#I just... THESE ARE THE THINGS I WONDER LATE AT NIGHT

[pullmecloseman]

YOU SHOULD SEE HIM IN ITALY

Boyfriend!Bob Floyd x reader

Summary: A romantic destination wedding in the hills of Italy should’ve been a dream getaway—but sharing a luxury villa with your entire extended family and a boyfriend who looks unfairly good in linen? Yeah, it’s a lot. Bob Floyd may have already met your family, but this time it’s different. This time there’s champagne, sun-soaked jealousy, and the weight of one too many stolen glances. Between flirty texts, strategic outfit choices, and a swim that reveals a lot more of Bob than anyone expected, the tension between you two hits its boiling point. Add in nosy cousins, teasing aunts, and one very smug grandma, and it’s only a matter of time before Bob snaps in the best possible way.

Word count: 5.4k

A/N: Inspired by wedding weekends, filthy-fluff tropes, and the idea that Bob Floyd gets way too possessive when someone else looks at you twice. Do you want one of him proposing. I actually started writing this after like an hour of the poll because it was already winning anyways you guys are criminal for not choosing the disney world one

Warnings: Fluff with filthy tension, no explicit smut but lots of heavy suggestion, long-term established relationship, jealousy (non-toxic), protective/possessive Bob, mentions of Bob’s abs and body, suggestive language, family chaos, teasing relatives, swimwear scenes, emotional intimacy, heated make-out moments, and an overall sun-soaked romantic vibe. Bob and “you” are very clearly down bad for each other. Set at a luxury five-star villa in Italy for your cousin’s wedding.

masterlist boyfriend!bob masterlist

The drive along the Italian coastline was something out of a dream — the kind of landscape that didn’t feel real until you were inside it. Winding roads hugged the cliffs, offering breathtaking views of the sea below. Bougainvillea spilled over white stone walls, terracotta rooftops glinting under the late afternoon sun. Somewhere in the distance, church bells chimed. It was a postcard come to life.

You reached across the backseat of the black SUV and laced your fingers through Bob’s. His palm was warm and steady, like always, but there was the faintest tension in the way he held your hand — not hesitant, but… bracing. You felt it. He’d been quiet since you landed in Naples an hour ago. Not distant, just unusually reserved. And for someone like Bob Floyd — who leaned into silence the way others leaned into small talk — that meant something.

Mia sat in the front passenger seat, swiping through emails even though she was supposedly on vacation. “So,” she said, without looking up, “how many times do you think Dad’s asked the hotel staff if they serve American coffee?”

“Five,” Jason offered from behind the wheel. “He cornered someone at the airport with a Keurig suggestion.”

Bob chuckled, low and genuine, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. “There’s worse things than Italian espresso.”

Jason shot him a look in the rearview mirror. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

You smiled, but your gaze lingered on Bob’s face. His glasses had slipped a little down the bridge of his nose, and his jaw was tight — just like it had been since you left the States. The night before, you’d curled up in bed beside him, warm and sleep-heavy, and asked if he was nervous. He’d said no. But now, watching the way his knee bounced ever so slightly as the car climbed a hill, you knew the truth.

He was nervous.

Not about the destination, and not even about the wedding. About your family. Even after two years and several holidays spent together, he still felt the weight of it. You came from a loud, warm, unapologetically curious family. Bob had grown up in a small, quiet Lemoore house where family dinners were polite and brief, and affection was something you showed, not something you broadcast.

Now he was about to spend five days in close quarters with your entire extended family in a luxurious five-star villa overlooking the sea.

No wonder he looked like he was preparing for combat.

The hotel came into view around the next bend — a grand villa perched right on the edge of a cliff, with sun-drenched balconies, sweeping gardens, and white stucco walls gleaming like a pearl in the sun. A line of cypress trees bordered the long cobbled driveway, and you could already hear your niece Amelia shrieking in delight as she ran across the lawn in sparkly sneakers.

“Oh, wow,” Bob murmured, squinting as the car pulled up to the entrance. “You weren’t kidding. This is… something.”

Jason grinned. “Yeah, your girlfriend’s family doesn’t mess around. This is her cousin’s wedding, not the royal coronation, but don’t tell her dad that.”

Mia turned in her seat. “Remember to smile and accept all compliments, even the weird ones. Grandma might ask if you’re ‘a real pilot or just one of the math guys.’ Don’t take it personally.”

You squeezed his hand again. “You’ve already survived Thanksgiving dinner, Christmas charades, and my mom’s ‘can you open this jar?’ tests. You’ve got this.”

He looked over at you, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You sure?”

“Very,” you said, kissing his cheek. “They love you. They’re just going to be even louder about it now that we’re all stuck in one building together.”

The lobby was bright and open, with marble floors, vaulted ceilings, and massive arched windows that framed the glittering coast beyond. The concierge handed out room keys while staff offered lemon water and fresh towels.

Jayden came barreling down the hallway toward you, his cheeks pink and sun-drenched. “You’re finally here!” he shouted, leaping into your arms.

Bob caught a bag before it hit the floor. “Hey, buddy,” he said, ruffling the kid’s hair.

Jayden turned toward him, eyes wide. “Did you bring your helmet?”

Bob blinked. “My… helmet?”

“You said you’re a backseater,” Jayden said, very seriously. “That means you fly, right? I wanna see your helmet!”

You laughed. “He didn’t pack it, J. We left that at home.”

Amelia came skidding after him a second later, mid-chase, her tiny hands clutching a stuffed unicorn. “Grandma says you have to wear fancy clothes at dinner,” she declared. “And Mom says don’t talk about poop.”

Bob glanced at you, eyes wide with panic. “There was a briefing?”

You grinned. “Welcome to the family.”

—

That evening, after unpacking and settling into the sunlit hotel suite you were sharing, you found Bob out on the balcony, leaning on the railing, watching the ocean. The sun had dipped low in the sky, casting golden light across his face, making the soft curl of his hair glow at the tips.

You walked up behind him and wrapped your arms around his middle, cheek pressed to his back.

He didn’t say anything at first, just rested his hands lightly over yours.

“They like me, right?” he asked after a moment.

You smiled. “You’re asking me that again?”

“I know,” he said, sheepish. “But this feels different. Bigger.”

“It’s just a wedding.”

“It’s not just a wedding,” he said quietly. “It’s your family’s wedding. In Italy. And I’m just… Bob your boyfriend.”

You tugged him back slightly until he turned around to face you. “You are Bob, yes. My Bob. The guy who fixed Jayden’s Lego spaceship last Christmas, who always remembers to bring Amelia her favorite snacks, who held my grandma’s hand when she was talking about Grandpa last spring.”

His throat worked, eyes soft behind his glasses.

“You’re not just invited,” you whispered. “You belong here.”

He nodded, but didn’t speak — just kissed your forehead gently and pulled you into a hug that lingered until the sun disappeared.

You didn’t notice the soft smile on his face or the slight admiration that took over his feature when he looked at you.

You didn’t know that back at home there had been a little velvet box laying in his sock drawer for the past 2 months.

Not yet.

-

It started as a casual suggestion—a swim to cool off in the afternoon sun, something light before everyone had to start getting ready for the rehearsal dinner. The villa’s private pool sat just a few steps down from the main terrace, surrounded by lush cypress trees, terracotta tiles warm under bare feet, and a breeze soft enough to keep the heat from feeling unbearable.

You had barely stepped out in your new bathing suit before Bob’s brain short-circuited.

It wasn’t even scandalous—at least not by Italian standards—but it was fitted, low in the back, and red. A little vintage, a little flirty, paired with big sunglasses and a barely-there cover-up you shrugged off when you reached the water’s edge.

Bob had been mid-conversation with your dad and Leo when he caught sight of you.

You felt his gaze before you saw it—hot, wide-eyed, completely unable to look away.

You only gave him a small smile in return, knowingly innocent, then dove straight into the deep end.

The cool water rushed around you, and when you surfaced, Amelia was already yelling your name from the steps. “Swim with me! Swim with me!”

“Coming!” you laughed, pushing your hair back. You caught a glimpse of Bob sitting on the edge of the lounge chair, still frozen, still staring, until Leo clapped a hand on his shoulder and said something you couldn’t hear. Bob blinked hard, nodded, and finally stood.

He stripped his t-shirt off with the kind of casual slowness that didn’t look intentional but made your stomach flip. His swim trunks sat just a little low on his hips. His hair was already a little messy, his cheeks pink from the sun. You saw your aunt nudge your mom and say something that made them both laugh into their wine glasses.

You weren’t the only one looking.

Bob jumped into the water with Jayden right after that, a big splash and a half-hearted cannonball. You ducked under again to hide the grin stretching across your face.

For a while, it was pure fun—Jayden making waves with a kickboard, Amelia insisting Bob twirl her in the water, you climbing onto a flamingo float and drifting toward the middle. The sun glinted off the surface of the pool, laughter echoing off the stucco walls of the villa.

And then someone appeared beside your float—treading water, arms pushing lazily through the blue. You turned your head just as Bob floated closer, one hand catching the edge of your inflatable as he steadied himself.

“Can you stop looking like that?” he asked under his breath.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to kill me.”

You blinked slowly, feigning innocence. “I’m just floating.”

Bob leaned in just slightly, enough that you caught the heat in his voice. “You’ve been teasing me all week, sweetheart. And now you’re doing it in front of your entire family.”

You shrugged a shoulder. “Can’t help it. You look good.”

His jaw clenched—just a bit—and his grip on the float tightened. “I’m not even gonna touch you right now. Because if I start, I won’t stop.”

“Bold of you to assume I’d stop you.”

Bob exhaled slowly, pushed off the float, and swam backwards just enough to give you space. But his eyes lingered. And so did yours.

Later—when Jayden was back on the patio eating grapes and your mom was asking someone to play Italian love songs from the speaker—Bob pulled you aside under the overhang of the balcony, towel draped over both your shoulders.

“I know we’re here for your cousin’s wedding,” he murmured, pressing a slow, warm kiss just beneath your ear, “but if I get even one more look at you in that swimsuit, I swear to God…”

You turned your face to his. “You’ll what?”

“I’ll take you upstairs and make sure you forget every single person at this villa exists.”

Your breath caught.

He grinned, cocky and sweet and flushed from the sun. “Careful, sweetheart. I might actually do it.”

-

The hotel villa your cousin’s wedding was hosted at looked like it had been plucked from a dream — sun-kissed stucco, cascading ivy, high-arched windows that overlooked miles of Tuscan hills. Terracotta roofs, lemon trees, the scent of lavender and espresso in the air. You and Bob had barely been in Italy a full day, and your skin already glowed warmer, sun-soft and lazy from the flight and the breeze.

Your family had arrived in full force before you — and the welcome dinner was already in full swing on the open-air terrace by the time the two of you made your way down from your suite.

Bob stood beside you, freshly showered and crisp in a pale linen button-down and tailored navy pants that made him look like some sort of resort magazine centerfold. His sunglasses were tucked in his shirt collar, a lazy confidence in the way he walked next to you, hand resting low on your back.

The moment the two of you stepped onto the flagstone patio, a wave of family chatter rolled your way.

“There’s the lovebirds!” your dad called out.

You laughed as your mom practically jogged over, wine glass in hand, and pulled you in for a hug. “You look beautiful,” she said, then pulled back to eye Bob. “And so do you, Bobby. You clean up too well — you’re going to make the rest of the men here feel like trolls.”

Bob blushed immediately, eyes soft behind his glasses. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Oh, no ma’am. It’s Sandra,” your mom teased. “We’ve been through this.”

He chuckled and nodded, giving her that boyish half-smile that always made your stomach flip. He looked so out of place in the best way — tall and quiet, the kind of guy who watched everything first before jumping in. He always seemed so composed, even when he was nervous. But tonight? There was a glint in his eye, something low and charged and completely focused on you. Maybe it was the dress. Or maybe it was the way you kept brushing your hand against his wrist.

“Y/N!” Amelia, your six-year-old niece, launched into your legs, pink tulle dress flaring as she threw her arms around you. Jayden was right behind her, clearly just here for the appetizers. You crouched to hug them both, and when you stood back up, Bob had already knelt to high-five them and ask about their travel day.

Your grandma called his name from a few tables away. “Robert! Come let me look at you!”

Bob grinned, that polite Southern charm kicking in as he made his way to her. You watched him go — the curve of his shoulders, his broad back framed by clean linen, the gentle way he kissed her cheek and let her squish his face between both hands like he was her favorite grandchild.

“God, I’m so marrying him,��� you muttered to Mia, who had slipped in beside you with a fresh cocktail.

“Pretty sure you already live with him,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” you said, “but it’s different here. Like. Look at him. Look how good he is with everyone.”

“You say that like he’s not already part of the family.” She sipped. “Even Grandma likes him more than Jason, and he’s been married to me for eight years.”

You snorted. “That’s because Jason still talks through the movie.”

“Hey!” Jason called from across the table. “I heard that!”

Your dad waved you both over to join the group, and Bob returned to your side just as the first course began. You noticed he’d rolled his sleeves up halfway while talking to your cousins, and the veins in his forearms were now driving you to distraction.

And judging by the way he leaned down behind you to say, “You keep looking at me like that, we’re gonna have a problem,” he noticed too.

You tilted your head just slightly, teasing. “Looking at you like what?”

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Like you wanna skip dinner and take me upstairs.”

You took a slow sip of wine to hide the smile. “Maybe I do.”

Across the table, your grandma was showing someone pictures of her dogs and completely oblivious. Which made the whole thing that much more dangerous.

You rested your hand on his thigh under the table, innocent at first — then let your thumb brush back and forth. His jaw twitched. And you knew, without even looking, that his ears were going pink.

The entire dinner was like that. A slow, delicious back-and-forth. Your family chatted about wine tastings and rehearsal schedules and who had already cried over the bride’s dress — and meanwhile, you were trying not to combust from the way Bob kept pressing his knee against yours, kept catching your eyes mid-sentence like he wanted to say something but couldn’t in front of all these people.

Later, someone’s phone played music, and Amelia dragged Bob into a dance with her and Jayden. You watched from the sidelines, heart full as he lifted her by the arms and twirled her like a princess.

“Your boyfriend’s a dream,” Mia said beside you. “I hope you’re not planning to let him go.”

“Not a chance,” you said.

And then you caught the way Bob was looking at you — right over Amelia’s head — while you stood there in the golden Italian sunset, dress swaying, wineglass in hand. His eyes dark and wanting and stupidly soft at the same time.

You felt it in your stomach. In your chest. All the way down.

Later, when the stars came out and the dessert trays rolled away, you leaned into him and whispered, “Let’s go upstairs.”

And the look he gave you in return?

God help the zipper on your dress.

-

The moment you closed the door to your suite, it felt like the tension that had been quietly twisting itself between you and Bob all evening finally got permission to unravel.

You stepped out of your shoes, your heels clicking softly against the tile before you dropped them by the door. The sound was almost swallowed by the room’s quiet — just the faintest hum of Italian nightlife through the open balcony, the gentle flutter of gauzy curtains shifting with the breeze.

Bob didn’t say anything at first. Just slipped his shoes off, then undid the top button of his linen shirt like he was trying to cool down. You could see the soft spread of sun still on his skin, the curve of his chest under the fabric, the little glimpse of that thin gold chain he always wore.

“You were quiet at dinner,” you said, watching him as he walked toward the minibar and cracked open a bottle of water.

Bob took a sip before replying. “Was tryin’ not to jump you in front of your entire family.”

You choked on a laugh, and he turned back with a smile that was entirely too smug.

“Oh, so it’s my fault now?”

He crossed the room slowly, hips loose, sleeves still rolled to his elbows. “You’re the one who wore that dress.”

You took a half-step back, but your grin was already betraying you. “I didn’t hear you complaining when I put it on.”

He caught your waist gently, fingers slipping under the thin material at your back. “No, but I’ve been picturing takin’ it off since before the salad course.”

Your skin went hot — molten and bright and unrelenting. Bob wasn’t always like this, not in public. But alone? When he was just yours? He had a confidence that showed up slow and deep, the kind that laced through his voice and tightened in his hands.

“Don’t say stuff like that unless you mean it,” you whispered, suddenly breathless.

“I mean it,” he said simply, brushing his nose against yours. “Been meanin’ it since you got dressed upstairs. Since you turned around and asked me to zip you up.”

You tilted your head. “You stared for a solid minute.”

“I was doin’ my best.”

You stood there like that for a second — caught in the balance of heat and history, the weight of how long you’d been loving each other, the fact that even after all this time, Bob still looked at you like you hung the damn stars.

Then his hand slipped lower, warm against your waist. His voice dropped again. “You really gonna keep lookin’ at me like that?”

You smiled. “Like what?”

“Like you want me.”

“I do want you.”

His eyes darkened, jaw flexing once. “Then come here.”

And when you did — when you finally closed the space between you — his hands came up to cup your face, gentle and rough all at once, like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss you soft or never let you breathe again.

The kiss started slow, but didn’t stay that way. His mouth found yours again and again, deeper each time, until your knees went a little soft and your hands curled into the collar of his shirt.

You barely registered how you moved across the room. Just that at some point, your back found the bed, and Bob followed. The warmth of his body, the weight of him leaning over you — all of it felt like gravity had finally given up pretending.

He kissed down your neck, down your collarbone, muttering something about how good you looked, how he’d been dying to get you alone.

And then—

“Wait,” you whispered, catching his shirt collar, breathless.

He paused, eyes flicking up. “Too fast?”

You shook your head. “No. Just— I like when you look at me like that.”

Bob blinked slowly, like he was committing your face to memory. “Can’t help it.”

You kissed him again, slower this time. Your hand slid up his chest, fingers brushing the edge of that chain. You loved him in every light, but something about him like this — flushed, golden, and pressed above you — made your stomach flip.

And you knew you’d think about that moment for the rest of your life.

You didn’t sleep for a long time after that.

But when you did, you woke up tangled together under the thick white comforter, the scent of his cologne still on your skin and his arm still wrapped tight around your waist.

-

The morning of the wedding was golden — all sun-drenched windows and the smell of espresso drifting through the villa’s stone halls. You stood on the small balcony of your suite, robe tied loosely, hair clipped up, sipping your cappuccino and watching the courtyard below come to life.

Florists were moving like clockwork, setting up bouquets of peonies and wildflowers around the ceremony space. Long tables were being dressed in white linen and gold cutlery. Everything looked like it had been pulled straight from a Vogue wedding spread. You weren’t surprised — your cousin had taste, money, and a very intense Pinterest board.

Inside, your room was a mess of makeup palettes and steaming dress bags. Your phone buzzed on the bed.

Bob 🕶️:

You up? I miss you already and we’re in the same building. Is that clingy?

You smiled into your cup.

You:

Extremely. I love it.

Bob 🕶️:

Come downstairs. I want to see you before you’re all fancy and surrounded by people.

