only required stitches and a dressing. They were all now incredibly efficient when it came to treating multiple patients in rapid succession ; and those didn’t even need to be stabilized. The day before, Whitaker—who was currently off—had been halfway through putting an airway before they all realized it wasn’t a task they usually attributed to med students in a standard capacity. But the hell with it : Javadi and him were old hands at it now. And Santos had executed a damn near perfect REBOA, in circumstances so chaotic it would have given pause to even the most seasoned physician.

Doctor King showed herself to be as self-sufficient as Doctor McKay, and Robby made sure to coach them both on some procedures once the ambulances started bringing back trauma patients to the PTMC. It was easy to rely too much on the two R2s, and forget to teach them as consistently as the rest of the lot. Collins managed the tide of the waiting room beautifully, sending him the occasional worried look when she came by ; and Mohan was back to her sluggish pace—a disappointing return to form after her incredible work during Pittfest. Still, she was his best diagnostician.

All in all, things were going great. Or as great as could be in his department. But every time Robby stopped, there was a hollow carved up below his diaphragm that grew wider and wider. It felt like the pressure of its vacuum pulled his insides into a compact knot. Robby hadn’t set foot in pedes since Saturday. He didn’t know how long he’d manage to keep that one up.

“What am I looking at, here?”

Abbot stood beside him, backpack over one shoulder. In front of them was an EVS worker, scrubbing green glitter paint off the floor in the middle of the ED.

“Kid covered himself in arts and craft supplies. Developed a rash. He’s fine,” Robby recounted. “You’re going?”

“Yeah. Off to get some sleep,” answered Jack, inviting him with a motion of his head to follow. “I’m on shift tonight. I’ll be back to pick up the slack.”

“No slack, just overflow,” Robby quipped in a lilting voice. He made sure Bridget saw him walk outside, and signed with a tap on his watch and raised fingers two minutes.

They moved to the side of the ambulance bay, backs to the wall, and Abbot handed him a card-stock paper. It had a name—Dr. Francis Murphy—and an appointment time for the next day.

“Fair warning, I told him were I found you the night after Pittfest. I had a quick session on the phone with him after the whole thing. It wasn’t about you. I have my own issues with the place. But it came up.” Abbot cocked his head to catch his eyes dead on. ”If that’s a bother, you can ask him for a referral.”

Robby shook his head, waving the note pinched between his fingers. “Nah.” He huffed. “It might be easier if he already know the stuffs I’m not telling. But that’s probably cheating,” he added with a rueful smile.

“Far be it from me to keep you from using every trick in the book to ace therapy. Murphy keeps telling me it’s not a competition, but I think he’s just a sore loser.” Abbot bumped his arm. “Just give me a heads up if you tell him anything he can use against me.”

“You sure you don’t want me to ask for a referral?”

“I’d rather you didn’t, honestly.” Abbot stepped away, turning to face him with a serious expression. “I know he can handle your brand of closed-off, since you and I are of the same mold. And he gets a lot of healthcare workers. He knows the drill…”

Robby lifted the card-stock in a lousy salute.

“All jokes aside, I doubt he’ll slip up between what you tell him and what I do. He’s solid.”

Robby nodded, eyes shifting to the ground, ready for this conversation to be over. He stayed there a moment, the soft card-stock squished between his fingers, listening for Jack’s steps once he finally walked away.

[lynxgriffin]

Carol will, if you did the weird route, ask kris if they will go to the fair with noelle. This does not happen on the normal route. If this is just because susie never said she was going with noelle in this route, some weird mind control on noelle, or what is unclear.

Given kris’s weird route crash out destroying the trash can in the holiday’s bathroom, she should at least know something is off about kris, and notice noelle acting weird too.

Im expecting the story to go to very dark places with carol honestly, and don’t expect her to come out sympathetic at all. Her daughter seems genuinely afraid of her, shes manipulating kris, has kidnapped or has assisted in the kidnapping of undyne.

If gerson is showing us the crux of the narrative- shatter the prophecy, change the ending- then carol seems diametrically opposed to this. She despises susie, a clear aberration in the prophecy. She wants to stop susie from getting the bunker codes, which would allow us to derail the knights plans presumably. This probably isn’t coincidental with her family being framed as the strongest adherents to the DR religion- its hard to say what significance their version of Christmas has, but it’s clearly some sort of holy day, and carol insists on it being that every day of the year

It could be both, considering yeah, Susie doesn't ask Noelle to go in the weird route, and the control the soul is starting to assert over Noelle may have influenced her into asking to go to the festival with Kris.

I don't know if she would necessarily pick up on Kris or Noelle acting off, though. Especially if removing Susie from the picture and keeping Kris and Noelle closer together is more in line with her plan, she may not have reason to yet believe that Noelle is in serious danger. From what we've seen so far, it really does seem like she's going to extreme lengths to protect her family at any cost. So either she is not fully aware of the extent of the player's abuse of Noelle, or she believes that it's just a necessary side effect of reaching her goal...an ends justify the means scenario. I do agree that Carol is operating as diametrically opposed to Gerson's philosophy, and wants preservation at any cost, including preserving the prophecy. But if what's happened to Dess is any kind motivation for what she's doing now, I actually don't know if she wants both of her daughters ending up completely shattered. Maybe if she thought that the only other option was "dead," she might go that way, but I want to see more of how she is in the continued weird route first.

And Kris actually telling Carol what happened in the weird route is a whole other deal. I don't think it's happened yet, since Kris seems bound and determined to keep all of their pain centered solely on themself, but that could certainly be a curveball...

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

Interesting how suddenly humble brags & claiming credit from Natasha Archer have appeared in surprise surprise, People magazine. We know real friends of the Waleses don't talk. If something rotten was going on in KP hopefully Catherine is wily to part with the snake tout suite on (seemingly) good terms. Reading the article is really making me questions some of the fashion choices that were made. Some of Catherine's best looks were actually when Natasha Archer was on maternity leave, but I suppose it's hard to reconcile being backstabbed by someone you trust.

Remember when Kate fired long time personal assistant Sophie Agnew in Oct 2019 after 7 years of working with her because Sophie was betraying her to Meghan? Feels like deja vu...

KP gives stories to People. Not all the time like the Sussexes do, but enough that this isn’t out of the ordinary. Past exclusives:

William’s first Earthshot

Kate’s plan as Princess of Wales

The “Sophie betrayed Kate” rumors were never verified or confirmed, at least not for me, because there was never any traction outside the Meghan snark blogs.

The only thing I’ve ever been able to dig up about why Sophie was fired is that she was supposed to oversee all the personal assistants for the four principles at KP, meaning she was probably meant to oversee a team of 3-5 people. When William booted the Sussexes and split the household, the team of personal assistants was reduced down to 1-2 people. Middle management on a team that small often causes more problems than it solves, so Sophie’s position was made redundant. This whole thing does not strike me as “Sophie was blindsided when she was let go,” as the betrayal rumor hints, but something everyone knew was coming and the timing of Sophie’s leave with her own wedding was the right fit and a natural transition. It does suck that the announcement came right after Sophie got married and was on her honeymoon but the timing may have been out of KP’s hands.