You texted back a quick “5 mins” and padded over to the closet.

By the time you came down, wearing nothing but your robe and slippers, Bob was already waiting in the villa’s shaded atrium with a double espresso in his hand — black, no sugar, like always. His eyes lit up the second he saw you.

“Hey,” he said, stepping close, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “You look good like this.”

You raised a brow. “In a robe and fuzzy slides?”

“Exactly like this,” he said, low and sure. “Maybe minus the robe.”

You choked on a laugh. “You’re filthy today.”

He shrugged and sipped his espresso. “You wore that dress last night and expect me to behave?”

Later, when you finally stepped out of the suite again — hair up, silk gown skimming the floor, heels clicking softly across the mosaic tile — Bob was waiting for you by the stairs, and he went still.

“Jesus Christ,” he said under his breath. “You look…”

His words faded. His hand found your waist. “That’s not even fair.”

You smoothed your hands down his chest, fixing his boutonnière. “I like you in a suit.”

“I like me out of it.”

You gave him a look.

“What?” he said, all wide-eyed innocence. “I didn’t say whose suit.”

-

The ceremony was beautiful.

Rows of white chairs lined the garden, olive trees swaying gently overhead. Music played softly as your cousin walked down the aisle. You held Bob’s hand the entire time, his thumb brushing slow circles into your palm. The light hit his profile just right — glasses on, jaw sharp, suit tailored perfectly to his broad shoulders.

Someone behind you whispered “That’s the hot American, right?”

Bob didn’t hear it. You definitely did.

The reception was when things got interesting.

It started with champagne.

Then photos.

Then dancing.

You were already tipsy when you tugged Bob onto the dance floor. It was hot, crowded, a little chaotic. He kept a hand on your lower back the whole time, pulling you close during the slower songs, kissing your temple while your cousin’s drunk friends stumbled past.

Then you caught someone looking. A guy. From the groom’s side.

He was staring — not just glancing, but staring — and when Bob noticed, his grip on your waist tightened just slightly.

“You okay?” you asked.

Bob smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Peachy.”

You leaned up. “Don’t be jealous.”

“Not jealous,” he murmured, dipping his head until his mouth brushed your ear. “Just possessive.”

Your skin went electric. “That’s worse.”

“That’s better.”

Later, when you’d slipped off your shoes and were dancing barefoot in the courtyard lights, you turned to find Bob standing off to the side, arms crossed, tie loose, watching you like you hung the moon.

You gave him a look.

He didn’t blink.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mouthed.

He just smiled — slow, sinful.

You beckoned him over with one finger. “Come dance with me.”

“Not out here,” he said softly, slipping his hand into yours. “I want you upstairs.”

-

The villa suite was quiet.

Downstairs, the reception buzzed on — music, laughter, the soft clinking of glasses — but up here, it was just the sound of your heels clicking on marble and the gentle hush of your breaths as Bob closed the door behind him.

He locked it without thinking.

You turned, silk brushing against your bare legs, skin still flushed from dancing and champagne. “They’re going to wonder where we went.”

Bob didn’t answer right away. Just leaned against the door and looked at you.

Really looked.

“I don’t care,” he said finally, voice low. “Not right now.”

You smiled. “You’ve been staring at me all night.”

“You’ve been wearing that all night.”

You laughed, tugging at the thin strap of your dress. “You picked it out.”

“Which was my first mistake.”

You stepped closer. “You love this dress.”

“I love you in this dress,” he corrected. “Which is the problem. Because every single time you turned or bent or laughed—every time someone looked at you—”

His voice dropped into something lower, rougher.

“I wanted to drag you away.”

You reached for him, fingertips sliding along his collarbone where his shirt hung open. “You could’ve.”

Bob leaned down slowly. “You’re really gonna make me beg?”

The way he said it — soft, desperate, like he already knew the answer — lit something hot and electric under your skin.

You grinned, teasing. “You’d beg?”

“For you?” His hands slipped to your hips, gentle but firm. “I’d get on my damn knees.”

You barely had time to breathe before his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t frantic. Not yet. It was slow, hot, claiming — the kind of kiss that curled your toes and made your chest ache with how much it meant. His hands found your back, skimming the zipper, pulling you even closer like he couldn’t stand a single inch between you.

When the dress slipped to the floor with a whisper, he froze for a second.

Red lace.

Of course.

“Christ,” he muttered. “That’s what you wore under it?”

You just smiled.

His hands were on your thighs now, his mouth back on yours, deeper, needier. You let him press you gently toward the edge of the bed until the backs of your knees touched the frame.

You sat, eyes locked on him.

Bob slowly undid the last buttons of his shirt, then shrugged it off.

Your gaze dropped — the hard cut of his abs, the faint line of freckles dusting his skin.

“You know,” you said, breathless, “I forgot how insanely hot you are.”

He raised a brow. “You forgot?”

“I was distracted by the suit.”

He stepped forward, knees brushing yours. “You’re not anymore?”

You bit your lip. “Not even a little.”

Bob kissed you again, and it was all heat from there — rough kisses, soft groans, hands exploring skin that still buzzed from the night.

When he finally pulled back, just slightly breathless, he pressed his forehead to yours.

“You’re my girl,” he whispered. “You know that?”

“I know,” you said softly. “Always.”

He kissed you again — and this time, it was slower, deeper, something that didn’t feel like lust so much as love.

—

The next morning, sunlight filtered in soft and gold.

You were tangled in warm sheets, Bob’s arm around your waist, his thumb brushing lazy circles into your skin.

Neither of you said anything for a long time.

Then:

“You think anyone noticed we snuck out?” you asked, voice still husky with sleep.

Bob smiled into your shoulder. “I think they noticed when we didn’t come back.”

You laughed.

He kissed your neck, slow and sweet.

And you thought — yeah.

This was the best wedding you’d ever been to.

-

The villa terrace was glowing in soft morning light.

White linen tablecloths fluttered gently in the breeze, the Tuscan hills rolling out in the distance like something out of a movie. Birds chirped, espresso steamed, and your family — most of whom were wearing sunglasses and sipping coffee like their lives depended on it — was slowly coming back to life after the wedding of the year.

You arrived just a little late.

Okay. A lot late.

Bob’s hand was on the small of your back as you walked across the cobblestones, sunglasses on, hair still a little tousled. You weren’t being obvious, but… you weren’t exactly hiding either.

Your niece Amelia was the first to spot you. “You missed pancakes!”

You gasped dramatically. “Say it isn’t so.”

“We saved you some,” Mia added, grinning from behind her coffee cup. Her hair was up in a messy bun, sunglasses hiding her eyes, but she still looked suspiciously… knowing.

Jason didn’t say a word. Just raised one eyebrow.

You smiled. Sat next to Bob. Avoided eye contact with everyone.

And then your mother, bless her, who had just taken a sip of orange juice, said — to the entire table:

“Well, good morning, lovebirds. You two look awfully… refreshed.”

You choked on your croissant. Bob froze.

“We just went to bed early,” you said quickly. “We were tired. From the dancing.”

Your grandma — grandma — hummed. “Mmm. Sure you were.”

Bob turned bright red.

Across the table, Leo snorted into his coffee. Jayden was too busy poking his scrambled eggs into a face shape to notice any of the tension. But your cousins?

Dead silent.

Eyes narrowed.

Mia sipped her espresso, all calm mischief. “We just weren’t sure where you’d vanished to, that’s all. You left your jackets.”

You blinked. “It got warm.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“It’s Italy,” Bob mumbled.

Jason laughed. “It’s January.”

“I was hot,” you said.

That was… not better.

Bob choked.

Jayden finally looked up. “You guys are weird.”

“Thank you, baby,” you said quickly, patting his head like a lifeline.

Then your mother — again, bless her — turned casually to Bob, appraising him with a smile like she wasn’t about to ruin both your lives.

“I have to say, Robert, when you took your shirt off yesterday… I thought we might need to shield Grandma’s eyes.”

Bob looked like he wanted to melt into his mimosa.

Your grandma just grinned. “Oh, please. I wasn’t looking at his abs. I was admiring his biceps.”

“I was looking at both,” your aunt muttered.

Bob made a noise like a dying animal. You squeezed his thigh under the table, biting back laughter.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so flattered,” he said, red from the neck up.

Your mom sipped her coffee. “It’s just nice to see a boy who takes care of himself. And who clearly takes care of my daughter.”

You blinked. Choked on your orange juice this time.

Your dad finally joined the table, late as ever, sunglasses on and a paper tucked under his arm. He glanced around at everyone mid-chaos, raised a brow, and said:

“What did I miss?”

“Nothing,” you and Bob said in unison.

Too quickly.

Way too quickly.

-

Later, when everyone was off getting ready for family photos by the vineyards, you and Bob slipped back inside the villa. The hallway was quiet, sunlight streaming through tall windows, voices echoing distantly from upstairs.

Bob caught your hand and tugged you into the nook by the staircase.

“Hi,” he said, softly, thumb brushing your knuckles.

You smiled. “Hi.”

He leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to your forehead.

“You think they know?”

“Babe,” you whispered, “they made a powerpoint out of your abs at brunch.”

Bob groaned. “I’m never living this down.”

“Nope,” you said, grinning. “But I love you anyway.”

He looked at you for a long beat, that soft smile in his eyes again.

“I love you too.”

[hannieboyd]

ʟᴀᴛᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴄᴀʟʟꜱ ˳ᐟ

Pairings: needy!seungmin x fem!reader | established relationship

Contains: +18, mutual masturbation, phone sex, like one water drop of angst, needy!dom seungmin, sorta innocent reader, Seungmin trying to act bossy even tho he litr falls apart from reader, smut, established relationship, minnie misses the reader sm!

Word count: 1.4k

Sypnosis: min can’t help but think about you whenever, and wherever he goes. whether its on a work trip or not.

*sorta proofread!*

10:09pm.

The lights were dim, and the air chilling as you positioned yourself onto your bed.

It had been nearly a week without Seungmin, ever since he went on a work trip and the bed couldn’t have felt lonelier. It had been a rough one without him. You missed his face, his hair, his scent, everything. Even the intimate moments without him felt empty— even though it was your only way to let the edge off anymore.

but there he was, nearly 10,000 miles away on a business trip to god knows where. and there he stood, in his bathroom, fresh out of a shower drying his hair as he masked his thoughts off u ever since he had landed a few days prior.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, the towel still slung low around his hips as he sat back against the headboard with a quiet sigh. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion, with work and the boys driving him crazy all day, he was basically drained dry. but it wasn’t just the long day weighing on him—his mind had been restless.

Ever since going onto the plane he hadn’t stopped thinking of you, wondering if you missed him as much as he missed you. Being away from you was already hard enough, but the distance made everything ache a little more than it should’ve.

Lost in thought, his hand subconsciously brushed over his stomach, lightly grazing over the edge of his semi-wet abs and oversliding lower with a lazy sort of intention.

He let his eyes flutter closed for a second, letting a mental image of you flood in.

and boy did they flood.

his mind clouded with the ideas of your voice, the way your lips shuttered when you moaned his name, the way your body moved the night before he left, letting him know that you’d be right here for him waiting for him to get back,

Before he even realized it, his hand was moving faster over his hard on, his breath catching slightly in his throat. it wasn’t urgent or fast. just slow and needy, like he was trying to make the moment last in the absence of your touch.

Then without even thinking, his hand grabbed his phone, fingers lazily swiping through the screen until your contact popped up. before doing anything, he got a glimpse of the photo he had set as your contact photo.

The way your eyes looked at the camera, sweet and starved, it only made him want you more in that moment.

His finger grazed over the face time button before calling you. he looked at himself through the camera waiting for you to pick up, hair damp and messy as his face flushed. gosh, how pathetic he was to be calling you in the middle of the night just so he can cum by all himself.

When you answered, your voice groggy and confused, he didn’t say anything right away.

“seungmin?”

no reply.

“seungmin, whats wrong?

still no reply.

That was until the sounds of smacking and heavy breathing started to become more apparent.

“mmph- fuck…” his eyebrows started to furrow as he looked into the screen

your eyes widened. there was no way he could be serious…jerking off this late, right? he had usually been so calm and collected over these things, its a rare occurrence he’d step out and call you or even ask you for photos & videos—

so you stayed there.

looking at his frustrated yet composed expression, you could only let out a slight smirk. It’s so little that these things happen, I mean, cant you have a little fun when they do?

Knowing that, you slowly started to fix your posture as you panned the camera down. In nothing but a loosely fit button up sleeping shirt and shorts you slightly opened up your shirt just enough so he had a glance of what was inside it.

Noticing this, Min restraint himself from making any noise. or at least he tried..

His pride of being the chill - little emotion showing boyfriend was too strong for him to let it go now, especially when he was 10,000 miles away when he’d much rather have you right there next to him taking you for whatever you’re worth.

But you weren’t there.

You were on his screen, blinking at him through wide eyes, legs tucked under you, shirt half open and camera angled just enough. It was like you were fully aware yet completely oblivious of the effect you had on him right now. His pride told him to stay quiet, chill. Like this wasn’t already getting to him..But it was hard.

“Undo another button,”

He said through poorly masked breaths, trying to keep the strain out of his voice.

You didn’t say anything, just tilted your head and did as told. fingers trailing down your chest to pop the next button open. His eyes followed every movement. You were teasing him on purpose—you had to be.

“mmm..- fuckk..”

His eyes started to squint a bit as his head was thrown back on his pillow, still holding contact with the phone. His hands had started to have a mind of their own at this point. Desperate for any sort of motion out of you, “lower the camera for me, yeah baby?”

tooken aback a bit by the sudden question he waited. He didn’t repeat, just waited for you to figure it out on your own.

You glanced at him through the camera again but didn’t argue. You adjusted it slowly, tilting the angle slightly before dropping to your thighs, where the fabric of your shorts rode up just a bit. You tugged the hem slightly down without thinking— revealing a bit of your lower body.

you miss me at all yet, baby? he muttered through breaths. “of course..” you said, looking at him as if you were in a trance. like he was hypnotizing you one word at a time under his voice, and you happily let him.

“Then why don’t you help me, hm?”

“seungmin, its late..”

“please,-” he squeaked “i need you..”

That was all it took.

The camera shifted in your hands as you set the phone down at a new angle. angled toward your lap, shirt still open, your body lit in soft yellow light. You didn’t say anything as your fingers trailed back down, shy and slow, slipping under the waistband of your shorts again. He groaned under his breath the second your hand disappeared from view.

He pushed his towel down with a quiet curse, one hand holding the phone steady, the other already wrapped around himself. His eyes never left the screen.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “You’re doing good. Just like that, yeah?..”

Your lashes fluttered as you leaned back into the pillows. one hand still holding the phone, the other between your legs. You were quiet, but your breathing gave you away. And that’s all he really wanted. Just to see you like this. To hear it. To know it was for him.

He was already stroking himself harder now, eyes locked to the screen, hips twitching every time you let out a breathy sound.

“God, you sound so pretty,” he groaned. “Keep going, baby, let me see what I do to you.”

You whimpered softly—barely audible, but it made him stutter.

“Say my name.”

You whined—gentle and unsure.

“I said say it.”

“seungmin-..”

“Again.”

You whispered it again, and he nearly fell apart.

“Fuck, I’m not gonna last,” he muttered, chest heaving up and down. “You feel so far away. Do you know how bad i’d ruin you if you were here,”

You moaned just a little louder this time, legs shifting. You were trying so hard to do it right, to follow every word, every pace, even if your movements were soft and a little hesitant. He could tell you were just listening—listening for him.

“Faster,” he breathed out. “Please. Just… please..”

He was falling apart now. That cool tone from earlier was gone. His voice cracked every time he exhaled, hand working faster under the sheets, head tipped back as he gasped your name.

“fuck- ‘needed this so bad,” he whispered, voice shaking. “needed to see you so bad baby..”

you moaned his name at the—and he lost it.

With a low, broken groan, he came hard, hips jerking under the tossed towel, hand stilling around himself as his chest tightened, breath catching in his throat.

All he could do was stare at the screen—at you, still soft and sweet and flushed, waiting for him to come back down.

“Fuck,” he whispered, half-laughing now, flushed. “You’re unreal.”

You smiled shyly as you slowly closed your thighs together. “Was that okay?”

He nodded, lips parting. “Better than okay.”

A/N: Hi guys! its been awhilee, Im so sorry for going ghost for a bit. I had some personal stuff (not anything bad lol) but Im soo happy to be back! :) I promised a seungmin fic so here it is, enjoy! :)

[lucygraysboy]

“blair? are we seriously still talkin’ about blair? come on, lucy gray,” he exhales, but not with annoyance just surprise because it never really crossed his mind that she might be worried about his ex. “of course, she’s out of the picture. do you think i’m livin’ a double life? one with you and one with blair?” dark brows inching closer together, voice dripping with confusion rather than anger as billy quickly does the math in his head — he reconciled with lucy gray in memphis early in september, broke up with his girlfriend a day or two after, then lucy gray visited him in new york city in december and they spent christmas together in their hometown, and new year’s eve… and it’s late spring now. almost summer, really. and she’s still worried about blair? “it’s been almost a year since i last spoke to her. you have nothin’ to worry ‘bout. you have no competition, lucy gray.” he’s tempted to retaliate and ask about her exes just to show her how hurtful such questions can be, but refrains, trying to be more considerate and less hot-headed. “and it’s not like i’ll be workin’ all the time. alright, maybe we won’t see each other as often, but… i don’t want to wait until we both retire to be with you.” if there’s a will, then there’s a way, as the old saying assures. “sweaty cuddlin’ is fun. you need to give it a try,” he laughs, but not how he used to laugh before. the sound lacks its usual warmth because now he’s wondering why she can’t just take a leap of faith, why she keeps bringing his past relationship up… maybe she thinks he’s not the kind of guy who can keep it in his pants? which is hurtful because he hasn’t been with anyone since that night in memphis. “s’mores are the best part of any campin’ trip.” he has a very strong preference on how he likes his s’mores done — the marshmallow has to be caramelized, have that slightly burned flavor, the chocolate has to be hershey’s milk chocolate, and the crackers have to be graham crackers, not ritz or oreos or some other variation. “well, that’s ‘cause i know what i want. you know what i want so it’s not a mixed signal comin’ from me. i want to be with you. i’m not leadin’ you on, kissin’ your cheek one second and growin’ cold the next,” he insists, wondering if what he’s saying is making any sense to her. it’s making plenty of sense to him.

once on the shore, billy wraps a towel around his waist and begins to dry off, every now and then glancing towards lucy gray to make sure she’s okay. “you good out there?” he calls out, reaching for his underwear, which is in lucy gray’s bag because he didn’t bring his backpack out here, instead they packed everything together. that’s when he sees her phone, the screen lighting up every few seconds. he should just grab his boxers and ignore it because it really isn’t his business but what if it’s her mama? maybe lucy gray’s forgotten to call her and now she’s worrying herself sick. that’s what happened in virginia. he picks up the phone, the towel hanging low on his hips, and taps on one of the messages. it takes him to the imessage app, chat bubbles popping up, gray and blue alike, and the contact name… river. it has his heart dropping to the very pit of his belly. he reads through the entire conversation, unable to help himself, his hands shaking with nerves. is that why she’s hesitant about the idea of dating him? because things between her and river aren’t over? is that why she keeps worrying about him cheating on her with blair? she’s projecting. she’s still in touch with her ex, doing god knows what, and worrying he might be doing things with blair? is that it? his cheeks turn red with a combination of anger and shame and betrayal. what a fool he is! and lord, why is his vision suddenly so blurry? he doesn’t want to tear up and yet that’s exactly what’s happening…

“no, i don’t think you’d cheat on me billy. i’m just sayin’, relationships require time and how will we be givin’ one another that? and that girl you was with? she’s really out of the picture?” softly stressing all of her worries, he has no lingering feelings for her? what if he does but too blinded by her and regrets later not getting to try things with the other girl? “i can’t even see you cheating, i know you’re not this type of boy— believe me, i get it.” that last time she just got upset and it all looked wrong, she knows he never actually cheated and still can’t see him doing it. “you like sweaty cuddlin’,” she teases, smiling amusingly to herself, “i could get used to it, too. it’s pretty fun and sweet when it’s just us. s’mores was really good too.” her belly almost wants to grow for another, but too bad s’mores is over with for the night. “hey how’s that fair? you can finally give me a cheek kiss but earlier it was illegal and called mixed signals.” she teases him, hating to admit her heart flutters insanely when she feels his lips on her cheek. “yeah go ahead, goofy boy,” playfully rolling her eyes, saying thank you for the hair wash before dipping under the water to cleanse her strands from all the product. popping back up, smearing water out of her eyes, keeping her back turned towards the shore so she doesn’t see any naked images of billy. phone in her bag glowing through the open part of it, vibrating and dinging each time a new gif or text from river is sent. ‘where are you’, ‘hello, north carolina’. ‘where did you go.’

[ducktoo]

The night I got drunk

Wendy x Reader

Note: soooo this plot was based on something @octoberautumnbox randomly showed us in our group chat....and I promptly stole it. Thanks box.

Also two ASND artists back to back huh. (I'm still shock btw). Ah right, moody to fluff.

It wasn’t love at first sight. Not really.

When you first met Wendy, she was just “the girl who always brought her own tea bags to the café on campus.” You thought she was a bit odd. Cute, but odd. She’d flash this polite smile to the barista, always overly apologetic about asking for hot water like she was committing a crime. You sat two tables over, pretending not to watch every time she pulled out some mysterious floral blend like she was prepping for a tea ceremony instead of finals.

You didn’t talk much back then. Just exchanged awkward nods. The occasional, “Hey, can I borrow your charger?” sort of thing. But then you were grouped together for a class project, and somehow, she just… fit.

Wendy was smart — like scary smart. But not in an annoying, I-know-everything way. She explained things with patience, laughed off your dumb jokes, and had this quiet intensity that made you want to do better. She was thoughtful. Listened without interrupting. Caught details no one else did — like how you only ever brought lunch if it was Thursday (because you had a break long enough to cook the night before). Or how you always zoned out during presentations (because you hated public speaking and she started nudging you before your turn like clockwork).

Then there were the small things. The tiny, insignificant moments that stuck with you anyway.

Like the time you were stressing over an exam, and she just dropped a chocolate bar on your desk without a word, then went back to her seat. Or how she always remembered how you liked your coffee — milk, no sugar — and ordered it for you without asking whenever it was “her turn.” Or how she’d hold the elevator door even if you were halfway down the hall, waving frantically for you to hurry up while wearing that same annoyed smile she always had when you were running late.

It was easy being around her. Too easy.

You’d text her about the dumbest things just to hear her reaction. “This squirrel outside looks like it pays taxes.” Or “Why do our lecture halls smell like old soup?” And she always replied with something equally dumb or sharp or sweet.

You got addicted to it. To her. Her energy, her presence, her stupid tea.

She started coming over more. At first, it was just study sessions. Then lazy lunches. Then spontaneous movie nights. Then sleepovers after those movie nights because she didn’t feel like walking back. It all blurred together so seamlessly that you didn’t even notice how your place started feeling empty without her.

And then there was the night she came over during a thunderstorm, completely drenched, shivering, mascara smudged. You threw her a towel and made her sit under a blanket with you while she vented about her break up. At some point she fell asleep on your shoulder — soft, warm, her breath steady — and you just sat there frozen, staring at the crown of her head like a complete idiot.

That was the night you realized your heart had already made a decision.

It wasn’t a question anymore. You were in love with your best friend.

Not the fireworks-and-sappy-music kind. No. It was quieter than that. Slower. It grew in between shared glances and missed chances. In the way she’d flick your forehead when you were being dramatic, or how she always leaned a little closer when she was showing you something on her phone. In the way your name sounded when she said it.

Familiar. Easy. Like she’d always known it.

And the worst part?

You didn’t even know when it started. Just that you were too far gone to stop it now.

You’d spend nights lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if she knew. If she ever looked at you and felt that same twist in her chest. If maybe — just maybe — she noticed how you smiled a little softer around her. Laughed a little harder. Or if she just thought this was how best friends were supposed to be.

You told yourself it was fine. That you could handle it. That as long as she was around, even as just a friend, it was enough.

But deep down, you knew that was a lie waiting to crack.

And it did on the night you got drunk.

Like... embarrassingly drunk. The kind of drunk where your mouth stopped listening to your brain and started going rogue.

The two of you had planned a sleepover that night — something casual, like the old days. Snacks, laughter, and the newest episode of that trashy k-drama you both hated but secretly loved. It was all normal until you tilted your head back, blurt the words out like they weighed nothing.

“I love you.”

Wendy froze in the middle of pulling her hair into a messy bun. Her hands dropped slowly, and she looked at you — really looked at you. Not like a best friend. Not like a study partner. Just... like someone who wasn’t sure if they should laugh or reach out.

You laughed first. Of course you did. A stupid, wobbly little laugh trying to smooth over the landmine you just stepped on.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you added quickly, waving your hand in the air like that would erase it. “I just thought—I dunno. You should know.”

It just… slipped. You convinced herself.

Three words. A soft confession disguised as a hiccup, carried by the warmth in your chest and the dizziness in your head. You didn’t even look at her right away — you just stared at the floor, heart thudding so loud it might’ve knocked over your IKEA lamp.

Silence.

Then, “...Yah,” she said, in that soft, sing-songy tone Wendy used when she was being gentle with you. Her voice always had this warmth to it, like the first sip of soup after coming in from the cold. But now, it just felt like the warmth before the burn. “You know I love you too, right?”

You looked up, eyes hopeful — for a second, maybe she meant it the same way.

She tilted her head, smile tucked behind a quiet sigh. “But not like that.”

Ah. There it was.

Gentle. Careful. Like she was placing the truth down without breaking anything. But it still hit like a brick to the ribs.

You nod, quick. Too quick. Like you had a contingency plan for this. Like you weren’t seconds away from mentally scheduling your funeral. “Right, yeah. I figured. It’s cool. Just had to get it out, you know?”

You don’t even give her time to reply before you’re already standing, scratching the back of your neck like you could scrub the moment away. “Want me to walk you home? It's late and—"

She frowned. “What? No.”

You paused.

“I mean, it’s fine. Really,” you said quickly, still fumbling for your shoes. “It’s late, and I figured you’d—”

She cut you off, walking right past you like the whole thing hadn’t just happened. “The sleepover’s still on,” she said casually, plopping onto the couch like she hadn’t just turned your heart into a smudge on the pavement.

You blinked. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. You promised we’d watch the new episode of this shitshow. And you better not pass out halfway through again.”

You stared. She reached over and tossed you a bag of popcorn.

“Come on,” she added, shooting you a look that was both amused and devastating. “I didn’t come all the way here for you to confess and then run away. Sit down. Drama’s about to start.”

And just like that, she was tucking herself under the blanket, all cozy and warm, like nothing had changed. Like she hadn’t just turned you down. Like you hadn’t just completely exposed your heart in the messiest, dumbest way possible.

This girl — this beautiful, maddening, soft-voiced hurricane of a girl — just rejected your love confession and then had the audacity to demand K-drama time like you hadn’t just imploded inside.

You sat down beside her. Too aware of the small distance between your shoulders. Too aware of her hand reaching into the popcorn bag. Too aware that she still smelled like lavender and mint gum.

Somewhere in the background, the k-drama’s theme song started playing.

And all you could think was:

You were still in love with your best friend. And she was still here. Watching the stupid drama. Stealing your blanket. Breaking your heart without even knowing it.

You smiled anyway.

Because you were in love with your best friend.

And she was too busy fighting over a blanket to notice the way you were falling apart.

-

The room was dim now, lit only by the flickering light of the TV and the low hum of your desk lamp, still clinging to life after three years of pulling all-nighters with you. The air smelled faintly of instant noodles and the cinnamon candle Wendy lit earlier, claiming your room always smelled too much like “lonely boy energy.”

The episode was almost over.

And you were almost out.

You blinked once. Twice. Long, heavy blinks that started blending scenes together. You vaguely registered the second male lead showing up at the airport with an apology bouquet, and then the screen blurred into a mess of motion and muffled dialogue.

Wendy nudged you with her knee. “Yah. Don’t fall asleep. You promised.”

You mumbled something into the throw pillow — possibly English, possibly gibberish. You weren’t sure. “I’m awake…”

“You said that five minutes ago and then called the second lead ‘Mr. Flowerpants.’”

You cracked open an eye. Her face hovered just above you — lips curled into that soft, half-mocking smile she always gave you when you did something stupid but harmless. Her bangs were a little messy, falling over her eyes from when she’d curled up under the blanket, and the collar of her oversized hoodie was stretched from how she’d been fidgeting with it all night.

“You’re cute when you’re delusional,” she added.

You blinked again. “You’re cute when you… call me delusional.”

Her laugh was quiet, a breath through her nose, and she shook her head as you slumped sideways, half-melted against the couch cushions.

You don’t even remember how it happened, but at some point your head found her lap. Her thighs were warm — maybe too warm — and her legs tensed beneath you, just a little.

You waited for her to tell you to move.

But she didn’t.

“You really gonna let me lie here like this?” you asked, your voice slurred but honest.

Wendy’s fingers hovered uncertainly in the air, then slowly lowered. She started brushing strands of your hair out of your face like she’d done it a hundred times before. “You confessed your love to me and now you're passed out on my lap like a cat. Do you want me to throw you out instead?”

You let out a sleepy chuckle. “It’s my place…..but that actually might be fair.”

There was a pause.

You could feel her still playing with your hair, absent-mindedly twisting a strand and letting it go, again and again. You weren’t sure if she was doing it to comfort you or herself.

Then her voice dropped — soft, but sharper than before.

“…Did you mean it?”

You cracked an eye open again. Her face was turned toward the TV, but she wasn’t watching it anymore.

“Yeah,” you said simply. No point lying. Not when your heart was already on the floor, somewhere between the empty snack bowl and your dignity. “I meant it.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment. Just kept tracing her fingers along your temple. You waited, staring up at the ceiling as if the answer might be carved into the plaster.

“I didn’t know you felt that way,” she said, quietly.

You turned your head slightly, resting your cheek against her leg. “Yeah, well. I was doing a great job pretending I didn’t.”

Her fingers stilled.

“I don’t want to lose you.” she whispered.

You smiled bitterly. “Even after I dropped the emotional nuke?”

Wendy looked down at you then. Really looked. Her eyes searched yours like she was trying to solve something in real time — something messy and tangled and just a little terrifying.

“No,” she murmured. “Even when you did.”

Your breath hitched, just a bit.

But before you could say anything else, the episode ended. The dramatic OST played. Credits rolled.

Wendy leaned back, shifting slightly to reach for the remote, but her hand paused in mid-air. She hesitated, then looked down at you again.

“Do you think,” she asked slowly, “if things were… different… we could’ve worked?”

You stared up at her, trying to ignore the way her voice cracked just a little at the end.

“Maybe,” you whispered. “But I don’t think I ever had a version of life where I didn’t fall for you.”

That broke something in her eyes. “Don’t say things like that when you’re drunk.”

“I’m drunk…not lying.”

Another pause.

Then, almost inaudibly, she said, “Okay.”

You furrowed your brows. “Okay what?”

She looked away, eyes fixed on the darkened TV screen again. “Okay… you can stay.”

You blinked. “I was already staying. It’s my place, remember?”

“I know,” she muttered. “Just making it official.”

And just like that, she tucked the blanket around both of you. Her fingers returned to your hair. And though nothing was fixed, and nothing was certain, and your heart still ached in places you didn’t know existed.

You fell asleep in the lap of the girl who broke your heart… while she tried to memorize every piece of you she was suddenly too scared to lose.

-

A few days passed.

The world didn’t end. The sky didn’t fall. But something definitely cracked under the surface.

Wendy had been… different. Not distant, not cold — just weird. Awkward in a way she never was with you. Fidgety, flustered, hyper-aware of every brush of skin between you like it was scripted in a romance drama and not just a normal Tuesday afternoon in your shared favourite café.

It was the little things at first.

You reached over her to grab a napkin — she jolted like you threw a live wire at her.

Your hands accidentally touched while trying to plug in your charger — she muttered something in English under her breath and pretended to cough.

And the kicker? You passed her a bite of your kimbap like you always did, and she stared at the chopsticks like they were dipped in poison.

You blinked. “Seungwan. It’s just rice.”

“I know that,” she replied, voice an octave too high, “I just— you always put too much sesame oil, and— and I have lip balm on.”

You raised a brow. “You literally ate it off the floor once.”

“That was different! We were drunk and it didn’t touch the floor that long.”

You didn’t call her out on the fact that she was the one who made the kimbap. You just passed her the piece again with a flat look.

She took it. Reluctantly. Chewed like it betrayed her entire bloodline.

So yeah. Something had changed.

And you? You dealt with it the only way you knew how: weaponized snacks.

So you showed up to her place with a convenience store bag packed with emotional damage control in the form of snacks. You didn’t even knock properly — just kicked the door with your foot until she opened it, hair damp and tied in a lazy bun, wearing that oversized blue sweater she always stole from your side of the closet.

Her face was bare, flushed slightly from the shower, and she looked at you with wide eyes like you’d just caught her hiding a secret.

“Um,” she blinked. “Hey? What is this?”

“Your favourites,” you said. “Pepero, Chilsung cider, that weird triangle kimbap with the tuna-mayo fusion. I even threw in those gummy bears you pretend not to like. Peace offering.”

She stared. “Why? Are we fighting?"

“No,” You shrugged, stepping in. “But you’ve been weird and twitchy and blushing every time our arms brush, so I’m bribing you into being normal again.”

“I haven’t been blushing.”

You turned to her slowly. “You turned red yesterday when I asked if you wanted to use my charger.”

“I— that’s because your cable’s frayed and I didn’t want to get electrocuted!”

“Uh-huh. So the pink ears were… what? A side effect?”

She opened her mouth, then promptly shut it.

You watched her try to save face while fiddling with the bag, pulling out a box of Pepero and avoiding eye contact like it was some Olympic event. You leaned back on her chair, arms folded.

She sniffed one of the snacks. “This isn’t the almond kind.”

You smiled, slowly. “And yet, you’re still taking it.”

She rolled her eyes and peeled open the box anyway, expression unreadable.

Wendy was hard to pin down when she didn’t want to be read. Her face was expressive, sure — her eyes always sparkled when she laughed, and her nose scrunched whenever she focused — but when she wanted to retreat, she was a fortress.

And right now, she was locking the gates.

Wendy looked down at the snacks again. She picked up the triangle kimbap and turned it in her hands.

“You didn’t have to do this,” she said, a little softer.

“I know,” you replied, looking over at her. “But you looked like you were going to combust if I offered to share another blanket.”

She didn’t respond right away. Just peeled open the wrapper, letting the familiar scent hit the air. Her shoulders relaxed slightly.

You softened your tone. “I’m not trying to make things weird. I know I kind of dropped a bomb the other night, but—”

“You didn’t.”

You stopped mid-sentence.

Wendy sat down slowly on her bed, cross-legged, snacks in her lap. Her fingers picked absently at the corner of the Pepero box as she finished the kimbap. Her eyes, however, stared at the floor between you.

“You didn’t drop a bomb,” she said again, quieter. “You told me how you felt. That’s not… a bad thing.”

You stepped closer. “Then why are you treating me like I’m radioactive?”

Wendy exhaled. Her shoulders slumped the way they did when she was holding tension for too long. Like she was finally letting herself be vulnerable in front of you again — not the smiley, jokey version she gave everyone else, but the real one. The one who hated disappointing people. The one who overthought everything, especially when it involved someone she cared about.

“It’s not you,” she said. “It’s just—every time I look at you now, I wonder if I’ve been missing something.”

Your heart skipped.

Wendy’s fingers finally stilled. She looked up at you, brows furrowed slightly, teeth tugging at her bottom lip — the way she always did when her thoughts got stuck in a loop.

“I keep replaying things,” she continued, “like… the time you gave me your jacket at that stupid concert. Or when you stayed up with me during finals, even though you had a morning class. Or when you told me to stop dating that guy who made me cry.”

“Because he sucked,” you muttered.

She smiled faintly. “Yeah. He did.”

Silence.

“I didn’t think it’d matter,” she muttered. “The way you felt. I figured it was a passing thing, or you’d pretend it never happened. But now… every time you look at me, it feels different.”

Your chest tightened. Juggling whether it was a good thing or a bad thing.

“And that scares you?” you asked, gently.

She finally looked at you — cheeks pink, but her gaze steady now. “No. It scares me that it doesn’t.”

The silence that followed was thick. Not uncomfortable — just heavy. Full of the things neither of you had figured out how to say yet.

You leaned back, lips quirking upward. “So, what I’m hearing is… I should buy you food more often.”

That earned you a laugh — soft and reluctant, but real. Her head dropped against your shoulder, the way it used to before you confessed, when things were easier and ignorance was bliss. “Bribery doesn’t solve everything.”

You grinned. “Doesn’t hurt though.”

She reached towards the Pepero on the table. “Next time, get the almond kind. And maybe a choco pie.”

You laughed, the tension breaking like glass under your heel.

Wendy smiled back, smaller but real. “You’re still an idiot.”

You leaned your head on your hand. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”

She looked at you for a long moment, then turned back to her snack with a shake of her head — but her ears were still pink.

And she didn’t pull away when your knees touched hers.

[sapphicstrawcore]

Hey I was wondering if you could write a Sevika’s x gift giver reader? Like reader loves making little gifts, knitting, crocheting, making small drawings, keyring out of beads, etc like anything crafty and Sevika loves it. Idm why the reader does this, if it’s just a preference or it’s a trauma response.

–A Home You Built When She Wasn’t Looking.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ —Sevika x Gift Giver Girlfriend

probably posting this at a way too late hour… half headcanon/half fic, hope you like it that way 🫶🏻 masterlist ᰔ

Sevika never meant to have someone like you in her life.

You’re warm in ways she isn’t, soft where she’s sharp. You make things with your hands—little things, sweet things, beautiful useless things—and she doesn’t understand it, not really. But she respects it. She likes watching you work when you let her linger by the door.

She knew you crafted. That was clear from the start: the paint under your nails, the glue you kept on your clothes, the little cuts and burns on your fingers you never complained about. She never asked what you were making when you’d slip in and out of her apartment while she was gone. She figured if you wanted to show her, you would.

Sevika’s home was never really a home. It was a space to crash, a place to sleep, eat and get wasted sometimes, nothing sentimental. You never said it, but you seemed to feel differently. And maybe that’s why you started leaving little things behind. Quietly, like offerings.

It starts small.

One night, Sevika walks into her apartment after a long shift—blood on her knuckles, grime on her boots—and notices something odd on her coffee table. A little ashtray, round and precise in a way that’s clearly handmade. The paint hasn’t even fully dried, some fingerprints pressed into the glaze. It’s colorful. Not Zaun colorful, no earth-tone—but you colorful.

She squints at it, brow creased. Lights a cigarette. Uses it anyway. She doesn’t ask.

Over the next few weeks, she starts noticing more. A set of coasters made from polished bottle caps appears under her beer.

A little stitched patch gets sewn into the sleeve of her favorite jacket—the one she ripped on a job weeks ago and never fixed.

A clay cup, crooked and thumb-pressed, shows up by her bed. She starts drinking from it without thinking. One day she realizes it has her initials carved at the bottom.

She never sees you leave them. That’s the thing.

You come by when she’s out. She lets you. She gave you a key, but she just never expected you’d be using it to quietly build a world around her.

She comes home late one night, muscles aching, jaw tight from grinding her teeth all through a meeting with the chem-barons. Her mind is half gone by the time she unlocks the door—but she stops short in the entryway.

There’s something hanging on the wall.

A framed print—no, not a print, a painting. Hand-painted. Of her. Not her face, not directly, but her arm. Her prosthetic, resting on the windowsill. The light catches the metal in soft strokes. It’s peaceful, it’s seen.

She stares for a long time. Doesn’t take her boots off. Doesn’t move.

“…The fuck,” she mutters, but it’s not angry. More like wonder. Disbelief. She’s just extremely bad at expressing it.

She runs a hand through her hair, sits down slow, lights a smoke.

You’ve been making her a home and she didn’t even notice.

She doesn’t know how to say thank you, so she doesn’t. Not right away. But she starts keeping the little things you make in places she’ll use them. The cup stays on her nightstand. The patched jacket becomes her go-to.

Sevika doesn’t mention any of it.

She doesn’t mention the bottlecap coasters, or the dumb little frog magnet on her fridge, or the clay cup with the wobbly lip. She doesn’t say a word.

But she starts paying attention.

Every time she comes home, her hand hesitates at the doorknob just for a second. Not out of caution—but out of anticipation. Wondering what you might’ve left this time. Wondering how the space might’ve changed.

And it always has. A handmade calendar hanging crooked on the wall. A new pillow, knitted in loud colors. A tiny sculpture of a cat made of wire and beads that sits on her shelf now like it owns the place.

It’s ridiculous. It’s all so you. Too bright, too soft, too sweet.

Almost too much for someone like her. And she loves it.

She doesn’t know how to say that. Wouldn’t even know where to start. But it’s becoming her favorite part of the day—coming home to your little gifts. Wondering what your hands have made for her this time.

But then… It happens on a slow afternoon. She’s home for once. Not working, not bleeding. Just… around. Enjoying peace and silence

You’re curled up on the floor near the window, knitting something in fuzzy yarn, tongue caught between your teeth in concentration. You don’t notice her watching.

It looks like… a stuffed animal?

Lopsided ears. Oversized feet. It’s some kind of beast, but it’s cute.

She leans in the couch, says nothing.

You glance up, smile wide showing teeth. “It’s for someone.”

She grunts like she doesn’t care. Crosses her arms. Keeps watching.

She already knows it’s for her and she already loves it.

Later, when she finds it sitting on her pillow—a soft little thing with big eyes and mismatched legs—she picks it up with both hands. Stares at it for a long while. Doesn’t smile. But doesn’t put it down either.

That night, it stays on her nightstand.

You catch her one morning, still half-asleep, rubbing her thumb over the knit ear of the stuffed animal.

And maybe, eventually, it ends in her bed when you’re not there.

And one time… she tries to say thank you. In the worst constipated way possible. But at least she tries. Right ?

It happens one night when you’re both home—rare, quiet, late.

She’s sitting on the couch, cigarette burning low, the little knitted creature tucked between her thigh and the armrest. You’re stretched out beside her, flipping through a magazine, legs draped over hers.

She’s been fidgety all evening. Not in a nervous way—just… restless. Like there’s something in her chest she can’t cough up.

You glance at her. “You good?”

She makes a noise. Noncommittal. Then sets her cigarette down and shifts in her seat. Big, tense shoulders. Tight jaw.

“I been thinkin’,” she starts, and already you know this is serious—because Sevika never starts with that.

“I been thinkin’ about… all the stuff. You been makin’.” She gestures vaguely. “The shit you leave around. All of it. I mean— the colors, and the weird clay crap, and those fuckin’ magnets—”

You raise a brow. She cuts herself off, breathes out, tries again—

“I come home, and… it’s always there. And I don’t—fuck, I don’t know how you do it, but it’s like you’re makin’ this place feel like—”

Her hands move, helpless.

“—like, I don’t know. I mean, it’s cool. Wait, no—”

She groans. Presses the heel of her palm to her forehead.

“Oh, fuck me.”

You bite back a laugh. Hard. Your shoulders shake, you press your lips together.

She peeks at you through her fingers. “You’re laughin’.”

“I’m not,” you say, voice trembling. “I’m not.”

She grumbles something that sounds like “this is why I don’t talk.”

You scoot closer, arms slipping around her. Kiss her cheek. It’s warm. Rough. She smells like smoke and leather and metal and faint lavender from the dumb candle you lit last week that she swore she didn’t like but never blew out.

You hold her tighter. Rest your head on her shoulder. “I know what you meant,” you murmur.

She doesn’t answer, but her hand comes to rest on your thigh, heavy and steady, and it doesn’t leave.

This was so cute and fun to write, thank you for this ask 🫶🏻💕 the hour is a terrible one I think, but I guess it’s okay if it flops a little bit. No beta read, we die like a lesbian.

dividers: @/cursed-carmine

Taglist: @lonerslug @riotstemple29 @blessupblessup @ahintofchaos @sevikasswifee

[the-librarby]

IN THE RING IV

- SIMON RILEY (COD)

Intentions, intentions, intentions.

cw: suggestive content.

.･:★ okay. I’ve had an exhausting few days, if this is choppy. Don’t question it.

Anyway, anticipated patch up scene is here.

Part I Part II Part III

Two days of recuperation didn’t feel like enough, you stood idly outside the venue you for a minute wondering if it was too late to call in sick. A rotation list of excuses filtered through your mind but your legs mindlessly walked you closer until it was too late to walk back. You just had to remind yourself that the situation had been taken care of, and he wouldn’t hurt you again.

But what if someone else gets the same idea?

Naively you believed Simon would be there to step in again, it was the only thing that provided you a sense of safety as you weaved through the crowd towards the bar. James was there once more to offer you a friendly smile, you still felt bitter about his lack of spine but tried to not let it show on your face—at the end of the day you understood why he would choose the house over you.

Simon had been on the roster a lot more lately, much to Mark’s excitement, so the bar was always full in attendance. James chattered away like he usually did, you listened quietly and replied every so often which was out of character. You could tell he wanted to say something but you didn’t give him the chance to, always moving onto the next customer until they filtered off into the crowd.

When the bell rang, he was standing idly as he stacked glasses, “Are you okay?”

You hum inquisitively as you stock the fridge below the bar, “Huh? Yeah, fine,”

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” he comments.

You smile tiredly, “Just lots of stuff going on with uni.” Part of you wanted to vent about what happened just so he’d feel guilty, but you refrained.

He drops the subject altogether and you both go about prep work independently, only the sounds of the crowd and the fight filling the space. You pause to watch the end of the match, leaning against the bar top as you normally would. You hadn’t seen as much as you’d usually like but it was exciting nonetheless.

“Seen the way he talks to you,” James notes.

You barely peek over your shoulder at him before turning your attention back to the fight, “Who?”

He nods in the direction of the ring, “Ghost,”

You raise an eyebrow, “Okay?”

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head, “Can see you haven’t taken my advice.”

You purse your lips, fighting the urge to snap at him. His pointed tone grates on your nerves, treating you as if you’re some stupid girl, “He’s been nothing but polite to me,”

The scoff you hear from behind you makes your shoulders tense, “Yeah, for now.”

The urge to leave once service is done tugs at your chest but you stick around for a little while longer. When the back door to the changing rooms slams shut you reach into one of the fridges and pull the cap off a beer bottle. It rests neatly on the bar top just in time for Simon to take a seat.

Without his mask you’re drawn in by the small uptick of his lips, “Thanks darlin’,”

The smile he pulls out of you comes naturally, it’s the happiest you’ve felt all night with just the two around the bar, “No worries, Ghost,”

The way his eyebrow raises goes unnoticed as you drop the discarded cap into the bin, “Ghost?” He questions.

You look at him in confusion, “Yes?” You ask, “Is that not what you’re called?”

His fingers tap against the glass of the bottle, “Thought we were on first names basis,”

A quick scan of the bar shows only a couple of customers hanging out around the entrance ready to leave, Mark and James are nowhere in sight either in back of house or outside you assume.

You lean against the bar top, your elbows adjacent to his own, “Just thought you wouldn’t want to be called that here,”

He shrugs, “Don’t care,”

You tilt your head, “What’s the purpose of having an alias if you don’t care for using it?”

“Don’t care if it’s you,” he clarifies.

The satisfaction that flutters through your system almost feels heady, “Oh, that how it is? Sounds like favouritism,” you accuse.

The bottle thunks down on the bar top, “It is,” he readily agrees, “Use it wisely,”

You prop your arm up to rest your head against your hand, “I’ll think of somethin’ to use it for when I need it.”

A beat passes where the two of you just sit in silence. Simon eventually looks away, his forefinger taps against the bar top in thought before he speaks again, this time much quieter and more sincerely.

“How’re you feelin’?”

You exhale deeply, looking down at your arms on the counter, “Alright,” you murmur, “Not great, but I’ll get through it,”

Simon hums with an understanding nod, “Mark has been informed, he’ll turn him away from here on out,”

You frown, having not really thought about how exactly that man wouldn’t return until now, “You didn’t have to do that for me,”

Simon’s eyebrows furrow, “‘Course I did.”

His tone is matter of fact, like there was no other option but this. It makes warmth spread throughout your chest, your smile is small, but grateful as you bump your elbow against his.

“Thank you, that’s very kind,”

He looks away with a sarcastic roll of his eyes, “S’what I’m known for, said so yourself.”

You can’t help but laugh which makes Simon look over once again, he’s got a matching humoured smile on his face. And for a moment you forget about all that’s happened, between how James is acting, the stress of uni, and that unfortunate incident, it all melts away.

It’s yourself and Simon who’s currently staring pointedly at your lips. You lick them out of self consciousness but watch curiously as his eyes zero in on the movement of your tongue. When he gazes into your eyes this time you can see the intention worn plainly on his face.

“C’mere.” He murmurs.

It’s instinctual when you lean over the bar top to kiss him. You can hear the sound of a bottle sliding across the bar before cold fingers press against your jaw in a holding grip. He’s patient and lets you lead, only taking initiative when you reply with a pleased hum against his mouth.

The only thing that pulls you away is the sound of the back door swinging closed. Heat is already rising to your face at the fact of being caught over something like this at work, but when you see James’ judgemental stare over your shoulder shame floods your core. Simon’s hand has slipped from your jaw and lightly folds over your forearm instead, it’s enveloping warmth the only thing offering you comfort.

James doesn’t say anything, opting to passive aggressively count the till instead behind you. You squeeze your eyes shut and look down at the bar top, it was stupid to do this here, where anyone could see—you were entirely at fault for putting yourself in this situation.

The squeeze around your arm pulls you back into the present, Simon is gazing at you in reassurance when you look up. You force a smile and place your other hand atop of his with a gentle pat.

“I should go,” you whisper.

He looks over your shoulder at James’ back in annoyance but withdraws his hand from yours, “I’ll walk you out.”

That night you toss and turn in your bed, feelings of regret roiling in your gut.

You called in sick the next day, and then the next, and then once more just to push your luck—Mark was not impressed nor convinced by your illness. You physically couldn’t bring yourself to turn up knowing the judgement you’d face from James— not that it’s any of his fucking business — part of you thinks. But you were very sensitive to the feeling of unease being present, you just couldn’t do it right now.

Couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t walk into that venue, couldn’t see James, and couldn’t face Simon.

God. Simon.

You couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss most of all. It’s the one thing that stopped you from searching for a new job altogether. You’d have to see him sometime, as much as you’d like to avoid the whole situation altogether you knew it wasn’t fair. Deep down, between all the rationalising, you entertained the idea of whatever was between you going further. But you just didn’t see anything further with Simon as an actuality.

Eventually you forced yourself to have a shower, turning up the temperature as hot as you could stand until the bathroom fogged up. The brief knocking from the upstairs neighbours makes you look up in annoyance, with a huff you turn on your hairdryer to drown out the noise.

The knocking can still be heard over the dryer which doesn’t fill you with confidence about having a quiet night in. You shake your head and try to ignore it as you finish drying your hair. It’s not until you step out of the bathroom, almost filled to the brim with agitation that you realise the sounds are not coming from your inconsiderate neighbour, but actually within your apartment. When you step into the living room, you can hear the frantic knocking coming from your front door.

The aggressive nature of it gives you pause, reluctantly you look into the peephole as you weren’t expecting anyone. The familiar sight of a black surgical mask makes you unlock the door instantly. When you swing the door open, Simon is leaning his arm against the doorframe, his head resting against his forearm as he twists awkwardly favouring left side—he must have been knocking for awhile because when he sees you he straightens up in shock.

“Simon—”

“Where the fuck have you been?” He drills instantly, yanking his mask down.

You’ve barely registered his question— “You’re bleeding.”

Blood is crusted all down the side of his cheek and chin, his lip already swelled from the split down the side of it. You’ve never seen him so worse for wear after a fight.

“Answer my question,” he demands.

You frown, shaking your head, “I’ve been sick.” It’s weak and you know it, you wrap your arms around yourself self consciously.

Predictably, he doesn’t buy it for a second, “Don’t bullshit me with your convenient excuse sweetheart, won’t work here.”

You sigh and open the door wider for him, he cautiously takes your invite and walks inside. You don’t miss the way he cradles his ribs as he takes in the surroundings of your apartment.

“Sit.” You insist, pointing to the chairs at your small dining table.

He eyes you warily but follows, the strained exhale that punches out of him is worrying, but you don’t comment on it as you make a beeline for the bathroom once more in search of a first aid kit.

When you return you gently place the kit on the table beside him before flicking on the overhead lights. It’s a harsh lighting change from the soft glow of your lamps and takes you a few blinks to adjust but when you do, the sight of Simon makes you grit your teeth in concern.

“You look like shit,” you comment.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, “Bastard played dirty,”

“Did he or were you not focused?” You ask.

The pointed look he sends you as you walk over makes you purse your lips. He stays staring as you open the first aid kit, his hands—still wrapped in tape you realise— stay resting against his knees.

“You’re favouring your left side,” you note as you reach for the stack of cotton pads, “Ribs giving you pain again?”

Simon breathes out through his nose, stretching at a certain point to avoid the pain that spikes up his side, “Aggravated old injury.” is his explanation.

You nod in understanding as you dampen the pad in saline. With saturated pad in hand you turn to face him and tilt your head to the side in gesture, “Show me,”

He eyes the pad warily as he tilts his head, exposing the bloodied side, “What is that?”

You balance his chin between your thumb and forefinger and grip his face gently for handle, “Saline, it’ll get rid of the dirt.”

He doesn’t say much more, his gaze flickering between you and the contents of your lounge room behind while you clean around the wound—a smaller cut on his cheekbone you realise, once it’s clean. The silence is peaceful as you work away, brain only focused on the task at hand. You swap out the pad for a new one once it’s soiled until his face starts to look recognisable.

Simon breathes softly, fingers tapping ever so often against his leg. When you swipe at the cut with an alcohol wipe he jerks away instinctively, luckily your hand is there to keep him still. You murmur an apology and apply lighter pressure.

Simon has decided he’s had enough of the silence when you reach for his split lip, “Why haven’t you been coming in?” He asks again.

You sigh, still focusing on the cut, “Because I needed a break—from James, and uni, and everything else,”

The mention of James makes his teeth clench in annoyance, you can feel it by the way his jaw tense beneath your fingers, “Why does he bother you so much?”

You roll your eyes, “Because I can’t stand judgement, and I don’t need it from him of all people—”

“Then don’t let him—”

“Stop talking,” you cut him off, “Can’t focus when your mouth is moving,”

He jerks back with a smirk on his face, “My mouth distracting you, doll?”

“No,” you shoot back, purposely pressing the alcohol pad against the open split in retaliation until he hisses, “It’s just incredibly hard to clean this when you’re talking so much,”

“Don’t talk enough, now I talk too much. Which one is it?” He asks, grabbing the wrist that’s holding the wipe and pulling it away from his face.

You gaze at him with what you hope is a neutral expression concealing your true feelings of want. Your other hand is still cradling his jaw as he stares right back, seemingly seeing straight through you.

“I need to finish this, will you let me?”

He stares for a moment longer briefly flicking down to your lips, its seems subconscious as he drifts closer, you almost think he’ll kiss you again but instead he drops his grip and looks away. You take that as your chance to grab the small bandages out of your kit, tearing them open and applying each to his cheek and lip.

When the injuries are sorted there’s nothing else to distract you, all you can see is Simon sitting at your table, legs bracketing yours as he gazes at you somewhat imploringly— like he’s dying to have his answers.

You drop the empty bandage wrappers on the table and zip up the kit when taped hands reach forward to hold the outside of your exposed thighs. It’s gentle, and cautious, the texture of the tape is rough against your skin but his fingers are warm as they hold.

When you look back, he’s hunched forward in concentration as he looks up at you, “Do you want me or not?”

You frown, “What?”

“Do you want me or not?” He repeats.

Your mouth gapes, momentarily speechlessly as you try to wrap your head around the loaded question, “What kind of question is that?”

“A simple one,”

You look at him incredulously, “That is not simple Simon, want?” You ask in clarification, “What if we have different meanings of want? What do you want?”

“Everything,” he breathes out, stroking his hands up and down softly, “I want to be here, with you, do you want that?”

Simon watches as you lick your bottom lip in thought, “Yes, I want that,” you murmur, “But—”

“Don’t fucking think about anything else,” he exasperates, “This is between me and you, no one else,”

Your lack of response brings doubt to the surface, “Do you not have faith in me?” He asks.

You think back to James’ comment about Simon’s intentions, you can’t bring yourself to look at him, “I can’t do casual, Simon,” you whisper, heart aching to even think about it, “So I need to know if you’re going to stick around now before this goes any further,”

He shakes his head in disbelief, “What the fuck have you heard about me?”

You peek at him through the corner of his eyes, he almost looks hurt at your accusation, “I just heard that relationships aren’t really…your thing.” You finish lamely.

The hands caressing your thighs turn into arms wrapped around your legs, instinctually you grab onto Simon’s shoulders as he hoists you up onto your dining room table. You wince in sympathy as he grunts in pain from his strained side but he doesn’t give you a chance to fret over it as he stands between the space of your legs.

“When are you going to realise that fuckwit is jealous of me?” He mutters, bracing taped hands on the table either side of you.

It doesn’t take a genius to realise he’s talking about James, still, you look at him confusedly until he elaborates.

He’s inches away from your face, frustration exposed in all in glory as it’s etched onto his features, “What’d he say? That I just want to fuck you? That I’m dangerous?”

You try to look away but his fingers on your chin direct you back towards him, “It was insinuated…”

He sighs and shakes his head, removing his hand from your chin. You feel guilty as he looks down at your lap, it wasn’t fair to let others’ opinions affect this, but you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you didn’t bring it up.

“I want you,” he states unshaken, “More than I’d like to admit. Is that enough for you?”

You suck your bottom lip between your teeth before letting it go. He stares, open and honest, awaiting your answer.

You nod, “Yes, that’s enough.”

Simon wastes no time as he cradles your jaw, the tape scratches against your cheek as he leans forward to kiss you. It’s much more urgent than the last one, but it feels like everything picks up exactly where it left off. You reach out with one hand to hold onto his neck, and hook your leg around the back of his knee to pull him closer.

He obliges, grasping your hip with his other hand and tugging you close until you’re flush against him. It’s desperate, and consuming the way he controls the pace, leaving no more room for question about his desire.

It’s only an afterthought when you feel the scratch of the bandage against your mouth, “Shouldn’t—” you murmur against his lips, “Disturb that,”

Simon looks thrown off by your comment until he sees you staring at his lip, “Really?” He asks, “I can handle a split lip, love,”

You scrunch your nose, gently swiping your thumb underneath it, “It’s not healed, it’ll get infected,”

He pokes his tongue out to lick the tip of your thumb, it makes you smile. He sighs in defeat, “Fuckin’ lip ruins it, ‘uh?”

You withdraw your hands, leaning back against the table, “‘fraid so, love.” you murmur, only slightly apologetic.

Simon can’t feel that much loss when he can see the way your nipples poke through your sleep shirt, immediately drawn in by how noticeable they are against the grey fabric. He suppresses the groan in the back of his throat, and kisses your cheek. When you don’t respond, he pushes his luck and leads a trail further down towards your jaw.

“This alright?” He mumbles against your skin.

You can only hum approvingly, eyes slipping closed as he keeps going until he reaches the junction between your neck and hemline of your shirt. You open your eyes when he lands one last gentle kiss against your lips.

“You should go,” you say softly, “Before I change my mind,”

He smirks, “Find me irresistible do you?”

You roll your eyes, and hovering your hand threateningly over his injured side, “I can make that hurt if you’d like,”

He flinches reactively and shuffles back, “Fuckin’ cunt of a match, glad you missed it.”

You laugh as you hop off the table, Simon trails behind you as you lead him back to the front door. He knows his split lip is an excuse for you to gain control, but he allows it so long as you’re not pushing him away. He’ll have you next time.

When you open the front door, he’s beside you, stroking the side of your face with his thumb. You lean into the warm touch gratefully, feeling much lighter than you have all week.

“Come and see me next week,” it’s not a question, as so much as a forced suggestion, “I’ll save you a spot,”

You frown, “In the crowd?”

He nods affirmatively, but instead of questioning it you just concede, trusting him to figure it out.

“Sure you won’t lose?” You raise an eyebrow.

“Positive.”

[brownsugarcoffy]

The Vine Between Us (6)

Summary

Annie left the Mississippi Delta with a broken heart and a full-ride scholarship, determined never to look back. Now a celebrated professor in Chicago, she’s called home to care for her mother—and the last thing she expects is to run straight into him.

Elijah "Smoke". Her first love. Her first everything.

He disappeared the summer after graduation, leaving only unanswered calls and a goodbye she never got. Now he's back in town, running a moody, magnetic blues lounge with his twin brother, playing late into the humid Southern nights like he’s pouring his soul out just for her.

Annie wants to hate him. She wants to forget the way he made her feel. But one look from those stormy eyes, and she’s seventeen again—burning, aching, and lost in the man he’s become.

He left without a word. But now? He wants to finish the story they never got to end.

Characters: Annie x Elijah " Smoke" Moore (Modern AU)

Themes: Angst, Fluff, Mention of Abuse, Vulgar Language, Sexual content & more...

NOT EDITED

The trail curved through an open stretch of Jericho's farm, golden with soft wheatgrass and dotted with peach trees whose fruit glowed like tiny lanterns in the setting sun. The sky burned orange and lavender, streaks of dying light flickering against the wide Mississippi Delta. Crickets began their song as the air thickened into evening.

Smoke and Annie rode side by side, their horses walking in a slow, rhythmic stride. The leather of the saddles creaked gently beneath them. Smoke sat upright, his broad shoulders back, the sun catching the clean line of his low-cut fade and trim beard. His white-trim shirt was rolled at the sleeves, his watch glinting against his forearm as he rested one hand casually on the reins. He was the picture of quiet confidence. Cool. In control. Present.

And Annie couldn’t stop looking at him.

She glanced sideways, her gaze trailing over his outfit. The dark denim jeans sat just right on his hips, and those tan boots somehow made him look even taller in the saddle. He smelled like leather, wood smoke, and something warm. Something masculine. That scent alone made her thighs clench a little tighter against the horse.

She shouldn’t be this turned on.

It had been years since they���d been face to face. Years since she’d seen the boy who she shared kisses inside the greenhouse , who left without a word. That hurt still pulsed in her chest years later. Yet, here he was, riding beside her like the space between them never existed.

He spoke, pulling her back to the moment. “You always liked the quiet, didn’t you?”

She blinked. “What?”

“When we were younger. You used to sit under that peach tree with your books and just be.”

A small smile tugged at her lips. “I liked the way the wind sounded in the leaves.”

“Still do?”

She looked around. At the trees. The rows of vegetables. The chirp of crickets and the hum of summer heat. She wouldn’t say it out loud, but yeah. She still did.

“It’s peaceful out here,” she said finally. “Not something I get much of in Chicago.”

Smoke nodded, his voice softer. “I remembered that. That’s why I brought you here.”

Her eyes flicked to his, and she couldn’t look away fast enough. God, she had forgotten how he made her feel like she was suffocating and floating all at once.

“You always remembered things like that,” she muttered, quieter now. “I just wish you remembered to say goodbye.”

The silence between them thickened like the dusk.

Smoke exhaled through his nose. “I wanted to. I just... couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because if I saw you, I wouldn’t have left.”

Her throat tightened.

“Things were bad, Annie. Real bad. I know Stack wrote you. He told you what happened.”

“Yeah,” she replied, blinking fast. “He did. He told me you and your father got into a bad fight.”

Smoke swallowed. His jaw ticked. “That wasn’t even the worst of it.”

Annie shook her head slowly. “You should’ve told me how bad it was getting. You left me... wondering if I wasn’t enough to stay for.”

Smoke reined in his horse a little, making them stop under a wild dogwood tree. The sunset framed his face in amber and shadow.

“You were too much to stay for,” he said.

Annie’s breath caught. She looked away, jaw clenched, fighting the emotions clawing their way up her throat. She’d spent years burying this part of herself. Hardened it with logic. Built walls high and wide.

But now, sitting beside him, her heart betrayed her.

I want to forgive you, she thought. I want to believe you came back because you see me again. Because you miss me. Because it wasn’t just some teenage fling.

She didn’t say any of that. She just placed her hand gently back on the reins.

Smoke leaned a little closer. “Give me a chance to know the woman you became.”

Annie didn’t answer.

But she didn’t pull away either.

She caught herself glancing at him again.

The way the setting sun kissed the edge of his trim beard. His full lips. That deep, thoughtful silence he wore like cologne.

Damn.

He was fine.

And worse? He knew he was fine. He just didn’t care to prove it to anybody. That made it harder to resist.

“You alright over there?” Smoke asked, voice smooth, catching her mid-glance.

She straightened slightly. “Mmhmm. Just takin’ in the view.”

“You mean the land or me?”

She shot him a look, but her lips curled despite herself. “You ain’t that much to look at.”

“Funny,” he said with a smirk. “You been starin’ like I grew wings.”

She rolled her eyes, heat creeping up her chest. “Don’t flatter yourself, Elijah.”

But that name—his real name—coming from her mouth did something to him. He leaned slightly in the saddle, enough to make the moment intimate without being pushy.

“You used to call me Elijah when you needed me,” he said softly.

“I used to do a lot of things,” she replied, not looking at him.

Silence stretched again, tension pulling taut like a wire between them. Her heartbeat thundered beneath her cool exterior.

Smoke exhaled, watching her closely. “I ain’t expectin’ you to forgive me tonight. Hell, I don’t know if you ever will. But I want you to know… I hated leavin’ like that. Hated it every day.”

Annie didn’t answer right away.

Instead, her eyes stayed fixed on the trail ahead. The quiet hum of frogs and wind settled around them like a blanket. The ache in her chest had been there since eighteen. She’d buried it under books, jobs, city noise, and other lovers' hands. But nothing ever soothed it the way Smoke’s voice stirred it.

Why now? Why is he still the one?

She cleared her throat. “You didn’t just leave, Elijah. You vanished. One day we’re making love in the back of your truck, talkin’ about the future… and the next I’m wondering if you’re even alive.”

Smoke looked at her, his eyes darker now with remorse The last sliver of sun dipped behind the trees, casting everything in a muted orange glow that flickered like flame over his skin.

“I was scared,” he admitted, voice thick. “Scared of what I was gonna become if I stayed. Scared of what I’d do to him. Scared that one day you’d look at me and see him in me."

Annie stunned, caught off guard by the confession. Elijah was a person who didn't like to express his emotions as Annie could remember. When they were together it was like pulling teeth to get him to open to her. He always wanted to have it altogether, but Annie knew Smoke could not express his grievances well. So hearing him say he was scared was so new to her.

“I wanted to write,” he said, quieter now. “Call. Reach out. But I didn’t know how to explain what I couldn’t even face myself.”

She sighed, eyes softening despite herself. “Stack did it with no problem. He found a way.”

“Yeah.” He nodded, a humorless smile tugging his lips. “Stack always been better at sayin’ the hard things.”

They fell into silence again, but it wasn’t heavy this time. It felt like peeling something back. Airing out an old wound that had finally stopped bleeding, but still burned in the memory.

“I regret it,” he said suddenly, voice hoarse.

Annie slowly turning toward him.

“That night,” he continued, his fingers loosely laced between reins. “Our first time. I regret makin’ love to you… and then leavin’ you like I did.”

Her breath caught.

Smoke didn’t look at her. Couldn’t yet. “It wasn’t just sex to me. It wasn’t some... last-minute teenage thrill. I loved you. I still do. But I was a coward, Annie. A damn coward. I left without a word, without explainin’, and I know what that probably made you feel. Like I used you.”

Annie stayed quiet, her chest rising and falling with a quiet tremble.

“I see it in your face even now. The hurt. The confusion. I gave you all that… and I walked away like it didn’t mean nothin’.” He finally turned to her, his voice rough, eyes burning. “But it meant everything to me. I just didn’t know how to stay. Not with everything boilin’ over back home. I thought I was protectin’ you from my mess. But all I did was break you in the process.”

Annie stared at him, her throat tight. Then quietly, like peeling off a scab that never fully healed, she whispered, “You made me feel disposable.”

Smoke flinched.

“I thought maybe I was just another girl you checked off your list before you shipped out,” she said, bitterness bleeding into the softness of her tone. “I laid there after you left, wondering if it was all in my head. If I dreamed the way you touched me.”

Smoke turned fully to her now, one hand reaching gently toward her wrist.

“You weren’t disposable. You were it. The only one I ever wanted.” His voice cracked slightly. “And it kills me that I let you think different.”

She didn’t pull her hand away, but she didn’t hold his either.

“You left me with questions I had to bury,” she stated. “Because the answers would’ve made me hate you.”

“I wouldn’t have blamed you,” he murmured.

They sat in the quiet, the wind brushing against their skin like a memory, the scent of honeysuckle weaving around them like the past they were still unpacking.

Annie exhaled deeply, staring at the fading skyline. “You hurt me, Elijah. Deep.”

“I know,” he said softly. “And I’ll spend as long as it takes makin’ it right.”

She finally looked at him again, eyes glossy, guarded, but not closed.

Annie finally turned to look at him, her voice soft but strong. “I don’t hate you. I just… I was hurt. For a long time.”

“I know,” he said again. “And I’m sorry, Annie. I swear to God, if I could take it back—”

“You can’t.”

Her words stopped him cold.

“But,” she added, quieter, “You’re here now. You showed up.”

He watched her, his expression unreadable.

“I’m here,” he whispered.

The horses slowed to a stop near a quiet pond nestled between a thicket of cypress trees and a patch of wildflowers. The water shimmered like glass, catching the last of the sun’s golden rays as it dipped low into the tree line. A soft breeze swept through, carrying the sweet scent of magnolia and pine, brushing Annie’s curls and the hem of her halter top.

Smoke slid off his horse first, grounding himself with practiced ease. He reached for Annie’s reins and stepped beside her mount.

“Need help down?”

“I’m not helpless,” she said, raising a brow—but her voice held more warmth than bite.

“I ain’t say you was,” he said, offering his hand anyway.

She hesitated, then took it.

His fingers wrapped around hers steady, warm, familiar and she swore the grip lingered just a second too long as he helped guide her to the ground.

They stood close for a beat too long, caught in the quiet of the world around them, the chorus of bullfrogs and rustling grass singing a song neither of them knew the words to anymore.

Annie glanced at the water, then back at Smoke. “Why we stoppin’?”

He looked out over the still pond, the sun stretching its last orange kiss across the horizon, lighting the tips of the cypress trees with a soft, golden glow.

“Because,” he said, voice low, “this is the best time to watch the sunset.”

Something in his tone made her chest tighten. It wasn’t just about the view. It was about them. This moment. The stillness they hadn’t had in years.

He nodded toward the pond. “Come on.”

They walked side by side, boots crunching over the soft earth. Smoke led her to a flat rock near the water’s edge where they could sit and watch the sunset ripple across the glassy surface. The colors were breathtaking. Soft pinks melting into orange, gold streaking the sky like beautiful brushstrokes. A few fireflies blinked to life nearby.

Annie sat first, tugging her shorts down slightly and crossing her legs. Smoke settled beside her, resting his arms on his knees, glancing at her with a half-smile.

“Peaceful ain’t it.” he said.

“I like peace,” she muttered.

He nodded. “You always looked at the sky like it was talkin’ to you.”

She smiled a little. “Maybe it is.”

Silence again, but this one was more softer. More open.

Smoke turned to her, the sun kissing the strong line of his jaw. “Can I ask you somethin’?”

“Only if I can ask you somethin’ after.”

“Deal,” he said.

He hesitated, then asked, “What made you leave Chicago and come back here?”

He leaned back on his hands, giving her room, letting her sit with it.

Then she spoke, her voice lower, more thoughtful. “I came back because of Mama. She’s gettin’ older, and with Daddy gone... it’s just her now. I can’t be up in Chicago forever like she don’t need me.”

Smoke’s jaw tensed. He looked out toward the trees, then back at her. “I ain’t know he passed that long ago” he said softly. “I... I wasn’t here at that time.”

Annie didn’t look at him right away. “You weren’t.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She nodded again, slower this time. “He died when I was twenty-two. Stroke. Quick. He was gone before I made it home.”

Silence fell between them, thick with sorrow and years of distance.

“That man..,” Smoke said after a long beat. “Mr. Baptiste... he was a good man.”

Annie smiled faintly, blinking at the water. “He was my whole world.”

“You was his too,” Smoke said. “The way he looked at you—like you was the best thing he ever did. Made me wanna be like that one day. The way he took care of your mama, the house, y’all garden... I used to sit on that porch and just watch him fix things.”

She turned to him now, surprised.

“He caught me once,” Smoke reminiscing with a slight smile. “Starin’. Thought I was bein’ nosy. But he ain’t fuss. Just called me over and said, ‘If you gone watch, you might as well learn.’ Taught me how to fix a carburetor before I even knew what a carburetor was.”

Annie whispered in shocked. “He never told me that.”

The cicadas had quieted now, replaced by the hush of evening settling like dust on the Delta. The sun was nearly gone, streaking the pond’s surface in faint gold and pale blue. The world felt still, heavy, and waiting.

Smoke exhaled, hand resting on his thigh, the folded cloth forgotten in his lap.

“He taught me more than I could say,” Smoke added, voice steady but reverent. “Man knew how to keep things runnin’. Not just cars... but family.”

Annie’s breath caught. Her throat tightened before she could steel herself against it.

“Yeah,” she whispered, her voice barely holding. “He did.”

Smoke shifted, his gaze locked on the water, eyes glossed with memory. “When I came back and found out he’d passed…” He stopped, jaw working. “I was real sad, Annie. Real sad. I should’ve been here.”

She finally turned toward him, her whole body moving to face him now, arms folded like armor. “I was mad, Elijah. For a long time.”

“I know.”

“No,” she snapped, her voice cracking sharp like a branch underfoot. “You don’t know.”

Smoke looked at her then fully. The glow of the setting sun kissed her skin, deep brown and golden at the edges, eyes glistening with unshed tears. She looked like fire and heartbreak.

“When Daddy died,” she went on, “I kept thinkin’… if Elijah Moore can leave me like that, disappear without a word, so can anybody.”

That hit him like a stone in the chest. Smoke looked down, jaw clenched, his breath shallow with shame. The guilt rooted itself deep in his gut.

“You don’t know how bad I wanted to write you,” he muttered.

“But you didn’t,” she said bitterly, voice trembling. “You left me wonderin’ for months if you were alive. If you ever meant any of what you said to me. I just can’t understand it, Elijah. Why?”

He looked up, his eyes glassy but burning. “Because I didn’t think I deserved to.”

The words came out hard, raw. Not anger—but something just as sharp. Something turned inward.

Annie froze. Her heart banged against her ribs like it was trying to break free. The weight of his words pressed into her ribs, pressed into the years she’d spent trying to forget how it felt to need someone so deeply.

The silence between them wasn’t cold—it was loud. Electric. Heavy with the ache of everything they hadn’t said.

Smoke turned toward her again, voice low and hoarse. “Your daddy… he was one of the first men who ever made me feel like I could be worth somethin’. He gave me tools when all I had was rage. He didn’t look at me like I was broken. Just… unfinished.”

Annie’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, her lips trembling now.

“Maybe that’s why I wanted to be good for you,” he said softly. “Even back then.”

The breeze moved through the trees, ruffling her curls as the last blush of sun disappeared behind the horizon. The fireflies returned, glowing like forgotten hope.

Annie looked at him, really looked at him—not as the boy who disappeared, but the man who carried the weight of his absence like a scar across his soul.

“Elijah…” Her voice cracked. “You were always good enough for me.”

Then her tears came. They were silent, sudden, and hot. She didn’t cry easy. But these weren’t tears for today. These were for every night she sat in her dorm, waiting on letters that never came. For the ache of her father’s death. For the ghost of a love that never got the ending it deserved.

“I can’t—” she gasped, stumbling up from the rock. “I just can’t—this was a mistake.”

“Annie—wait!”

But she was already walking, arms wrapped around her chest, breath breaking as the sobs started to rise.

“This is too much,” she muttered to herself, fast-walking toward the horses. “What was I even thinkin’ comin’ out here tonight?”

“Annie!” Smoke was behind her now, boots crunching on the gravel. “Annie, stop!”

“No!” she shouted, not turning back. “This was a mistake! I should’ve never—”

“Annie Marie Baptiste. Stop walkin’ away from me!”

His voice snapped through the trees, sharp and deep and laced with something close to desperation.

He reached for her, grabbing her wrist, gently but firmly. She spun toward him, yanked by the motion and for the first time in years, their bodies collided like they had nowhere else to go.

Her eyes were red, glistening, furious. Her mouth quivered.

Smoke stared, stunned by the tears. “Annie…” His voice dropped, full of disbelief. “You’re cryin’…”

“Why now, Elijah?!” she asked, tears falling freely now. “Why show up in my life again after all this time? After I finally learned how to live without you?”

Smoke didn’t look away.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t retreat. His hand still held her wrist, but his other came up to gently cradle her jaw.

“Because the minute I saw you at the store...the lounge… laughin’, dancin’ like sunlight was pourin’ outta you… I knew I couldn’t go another damn day pretendin’ like you ain’t still mine in every way that ever mattered.”

Annie’s lips parted, breath caught. “You’re real bold,” she managed, voice thick. “Thinkin’ you still got any claim.”

“I ain’t sayin’ I got a claim,” Smoke murmured, stepping closer, his forehead nearly touching hers. “I’m askin’ for a chance.”

The air around them pulsed, heavy with history. With pain. With want.

You should’ve been there,” her voice started to shake. “You should’ve called. You should’ve written. You should’ve come back for me!”

She balled her fists and pounded them against his chest.

Not once.

Not twice.

But over and over.

Each blow wasn’t hard, but they were sharp, quick, wild with years of buried emotion. Her fists thudded against him flesh against muscle, grief against guilt.

Smoke didn’t move.

He stood there, solid, grounded, letting her pour it out.

Her pain. Her confusion. Her broken heart.

He took it all.

He let her.

His eyes burned, but he didn’t stop her hands. He couldn’t stop her—he owed her that much and more.

“I waited for you!” she cried, voice breaking. “I needed you, Elijah! I needed you when he died, and you weren’t there! You didn’t even try!”

“I know,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I know, baby. Hit me again if you have to. Just get it out. I’m right here.”

Her fists slowed. Her arms, once full of fire and hurt, were starting to tremble with exhaustion. Her sobs grew louder, messier, as her hands finally dropped uselessly against his chest.

Smoke didn’t waste a second.

He reached for her waist and pulled her into him. It was tight, grounding, and protective.

Annie didn’t fight him this time.

She let him hold her.

She needed him to hold her.

Her cries muffled into his shoulder, her arms wrapping around his torso as the weight of her sorrow came crashing down.

“I didn’t know how to come back,” Smoke murmured, one hand stroking the back of her head, the other curled around her spine. “I was scared. I thought I ruined everything.”

Her fingers curled into the back of his shirt, clutching him like he was the only steady thing in her storm.

And in that moment, he was.

She wasn’t just grieving the boy who left—she was grieving her father, her childhood, all the versions of herself she lost along the way.

And Smoke let her break.

“I’m sorry,” he spoke, voice rough with emotion. “I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I didn’t write. I’m sorry I made you carry that pain all by yourself.”

Annie shook her head slowly, her eyes narrowing through the blur of her tears. “Sorry don’t undo years of silence.”

“I know,” he whispered. “But it’s the truth. I’d go back if I could. I’d do it all different. I swear to God.”

His hands lifted gently to her face, rough thumbs brushing along her cheeks, wiping away the tears as they fell. The contact was tender, reverent like she was something sacred. Annie tried to hold onto her frustration, to her reasons for walking away, but his touch weakened her resolve like a match to silk.

“Please,” he murmured, lowering his forehead to hers, breathing her in. “Stay. Don't leave me.”

She felt his lips graze her temple.

Another tear slipped down her cheek.

Then, Smoke kissed her. Just a soft peck to her trembling lips. Then another. And another.

“Please.” Peck.

“Stay.” Peck.

“Baby…” Peck.

Each kiss was barely there, but they unraveled her. Word by word. Touch by touch. The tenderness in his voice cracked through the walls she’d built.

Annie closed her eyes. She could taste his regret. Feel the ache in his hands as they held her face like she might disappear again.

She didn’t know who leaned in first, but suddenly, the kiss wasn’t soft anymore. It wasn’t careful.

It was deep. Hungry. Raw.

Her hands curled into the collar of his shirt as she leaned into his mouth, parting her lips to let him in. His tongue met hers in slow, heated rhythm, like they were learning each other all over again, but differently now. Grown. Experienced. Starved.

Smoke’s hand slid to the small of her back, pulling her flush against him, her curves melting into his chest. Annie whimpered softly into his mouth, her fingers now in his low-cut fade, gripping just enough to make him growl low in his throat.

This wasn’t the same kiss from years ago.

This kiss had weight. This kiss carried the hurt, the apology, the years without. It tasted like grief and forgiveness, like hope wrapped in heat. They kissed like they’d lost each other onceand neither of them was willing to lose again.

The horses shifted nearby, their soft snorts breaking the quiet, but neither Annie nor Smoke cared. The sky behind them blushed deep coral, the last of the sun casting gold over the water and their tangled silhouettes.

Annie clung to his shirt like she needed it to breathe. Smoke kissed her like she was air.

When they finally pulled back, foreheads still pressed together, breath mingling and lips kiss-swollen, Annie’s voice came out in a whisper.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Yeah,” Smoke replied, voice thick. “But it did.”

When she didn’t pull away, when her hands stayed locked in his shirt and her breathing came quick and warm, he knew she wasn’t walking away this time.

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

The sun had dipped low behind the cypress trees, casting long shadows across the trail as Smoke and Annie rode side by side in silence. The only sounds were the gentle clop of hooves on soft earth and the low hum of cicadas still hanging in the humid air.

Annie’s eyes were fixed ahead, the reins loose in her hands. Her curls fluttered around her face in the breeze, a few damp from where her tears had fallen and dried. Her chest still felt tight, but the heaviness was beginning to lift, like someone had finally opened a window inside her.

Smoke rode beside her, quiet and steady. His jaw was tense, but his gaze kept flicking over to her, checking in. Not pressuring, just present. He didn’t dare break the silence just yet. Some things had to settle. Had to breathe.

Annie finally spoke first.

“I didn’t mean to fall apart like that.”

Smoke’s eyes slid to hers. “You didn’t fall apart, Annie. You let go.”

She glanced at him briefly, then back at the trail. “Felt like everything just hit me all at once. I'm sorry.”

“No apologies. It was bound to.” He nodded. “You been holdin’ onto that pain a long time.”

A pause.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “I have.”

The trail opened up, golden light streaking through the thinning trees as the farmland came into view. Rows of green stretched out in the distance, and the soft outline of the barn and main house glowed beneath the peach-colored sky.

“You still mad?” Smoke asked softly.

Annie didn’t answer right away. She let the question hang between them, her fingers fidgeting with the leather reins.

“I don’t know,” she finally said. “I think… I was mad for so long it just turned into something else. Like… not hate. But not peace either.”

Smoke nodded, his voice quiet. “I’ll take that. I’ll earn whatever comes next.”

Annie turned to him, really looked at him, his profile in the fading light, the set of his mouth, the sincerity written all over his face. Her heart tugged painfully again, but not from anger.

From remembering how much she once loved him.

And maybe still did.

“I’m stayin’,” she stated, her voice low but certain. “I ain’t ready to go yet.”

Smoke looked over at her, eyes dark and unreadable, but the slow breath he released told her everything.

“I’m glad,” he said.

They rode the rest of the way in quiet understanding. When they reached the small paddock, Smoke hopped down first, tied up his horse, then turned to help Annie. This time, she didn’t argue. She let his hands guide her down gently, her body brushing his just enough to stir something warm and familiar between them.

“You hungry?” he asked, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans. “I got dinner waitin’ for us.”

Annie raised a brow. “You cooked?”

He smirked. “Maybe.”

She smiled, the first real one since everything cracked open earlier. “Uh huh. Let go see this meal you cooked. ”

By the time they reached the edge of the clearing, the sky had dimmed into soft twilight. The horizon still blushed with lavender and coral, while overhead, the stars began to blink into view one by one.

Annie slowed her steps as they crossed under a canopy of pecan trees and froze.

Just ahead, nestled beneath the gentle reach of wild fig and cypress branches, stood a long wooden table bathed in warm, golden light. Strings of delicate bulbs were draped from tree to tree, their glow swaying with the breeze. Tiny jars filled with flickering candles lined the edges, casting a soft shimmer across every dish and bottle.

There were bowls of grilled squash, seasoned green beans, roasted sweet potatoes, sun-warmed blackberries and strawberries, and perfectly sliced tomatoes. A small basket of honey-glazed cornbread sat at the center beside two wine glasses and a bottle nestled in a bucket of ice. It's label handwritten in careful script: Maria Rose, 2010.

Annie’s mouth parted slightly. Her eyes scanned the scene like she was seeing something pulled from a dream. The hush of the countryside wrapped around them like silk, and for a moment, she didn’t speak.

“What… is this?” she whispered.

Smoke stopped beside her, watching her reaction. “A surprise.”

She glanced sideways at him. “You did this?”

Smoke scratched the back of his neck, half-shrugging. “Had some help. A friend of mine, Jericho. Him and his wife run this land. I asked if I could borrow the spot for the evening. Figured… maybe you’d like a little peace and quiet. Some place soft to land.”

Annie turned back toward the table. Her throat tightened. “I don’t know him, but this is beautiful, Elijah.”

He stepped closer. “I wanted it to feel like you. Like home. Natural and warm.”

She gave a soft, almost disbelieving laugh, brushing her fingers over the folded napkins and candle jars. “You really did all this for me?”

“I’d do more if you’d let me.”

The air between them shifted again. It was thick with memory, healing, and something tender pressing its way through the cracks.

Annie finally looked at him again. “You’re full of surprises tonight.”

Smoke smiled, eyes warm. “Only the good kind.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no heat behind it. “We’ll see.”

“Come on,” he said, offering her his hand. “Let me feed you, Miss Baptiste.”

She slipped her hand into his and let him lead her to the table, something in her chest loosening for the first time in years.

The evening settled like velvet around them. Fireflies blinked lazily through the warm Delta air, and the breeze carried the earthy scent of fresh crops and sun-warmed soil. The string lights above cast a golden hue over Annie’s brown skin, making her glow like a painting come to life.

Smoke poured the wine with a practiced hand, careful not to spill a drop. Annie watched his forearms flex as he worked, the muscles beneath his brown skin rippling subtly. He didn’t seem to notice her staring though her stomach had been twisting since the moment they sat down.

Neither of them said a word about the kiss.

Not the way it started with her fists on his chest.

Not how it ended with her melted into his mouth, lips swollen and heart pounding.

Annie took a sip of the wine. Sweet, light, almost floral. Her tongue brushed her bottom lip. She swore she could still taste him there. Those smokey kisses. That heady mix of cinnamon and heat. His breath, his hands, the way he touched her like she’d break but kissed her like he was starving.

She cleared her throat and reached for a tomato slice, biting into it gently to distract herself.

Across the table, Smoke watched her movements with barely hidden focus. He hadn’t meant to kiss her like that. Hell, he didn’t even plan on touching her at all tonight. He wanted to earn her forgiveness with time, not passion. But when she broke down, when those tears started pouring and she hit him with everything she’d been holding in. He snapped.

And that kiss? That kiss had ruined him.

Now, sitting here, pretending to talk about squash and blackberry wine while her lips were still echoing on his. He was starting to unraveling slowly for her over again.

“You like the wine?” he asked casually, sliding a bowl of sautéed green beans closer to her.

Annie nodded, not trusting her voice just yet. “It’s good. Light. You said it’s from Jericho’s vineyard?”

“Yeah, his wife preserves ‘em. They bottle a little batch every year for family.”

She smiled, fingertips brushing the base of her glass. “Nice. Real nice.”

Smoke took a sip from his own glass, his eyes not leaving her face. “You alright?”

“I’m fine.” She held his gaze. “Are you?”

He gave a soft laugh, low and wry. “Depends on how you mean that.”

Annie raised an eyebrow, lips curving ever so slightly. “You know how I mean it.”

Silence stretched.

She reached for a piece of cornbread and broke it in half, steam curling up like a secret. “You always liked to stare,” she said softly, not looking up.

Smoke leaned back a little. “You always liked pretending you didn’t like it.”

A flicker of something passed between them. It was wry and knowing.

They chewed in quiet for a moment.

Annie picked at her food, her appetite waning under the heat rolling off him. Her body was restless. Her thighs clenched every time he licked his bottom lip. Every time his fingers tapped the table, strong and rhythmic.

She kept seeing that kiss. Feeling it. The pull of his mouth, the sound of his breath, the way her body had surged toward him on instinct.

Smoke cleared his throat and reached for the roasted sweet potatoes. “You used to hate those,” he said, nudging the bowl toward her.

“I grew up,” she said, voice quieter than she meant it to be.

He paused, studying her face.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice low and weighted. “You did.”

Their eyes locked again. The air between them thickened.

God, she still tasted like strawberry milkshake.

Smoke sat up straighter, trying to will away the ache tightening in his chest. He looked around the clearing, pretending to admire the lights he and Jericho strung up just hours earlier. But all he could see was the way her lips looked bruised. Kissed.

Annie crossed her legs slowly beneath the table, trying to cool the flush in her cheeks. She didn’t know what scared her more. How much she still wanted him… or how much he looked like he still wanted her.

“You okay?” she asked suddenly, needing to hear his voice again.

Smoke nodded, his tone careful. “Just thinkin’.”

“Bout what?”

He stared at her. Dead center. Right into her.

“Bout how long I been wantin’ to sit across from you like this again.”

Annie looked down, her heart thudding.

She should’ve said something light. Teased him like she used to. But the weight of his words sank too deep.

Instead, she let the moment stretch, the moon rising just behind them, casting its soft silver glow over the vines and lights.

She lifted her wine glass again.

They ate in silence after that. Intimate, but quiet. Like their bodies were having a conversation their mouths refused to speak.

But they both knew.

That kiss wasn’t the end of anything.

It was the beginning.

They’d finished their food a while ago. The picnic table still held the remnants—bowls of roasted sweet potatoes, okra and green beans, halves of sliced peach, and stems from grapes long devoured. The wine, now lukewarm, swirled in their glasses like a lazy secret. Crickets began their nighttime chorus, low and steady, blending with the rustle of trees swaying in the breeze. The candles on the table burned low, flickering like secrets too big to say.

Neither of them had mentioned the kiss.

Neither of them had to.

It still lingered on their lips, on their breath, and in the spaces between their words.

Annie stood first, brushing her palms over her shorts, fingertips grazing the edge of the table. “That was… really good,” she said, her voice soft, measured.

Smoke looked up from his plate, lips curved in a quiet smile. “Yeah. Glad you liked it.”

She started to move, wandering toward the vines that stretched across the back edge of the farm. The evening curled around her skin, warm with a hint of chill. Her curls caught the glow of the string lights above—twinkling soft like stars stitched into branches.

Smoke watched her, silent.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t need to.

Her back was to him, but she felt it. The warmth of his gaze grazing her spine, slow and deliberate. Her breath caught as she lifted her hand and ran her fingertips along one of the grapevine trellises. She moved in rhythm, hips swaying subtly, like she was responding to a music only she could hear.

Smoke stood, the scrape of his chair soft against the dirt.

His boots crunched the earth as he walked slowly, every step thickening the air around them. He didn’t rush. Didn’t break the moment. He simply… moved closer.

Annie didn’t turn.

But she felt him.

His presence hovered behind her, close but not touching. A hum of static crackled in the space between their bodies. Her lips parted slightly, and the warmth of his chest danced like heat against her back.

She held her breath.

He reached forward slowly, his fingers brushing hers, grazing the same leaf she touched. His other hand hovered beside her waist. Not holding. Not daring.

Still, no words.

Still, no touch.

Annie leaned back. Just a whisper. Her shoulder blades nearly brushed his chest.

Smoke’s breath hitched.

His eyes traced the curve of her neck, her bare shoulder, the slope of her back beneath the soft, pale fabric of her halter top. Her skin. Deep brown and glowing beneath the string lights shimmered like warm molasses kissed by firelight.

She smelled like honeysuckle, sugar, and summer.

And he was drowning.

Finally, her voice barely audible.

“Why are you so close?”

His voice came just as low, intense with restraint. “Why ain’t you moved?”

She didn’t.

Neither did he.

Her hand tightened around the trellis.

Smoke stepped closer. One inch. No more.

But it felt like everything.

She turned her head slightly, and her temple brushed the edge of his cheek. Their mouths were inches apart, breath to breath, heartbeat to heartbeat.

Still... no kiss.

Still... no release.

Just tension. Molten and quiet.

Her breath trembled. Smoke’s fingers twitched beside her hip.

The silence wasn’t empty.

It was a confession.

It was memory.

It was everything they’d tried not to say since that kiss by the pond.

And then… Smoke stepped back.

Slow. Gentle. Like letting go of a dream.

Annie finally exhaled, her pulse a steady drum in her chest. She didn’t turn. Didn’t ask why. Because she knew:

The fire between them?

Had only just begun.

Smoke walked back toward the table, his voice low and a little rough around the edges. “I should probably get you home,” he said softly, glancing toward the distant path leading back to the truck.

Annie raised a brow, playful but with a hint of challenge. “Oh? You tryin’ to get rid of me already?”

He turned toward her with that signature grin, lazy, crooked, and too damn confident for her own good. One hand rested casually on the back of her chair as he leaned slightly, head tilted. “Nah. Just don’t want your mama worryin’… You know she’ll be out on that porch with the light blinkin’ like a bat signal.”

Annie laughed, strolling back over, the hem of her shorts brushing her thighs with every step. “She would, too.”

“And I’d rather not have her comin’ up to Cypress with a belt in one hand and a shotgun in the other,” he added, feigning a shudder. “I’ve seen that look in her eyes. She don’t play.”

Annie rolled her eyes, brushing past him to grab her purse. “Please. She likes you.”

Smoke’s gaze lingered, his voice dropping a note lower as he murmured, “She used to like me. We’ll see if that still holds after tonight.”

Annie turned slowly to look at him, a glint in her eye. “We will see.”

The air was thick and charged where neither of them could moved. His eyes held hers a second too long, and that crooked smile faltered into something softer. Something real.

He cleared his throat, pushing off the chair with a little shrug. “Stack’s holdin’ it down at the lounge tonight anyway. Told me not to rush back. So…”

“So… you took your time,” Annie finished for him, voice soft.

He looked at her.

And something about the way she said it—like she knew what he meant, what he hadn’t said tightened the air between them again.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding slowly. “Took my time.”

Her hand clutched the strap of her purse tighter, like it might help ground her. Because the way he was looking at her now was like he wanted to taste every part of her.

“You ready?” he asked, tilting his head toward the truck.

Annie nodded once. “Yeah. Let’s get back to the truck.”

They walked side by side down the path, the twinkle lights dimming behind them, the night stretching wide and quiet ahead. Neither spoke. But the silence between them didn’t feel empty it felt full. Full of tension, of memory, of words they weren’t quite ready to say.

And the strangest part? Neither of them wanted the night to end.

Nine years ago. Summer.

The sun hung low over the Mississippi River, spreading molten light across the sky like melted brass. Orange, pink, and soft lavender stretched from one end of the horizon to the other, brushing the cypress trees in a warm glow. Smoke’s Cutlass sat nestled in a clearing at the river’s bend, engine ticking softly in the cooling air.

He popped the trunk earlier and lined it with a thick patchwork quilt, two pillows from his bed, and the scent of gasoline and old metal. Now he sat leaned back against the cushions, legs stretched out, one hand around a chocolate milkshake, the other resting on the edge of the blanket.

Beside him, Annie curled one leg under herself, her curls loose and bouncing with the breeze. She wore a simple yellow tank top and cut-off jean shorts, bare arms glowing in the sunlight. Her strawberry milkshake balanced between her knees as she sipped it, lips tugging at the straw, eyes half-lidded with contentment.

“You know,” she said, glancing over at him with a smile, “you really did it. This car.”

Smoke grinned, licking whipped cream from his thumb. “Told you I’d have wheels before July hit. What can I say? I grind.”

“Grindin’ at the lumber yard and runnin’ numbers for folks ain’t exactly glamorous,” she teased, nudging him.

He smirked. “Don’t need glamour. Just needed the keys.”

She leaned into him slightly, shoulder brushing his. “I like this. Feels like ours.”

He didn’t say anything right away, just looked at her. The soft light dancing across her cheekbones, the way her mouth curved around the straw. His chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with milkshakes.

Annie caught him staring. “What?”

“You ever think you’re too pretty to be out here with somebody like me?”

Her brows lifted, but her smile didn’t waver. “Somebody like you?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Somebody still tryin’ to figure it all out.”

She looked away, toward the river. “You see broken pieces. I see a whole story.”

Smoke swallowed. That girl had a way of undoing him without trying.

They sat in silence for a while, sipping their shakes, the cicadas humming somewhere deep in the trees. The river caught the last glint of light, shimmering like glass cracked but still beautiful. Somewhere a frog croaked. A breeze rippled across the clearing.

Annie shifted, drawing her knees up slightly, the cup cradled in her hands.

“Elijah,” she said, so soft he almost didn’t hear her.

“Yeah?”

“I’m ready.”

Confused, he turning to look at her. “For what?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just held his gaze. Her eyes didn’t flicker, didn’t flinch.

Then it hit him.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Wait—you mean…?” His voice cracked slightly.

She nodded once.

He sat up straighter, shake forgotten, heart thudding. “You sure? Like, really sure?”

“I’ve been thinkin’ about it for a long time,” she said, brushing her fingers over the condensation on her cup. “Not just… sex. But you. Us. I want this to be with you.”

Smoke stared at her, trying to find the right words. “I ain’t done this before, Annie.”

“Neither have I,” she replied, cheeks pink, voice barely above a whisper. “But I trust you.”

He ran a hand down his face, then reached for her hand. “I want to do this right. For you. I don’t want to mess it up.”

“You won’t,” she said, her fingers warm in his. “We’ll figure it out together.”

He kissed her then. It was slow, nervous, and tender. She tasted like strawberries and summer, like hope and everything he didn’t know how to say. His hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing the soft curve beneath her eye. She melted into him, her free hand resting on his chest, feeling his heart pound like a drum.

They broke apart, breathless. The tension that had lingered in the air all evening finally broke into something electric.

He kissed her again, deeper this time, fingers trembling slightly as they slid along her side, grazing the hem of her tank top. “May I?” he whispered, breath brushing her ear.

She nodded.

He tugged the fabric upward, inch by inch, revealing warm brown skin and the gentle rise of her stomach. She shivered beneath his touch, not from the cold, but from the weight of the moment. Her top fell away, and his eyes softened.

“Damn,” he said, reverent. “You’re… you’re somethin’ else.”

She smiled shyly. “You act like you never seen me before.”

“Not like this. Not when the sun hittin’ you like you gold.”

Her bra came next, and he moved with care, worshipping her with kisses along her collarbone, between the valley of her breasts, each kiss a soft promise. She lay back on the quilt, arms folded above her head, curls sprawling like a halo.

Smoke pulled off his shirt, his chest heaving. She stared, touched him softly, fingertips brushing down his chest like a breeze.

“You’re shakin’,” she said gently.

“I’m tryna hold it together,” he admitted with a half-laugh. “This mean somethin’ to me.”

“It means everything to me,” she whispered.

They undressed slowly, limbs awkward, hearts loud. But their laughter softened the edges, and their kisses filled the space where nerves lived.

When she lay beneath him, legs parted, her breath catching, Smoke hovered over her, forehead pressed to hers.

“I ain’t got nothing,” he whispered. “No protection.”

Annie stared up at him. “I know. I still want this.”

His hand cupped between her thighs, stroking gently, making her gasp. She was already wet, already aching.

He aligned himself, his hips trembling, lips brushing her temple. “Tell me if it’s too much. Tell me anything.”

She nodded, her voice trembling. “I will.”

He entered her slowly, carefully, watching every flicker of emotion cross her face. When she winced, he paused, kissing her cheek, her jaw, her shoulder.

“I’m okay,” she breathed. “Keep going.”

He did. Inch by inch, until he was buried inside her. Her walls clung tight, the heat and pressure almost too much. He stilled, breathing hard, forehead pressed to hers.

“You feel like… like heaven,” he said, voice breaking.

" Elijah.. Please.." She moaned out to him. Her hands gripped his shoulders, pulling him closer. Their bodies moved together in slow rhythm, learning each other like music. There was no rush, just tenderness. Kisses. Gasps. The world narrowing to just them and the sun dipping low behind the trees.

When they came, it was with a quiet moan into her neck, his body shivering. She held him tightly, tears in her eyes, not from pain, but from the overwhelming beauty of it.

After, they stayed tangled, bare and open, watching the last streaks of light fade into night.

Smoke kissed her hand. “This night... I’ll remember it forever.”

Annie smiled, brushing his cheek with her thumb. “Me too.”

The fireflies blinked into the dusk, and the river whispered its secrets in the dark as their love rooted itself in deep, quiet, and eternal.

TAGLIST:

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @uzumaki-rebellion @brattyfics @chrisevansmentee @margepimpson @blaqgirlmagicyallcantstandit @bigjh @est1887 @thegreatlibraryofalex @127hydrangeas @tadjoa @thickmadame @chixkencxrry @jackierose902109 @carmilladias @rolemodelshit @lilblckraincloud @thesmutconnoisseur @hotebonynearby @lizbehave @fadingbelieverexpert @samiecemonet-blog @nebulamilkyway @shamansha @soufcakmistress @diamondsinterlude @sarcastic-sunshines @blaqgirlmagicyallcantstandit @hotcommodityyy @coolfoodrunworld-blog @thefutureemmywinner @childishgambinaax

[sugarskies]

spooning

summary: john sneaks into bob's room for cuddles. word count: 1,068 notes: another one for what i've dubbed the diversionverse but can be read alone and in any order. mild sexual references.

Bob liked it best when they didn’t fuck.

Of course, he enjoyed it when they did. That was what started the whole thing—a raw, needy kiss that somehow evolved into more. It was one thing for them to use their hands and mouths to distract each other from their sins; it was another when they started to develop feelings and continued to deny day after day that they did.

But, once in a while, late at night, they let their guards down. It was surprising, at least to Bob, that John was the one who did it first. That John was the one who climbed into bed with him to cuddle without a word, who clung to Bob like he needed him more than life. Bob was hesitant to return the gesture, to sneak into John’s arms once everyone else was in bed, but his fear of rejection was squandered by the gentlest reception of his life.

It didn’t happen every night; just often enough for Bob to feel used to it when John slipped into his room, dropped his pants at the side of the bed, and crawled under the covers in his boxers. When he slid his arms beneath Bob’s sweatshirt, pulled him close, and twisted their bare legs together. When he pressed small kisses to the nape of Bob’s neck and behind his ear because he thought Bob was asleep and would never know.

Normally, Bob would have stayed still. Maybe shifted back into John’s chest or lowered his hands to squeeze his fingers—subtle movements that John wouldn’t have clocked as conscious or awake. That night, something came over him. He wanted to see John’s face, wanted to know how he looked perfectly fitted against Bob’s back. Bob shifted just enough to look over his shoulder, to meet John’s tired gaze.

He reached his left hand up, dragged his fingers through John’s beard. Bob let his thumb linger on his chin, held his eyes long enough for John to once again surprise him by moving first. John tugged back a little, giving himself space to lean forward and press their lips together. It was the softest kiss they’d ever had, by a long shot. They barely touched but it was somehow perfect, John’s breath warm on Bob’s face as he pressed their foreheads together.

Bob wrapped his hand around John’s head and pulled him back down. It would have been easier if John crawled into Bob’s bed the way Bob crawled into his—turned the other way, his face pressed into John’s chest—but he liked the way John held him so protectively. The way he had to shift one hand over Bob to position himself, the way his other hand slid up Bob’s belly to his chest. It was weird, how John had two fingers on either side of his nipple and instead of feeling sexy he felt safe.

He often wondered what the others would think if they caught him and John fucking. Wondered whether they would laugh or be disgusted or somehow understand. But Bob never thought about what they would think if they saw them like that; wrapped in each other’s arms not because they were filled with lust but because they felt comfortable together, because they slept better together.

Maybe it would have been funny if they caught Bob when he was on his knees, trying to suck off John in the common area because he needed the weight on his tongue. Maybe they would have been disgusted if they caught John in the training room, squeezing the life out of Bob’s bare ass because he needed a distraction and the bag wasn’t enough. But how could they see them there and not understand? Not see that there was more to it than just sex?

“I thought you were asleep,” John whispered, lips still hovering over Bob’s. Bob shook his head, his eyes locked on John’s. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” said Bob, and he left it vague intentionally because he was afraid that if he admitted he was always awake, John might lose the nerve to share his little kisses. “Did you have a nightmare again?”

There was usually a reason they sneaked into each other’s rooms, even if they rarely admitted to it. John hesitated, his voice uncharacteristically soft and honest. “Just missed you.”

Bob kissed him again without thinking. John tasted like spearmint toothpaste, smelled like that terrible three-in-one shampoo. He felt like the bed was his own, like Bob was his own, and looked at Bob like he was the only other person in the world. Bob let their lips stay together for another moment, let his tongue rest against John’s and sweep the back of his teeth. Then he grabbed the front of John’s shirt and tugged him down with him as he settled back into the sheets.

John’s arms wrapped back in their original position and held Bob close. Bob could feel every bit of his torso against his back, even through his sweatshirt. John’s broad shoulders, his heartbeat behind his pecs, the slight curve of a belly relieved of daily planks. He wondered what John thought of him, of how easily his arms wrapped around Bob’s tiny waist. Given how relaxed his breaths were against the back of Bob’s neck, he thought he must have liked it.

“I like it when you come in here,” Bob mumbled. John smiled against the back of his neck and Bob gave his hand a playful squeeze. “Don’t let it go to your head. You’re just a good blanket.”

“Right, that’s all.” John pressed a kiss behind his ear, tugged gently on his lobe. “Nothing else you like about me, right?”

“I guess I like your belly.” The way that John tensed just slightly made him feel like he said something wrong. He shifted his head deeper into the pillow, laced his fingers around John’s. “It’s soft.”

A long silence passed before John said quietly, “I think you’re perfect.”

Bob didn’t say another word. He didn’t know what he could say without risking the moment they’d created, without going too far and making them feel things they’d regret in the morning. Bob lifted John’s arm and kissed the back of his hand before he closed his eyes.

He didn’t know if he was really perfect, but wrapped in John’s arms, he felt like he was.

[synity]

Heyy!

I was wondering if you’d be up for writing a Scoups fic sometime! Honestly, I’m not picky about the plot I’m just really craving some good Seungcheol fluff and/or angst right now. Totally no pressure if you’re not feeling it, but I’d love to see what you come up with if you’re down. Thanks so much either way!! 💗

ESE DÍA DIFERENTE

(Choi Seungcheo! X Fem!Reader)

Chosen Family, Bittersweet, Slice of life, Contemporary Romance, Healing, Redemption, Emotional Drama

This story is inspired by real-life experiences and emotions that I have lived through and witnessed. While the characters and events are fictionalized, the feelings of heartbreak, healing, and hope are deeply personal and genuine.😭

Seungcheol's life used to be simple. Not in the sense of easy, but in the way that love felt safe and real. When Maria came into his world, it was as if all the scattered pieces of his life finally found their place.

She was stunning bright-eyed, full of laughter, and with a smile that seemed to light up every room she entered.

From the moment they met, there was a spark he couldn't ignore.

He remembered their first date vividly a small, cozy café tucked away in the city's quieter streets. Maria had laughed at his awkward jokes, her eyes sparkling with genuine joy. They talked for hours, about everything and nothing, until the sun dipped below the horizon and the city lights flickered on.

"That was... really nice," Maria had said softly as they stood outside, the cool night air wrapping around them.

Seungcheol grinned, feeling his heart pound.

"I'm glad you think so. I don't usually do this kind of thing, but with you... it felt different."

She smiled back, touching his hand lightly. "Me too."

From then on, their lives intertwined like the vines of a climbing rose. They shared meals, secrets, dreams. Seungcheol found himself planning a future he never dared imagine. Maria wasn't just his girlfriend; she was his partner, his best friend, the person he wanted beside him through every storm and calm.

One evening, a few months into their relationship, they sat on the rooftop of his apartment building. The city sprawled beneath them, glittering like a galaxy.

"I can't wait to marry you, Seungcheol," Maria whispered, her fingers laced through his.

He pulled her close, heart swelling. "Soon. Soon, we'll have that life.

They dreamed aloud about the wedding white flowers, soft music, dancing under the stars.

Maria talked about picking out a house, maybe near the beach where they could watch sunsets every day. Seungcheol listened, believing every

word.

But life rarely stays perfect for long.

Small cracks began to form, almost imperceptibly at first. Maria started staying out later than usual, her phone always locked tight, a new layer of distance settling between them.

When he asked, she smiled and reassured him.

"Nothing to worry about, babe. Just work stuff."

Seungcheol wanted to believe her. Wanted so badly to trust the woman he loved with all his heart.

One afternoon, he waited for her at the café where they often met after work. She arrived late, flustered, avoiding his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, slipping into the seat opposite him. "I've just been... busy."

"Is everything okay?" he asked gently, searching her face.

Maria forced a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Yeah, really. Just tired, that's all."

Seungcheol nodded, but the seed of doubt had been planted.

Weeks passed, and the distance grew.

One rainy night, unable to shake the gnawing feeling in his chest, Seungcheol decided to surprise Maria at her apartment. He arrived unannounced, his heart pounding with hope and fear.

The door was slightly ajar.

He stepped inside, the scent of unfamiliar perfume hitting him first.

Then he heard voices soft laughter, whispered words not meant for him.

Seungcheol's breath caught in his throat as he crept closer to the living room.

There, on the couch, was Maria wrapped in the arms of another man.

Time froze.

His world shattered.

Maria looked up, eyes wide with shock.

"Seungcheol! What are you doing here?"

He swallowed the lump in his throat, pain crackina his voice. "How lona?"

She didn't answer.

The man shifted uncomfortably.

"I thought we had something real," Seungcheol said, voice breaking. "I trusted you."

Maria's face crumpled, guilt flooding her features. "I'm sorry... I didn't mean to-"

"Why?" he interrupted, pain cutting through him like a knife. "Why do this to me? To us?"

She looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

Seungcheol turned and left, the cold rain outside soaking him as he walked aimlessly, feeling like every step took him further from the man he used to be.

Days blurred into nights. He barely ate, barely slept. Friends called, but he couldn't answer. His phone was filled with messages from Maria, apologies and explanations, but he couldn't bring himself to respond.

One night, alone in his dark apartment, he stared at the ring he had bought for her. The ring he never got to give. It felt heavy in his hand, a symbol of a future erased.

"I was going to marry you," he whispered into the emptiness. "How did it all fall apart?"

Seungcheol's life crumbled, but somewhere deep inside, beneath the pain, a flicker remained. A faint, fragile hope that maybe, someday, he could find his way back from the darkness.

The days stretched on like endless shadows.

The colors of the city dimmed, and the laughter that once filled his ears turned into a distant echo, a haunting reminder of what was lost.

Seungcheol moved through his routine like a ghost going to work, answering emails, smiling at meetings but inside, he was unraveling.

His apartment, once a sanctuary filled with memories and hope, now felt like a cold cage.

The bed where two souls once dreamed of forever was empty, a silent testament to the promises broken. He often found himself staring at the ceiling late into the night, the weight of silence pressing down on his chest.

Friends tried to reach out.

"Cheol, we miss you," his closest friend, Joshua called one evening. "Let's grab dinner, talk it

out."

But Seungcheol shook his head, forcing a hollow smile. "Not tonight. I'm just tired."

The truth was, he was tired not just physically, but from the ache that refused to fade. From the betrayal that replayed in his mind like a cruel song.

He walked the city streets aimlessly, searching for something to fill the void. Sometimes he found himself in the park, watching couples holding hands, their happiness like salt on a wound. He envied their laughter, their ease, the simple beauty of love that now seemed so distant to him.

One rainy afternoon, he sat alone in a quiet café, fingers tracing the rim of his empty cup. The barista placed a fresh coffee in front of him with a gentle smile.

"Rough day?" He asked kindly.

Seungcheol nodded faintly, managing a small, grateful smile. "You could say that."

He wondered if he knew the weight he carried the loneliness, the heartbreak. But he didn't want to burden anyone with his pain. He had learned to keep it locked inside, behind a carefully crafted mask.

At work, he tried to focus, burying himself in projects and meetings. But the silence in his office was deafening. Every time his phone buzzed, his heart leapt, hoping for a message that never came.

His family noticed his change the quiet that replaced his usual warmth, the shadows under his eyes.

"Seungcheol, are you okay?" his mother asked one evening, concern etched in her voice.

He forced a smile, shaking his head.

"I'm fine. Just... tired."

But inside, he felt fractured. Like a beautiful vase smashed on the floor some pieces sharp and jagged, others missing entirely.

One night, as rain pattered against his window, he sat by the glass, tracing droplets with a trembling finger. He thought about the future he once dreamed of, now crumbled like ashes in his hands.

"I don't know how to move on," he whispered to the empty room. "How do I heal when everything I believed in was a lie?"

His phone lit up suddenly a notification from a florist's shop nearby, advertising fresh spring blooms. He scrolled through the pictures of vibrant flowers, their delicate beauty stirring something deep inside.

Maybe... maybe a small step. Maybe a way to feel something real again.

Unbeknownst to him, that moment, fragile as it was, would lead him somewhere new somewhere he hadn't dared to dream.

The days that followed were a blur of muted colors and hollow routines. Seungcheol woke each morning feeling like he was carrying the weight of the world or maybe just the weight of himself. The silence inside his apartment pressed in on him, thick and suffocating. Sometimes, he’d catch himself reaching for his phone, only to remember there was no one to call.

constant hum of meetings and deadlines distracted him, but it also reminded him how far away he’d drifted from the life he’d imagined. His colleagues noticed the change how his laughter no longer reached his eyes, how his smile felt forced, like a mask he wore to hide the cracks beneath.

One evening, after a long day, Seungcheol found himself standing in front of a small flower shop he hadn’t noticed before. The sign was simple, adorned with delicate script, and the warm glow from inside spilled onto the sidewalk. Drawn by something he couldn’t name, he stepped inside.

The air smelled of earth and petals, soft and comforting. Rows of colorful flowers stretched out before him roses, lilies, tulips each one vibrant, alive. For a moment, he forgot the ache in his chest. He ran his fingers gently over a cluster of soft pink peonies, their petals fragile but full of life.

The shopkeeper, a kind-faced woman with gentle eyes, smiled at him. “Looking for something special?”

Seungcheol hesitated. “I’m not sure… Maybe just something to brighten the day.”

She nodded knowingly. “Flowers have a way of doing that.”

He picked a small bouquet of white daisies simple, pure, hopeful. As he held them, a small flicker of something new stirred inside him not quite happiness, not quite peace, but a fragile thread of hope.

Days passed, and Seungcheol found himself returning to the flower shop more often, drawn by the quiet beauty and the unexpected comfort it offered. He started to care for the flowers he bought, learning how to nurture something delicate and alive. It was a small act, but it reminded him he was still capable of caring even if it was just for petals and leaves.

Slowly, very slowly, the sharp edges of his pain began to soften.

He still carried the scars of his heartbreak they were a part of him now but amid the wilted parts of his life, there were hints of growth. A fragile, quiet strength was taking root.

In the moments between work and sleep, he found himself thinking less about what he’d lost, and more about what might still be waiting.

Seungcheol didn’t know it yet, but this small change a bouquet of daisies, a few quiet moments in a flower shop was the first step toward a new beginning.

It was a quiet Sunday morning, the kind where the sky was pale and the air still. Seungcheol found himself walking the familiar route to the flower shop, hands tucked into the pockets of his beige coat. The streets were calm, and the gentle clink of wind chimes above the flower shop door greeted him as he stepped inside.

He had begun to find comfort in these visits not because he needed flowers for any particular reason, but because it was one of the few places where his chest didn’t feel so heavy.

“Back again,” the florist a warm, gentle woman with tired but kind eyes said with a soft smile.

Seungcheol nodded. “Yeah. I guess I’ve started to like it here.”

The woman chuckled. “People who come back to flowers again and again are usually the ones trying to heal.”

He looked down, quiet. “Yeah… I guess that’s true.”

Just then, the sound of soft footsteps came from behind the wooden curtain separating the back room from the front. A voice, lighter and younger, floated in.

“Mom, do you know where you put the shears? The sharp ones?”

Seungcheol looked up instinctively, and that’s when he saw her.

You.

You stepped out, dressed casually in a light sweater and jeans, a faint smudge of dirt on your wrist as if you’d been helping with potting or organizing. You weren’t in the least like the perfectly polished women Seungcheol used to be surrounded by. There was something grounded about you something real. A small frown rested on your face as you looked around for the missing shears.

“Oh,” you said, stopping short when you noticed someone else in the shop. You straightened up. “Sorry I didn’t know there was a customer.”

Your mother smiled. “This is Seungcheol. He’s been coming here a lot lately.”

You gave a polite nod. “I’m YN her daughter. Just visiting today.”

“Nice to meet you,” Seungcheol replied quietly, something uncertain flickering behind his eyes.

You reached behind the counter, finally spotting the shears and holding them up in triumph. “There they are. Thought I was losing my mind

Seungcheol chuckled softly, and the sound surprised even him. It had been a long time since he’d laughed like that not out of politeness, not to fill silence, but because something genuinely amused him.

Your mother raised an eyebrow, glancing between the two of you.

“You said you were looking for something simple today?” she asked, redirecting Seungcheol gently.

“Yeah… something calm. Nothing too bright. Maybe white or soft blue.”

You turned your head, curiosity piqued. “That sounds like hydrangeas.”

“Hydrangeas?” he echoed, unfamiliar.

You stepped closer, motioning toward the back of the store. “We just got some fresh blue ones in this morning. I’ll show you.”

He followed, not entirely sure why only that your voice was soft, and your presence wasn’t overwhelming. As you gently lifted a hydrangea pot, the petals catching light like quiet silk, Seungcheol felt something stir in him.

“They symbolize gratitude and deep understanding,” you explained, setting the pot down in front of him. “But… also regret and apology. I always found that bittersweet.”

“Sounds like life,” he murmured.

You looked up, meeting his eyes for a moment. Something unspoken passed between you not recognition, not attraction, but something deeper: understanding.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Exactly.”

Your mother called from the front, and you gave him a small smile before turning away.

As he paid and stepped out of the shop with the potted hydrangea in hand, Seungcheol found himself glancing back once.

You were standing at the counter now, laughing at something your mother said, your eyes crinkling with warmth.

He didn’t know your name until five minutes ago. He didn’t know anything about you what you did, where you lived, what you dreamed of.

But for the first time in what felt like forever, he wanted to know.

And that… felt like something new was beginning.

From that day on, Seungcheol’s visits to the flower shop became more frequent and less about the flowers.

He never admitted it, not even to himself, but he always hoped you’d be there. Sometimes you were tying ribbons around bouquets, sweeping fallen petals, or leaning behind the counter as you talked with your mother. And sometimes you weren’t. On those days, he still bought something small. A sprig of eucalyptus. A single daisy. A lavender stem. Just to justify the visit.

“Still going with calm tones?” you teased one afternoon, walking beside him as he studied a row of soft lilacs.

“They’re peaceful,” he replied with a faint smile. “I need peace.”

You didn’t pry. That was something he noticed about you. You didn’t ask about the sadness in his eyes, or the slight hesitation in his laugh. You didn’t fill silences with questions. You just let them breathe.

“Lilacs symbolize rebirth, you know,” you offered gently. “Like… letting go.”

He glanced at you, something quiet and grateful in his expression. “Then maybe I should take two.”

You grinned.

A few days later, it was raining soft and steady. Seungcheol entered the shop, hair damp, coat speckled with droplets. You were wiping down the window glass, humming something low under your breath.

“You’ll catch a cold,” you said without looking, your voice warm. “There’s tea in the back if you want to sit for a bit.”

He hesitated.

“You sure?”

“Mm-hmm,” you said, finally turning toward him. “You’ve earned regular customer privileges by now.”

That was the first time he sat with you at the little wooden table behind the shop. The kettle steamed softly as you poured two cups of barley tea. The smell of damp earth and petals wrapped around both of you like a blanket.

“I used to drink this with my grandmother,” you said, wrapping your hands around the warm mug. “She always said it tastes like patience.”

Seungcheol sipped slowly. “Then it’s perfect for me.”

The rain continued to fall.

You didn’t speak about your past. He didn’t speak about his. But the silence wasn’t awkward. It felt… comforting. Shared. Like the two of you had been sitting across from each other for years in another life.

The next time he came, you weren’t there.

He tried not to be disappointed. Your mother told him you had classes that day and wouldn’t be back until the weekend. He picked out a soft pink carnation anyway, but as he walked home with it tucked into his coat pocket, it wasn’t the same.

He didn’t know why.

She was just someone he met in a flower shop.

Just someone who smiled at him when the rest of the world felt cold.

Just someone whose voice stayed in his head longer than it should have.

He saw you again a week later kneeling in the back garden behind the shop, replanting new seedlings.

“Hey,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

You looked up, smiling beneath your bangs. “Hey, yourself. Thought we lost you to a rival florist.”

He laughed, crouching beside you. “Never. You and your lilac wisdom got me hooked.”

You looked at him then, the dirt on your hands, the scent of fresh soil and morning light all around you.

“You’re smiling more lately,” you said.

That caught him off guard.

“I am?”

You nodded. “You were carrying a storm before. Now it’s more like… a quiet sky.”

His chest tightened at the honesty in your voice. You weren’t complimenting him. You were noticing him. Seeing him. Not who he used to be. Not who he pretended to be.

But who he was now broken, healing, and quietly blooming again.

It was late afternoon the kind where the golden light trickled through the flower shop windows and everything felt slow, like the world was taking a breath.

YN had just left to run an errand. The shop was quiet. Seungcheol lingered, pretending to browse, but really… he just didn’t feel like going home yet.

“Sit down, son,” her mother said suddenly, wiping her hands on her apron. “You’ve been pacing around those lilies like they owe you rent.”

He blinked in surprise, then laughed softly, lowering himself into the wooden chair near the counter.

“You always call me that,” he said. “Son.”

She gave him a long look, gentle but serious. “That’s because I see you like one.”

A lump formed in Seungcheol’s throat. No one had said something like that to him in a long, long time.

She poured tea without asking she always did and slid the cup across to him.

“You remind me a lot of her,” she said quietly, nodding toward the door where you’d left moments ago. “Before everything fell apart.”

He looked up, eyes curious.

“I know that weight you carry. The silence. The smile that never quite reaches. You think you’re hiding it well, but I’ve seen it before.”

Her voice dipped, laced with memory. “She was like that too.”

Seungcheol’s lips parted. “YN?”

She nodded slowly.

“Three years ago. A betrayal from a friend she trusted more than family. It shattered her. Broke her spirit in ways I didn’t even know were possible.”

Her eyes misted, but she didn’t look away.

“She shut everyone out. Wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t speak.

She stopped sketching, stopped writing, stopped building things all the things that made her her.” She shook her head gently.

“This girl could turn scraps into art. She was brilliant. Always making, always dreaming. But after that betrayal, she stopped breathing life into anything.”

Seungcheol swallowed, his voice low. “What brought her back?”

“A lot of time. A lot of silence. And a little bit of kindness.” She looked at him knowingly.

“Sometimes we forget that pain doesn’t need to be solved. It just needs to be witnessed.”

That struck him deeply. He looked down at his tea, then at her again. Her eyes didn’t judge. Didn’t pity. They understood.

“I was supposed to get married,” he said, the words falling from his mouth for the first time without shame. “To someone I thought… loved me. Maria.”

The name tasted bitter.

“She cheated,” he continued, voice tight. “With someone I trusted. It wasn’t just the betrayal it was the life we built. All those promises. All those mornings where I thought I was happy…”

He trailed off. His hands trembled lightly.

“She left me in pieces,” he whispered. “And I don’t even know who I am anymore without her.”

The older woman reached across the table, placing her hand over his.

“Oh, my son,” she said softly. “You don’t have to know right now.”

He looked at her.

“You know what’s the worst thing about pain?” she asked. “It makes us think we’ve lost who we were forever. But sometimes, we’re just… paused. Waiting to be found again. Not by someone else. But by ourselves.”

Tears brimmed in his eyes, but he didn’t let them fall.

She smiled. “YN was known around this neighborhood for her creativity. Her spark. Her quick mind. And when all of that disappeared, everyone thought she’d never return to herself.”

A small, proud smile touched her lips.

“But look at her now. Laughing again. Creating again. Breathing again.”

Seungcheol closed his eyes for a moment. It wasn’t healing not yet. But it was relief. Like someone had reached into his soul and turned on the lights, even if dimly.

The older woman stood and ruffled his hair gently like a real mother would.

“You don’t have to rush. But don’t let that girl fool you either. She understands pain better than anyone. That’s why she’s so gentle with yours.”

As she returned to the flowers, humming to herself, Seungcheol sat still for a long time tea growing cold in his hands, something unspoken blooming in his chest.

Not love.

Not yet.

But something warmer than grief.

And something softer than regret.

Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as lost as he thought.

YN wasn’t the kind of person to press.

She noticed things in quiet moments how Seungcheol always avoided love songs playing on the radio, how he never talked about the past, how sometimes he stared a little too long at a single flower like he was trying to remember something he lost.

She noticed how his laugh came with a pause. Like he had to check with himself if it was okay to feel joy again.

She noticed and she didn’t say a word.

Not at first.

But she stayed.

When he dropped by the flower shop, she started setting aside little things without asking a new chamomile bloom she thought he’d like, a folded napkin with a quote she scribbled, a cookie her mom made that she knew he wouldn’t buy but always finished.

She didn’t try to cheer him up.

She didn’t try to fix the invisible heaviness he carried.

She just… offered herself.

And one evening, after a sudden downpour soaked the streets and left the world smelling like wet soil and green things, she handed him a towel and said quietly:

“You don’t have to tell me what happened, Seungcheol.”

He looked at her.

Her eyes were calm. Steady. Not filled with pity, but with recognition.

“I just want you to know… whatever it is you don’t have to carry it alone every day.”

Seungcheol blinked, lips parting but no words came. No one had ever said that to him. No one had noticed without asking.

“Some days are harder than others,” she continued softly, “I know that. I’ve had days where I couldn’t even get out of bed, where I hated the idea of being seen.”

He froze. Those words he knew them.

“But someone told me once,” she smiled gently, “that pain doesn’t mean you’re broken forever. It just means you’re still healing.”

His throat tightened. It felt like she was peeling open a window in him he didn’t even know was locked shut.

“You remind me of myself back then,” she said.

He raised his head slowly, brows drawn.

“I know that look. That quiet ache. That… pause before speaking like you’re afraid your voice doesn’t matter anymore.”

Silence stretched between them not awkward, but real.

Then finally, he whispered, “It does. With you, it does.”

YN smiled, that small kind of smile that doesn’t scream joy but offers peace.

“Then I’ll keep listening,” she said.

Seungcheol felt something shift in him that night not big, not dramatic just a flicker of warmth, a sense of not being invisible.

Someone saw him.

Not the perfect him. Not the smiling version he used to be with Maria.

But this version the one with bruised hope and a slow heartbeat.

And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.

The sun had just begun to set, its honey-colored light spilling over the quiet streets like a golden blanket. Seungcheol was walking back home from the gym, earbuds in, sweat cooling on his skin, when he saw her YN’s mother, standing outside the local grocery store, struggling with two heavy bags balanced awkwardly in each hand.

He blinked, instantly pulling his earbuds out. “Ma’am—! Let me help.”

She turned, a little startled, and then broke into a warm smile. “Ah, Seungcheol! My strong son!” she laughed, clearly relieved. “I got a little ambitious today.”

He jogged over and easily took the bags from her hands, surprised at the weight.

“What’s all this?” he asked with a grin.

“I’m making a chocolate cake,” she said proudly, “for YN and her siblings. They’ve been working so hard. Saturday’s our tradition they all come over to cook for me, so I wanted to surprise them first.”

Seungcheol nodded, amused and touched. “That sounds… really sweet. Literally.”

“You should come in too,” she added, unlocking her gate. “There’s always more than enough. And you deserve something sweet.”

He hesitated for only a second. But her tone that motherly certainty made it impossible to say no.

They entered her home through the small garden pathway where vines crept gently along the white fence, and tiny flowerpots lined the windowsills.

The door opened straight into a veranda covered in trellises and potted blooms, the scent of lavender and basil lingering in the warm air.

Inside, the house felt like a hug soft light, floral cushions, wooden beams that creaked with memory, and the faint scent of vanilla.

But just as they stepped into the living room, a wave of music and laughter burst through the space like sunshine.

Seungcheol stopped, blinking in surprise.

There they were YN and her siblings, Julián, Savanah, Alvaro, barefoot on the wooden floor, crowded around the TV with microphones in hand. A karaoke video blared on the screen, a spirited Spanish song with vibrant rhythms. They were singing well, more like shouting half the lyrics with big grins, correcting each other mid-line, then bursting into giggles when someone completely botched the chorus.

“No no no! That’s corazón, not camarón!” one of the brothers shouted.

“Oh shut up, boy!” YN yelled back, laughing so hard she had to hold onto the couch for balance.

It was chaos.

And it was beautiful.

Seungcheol stood frozen for a moment, bags still in hand, as the warmth of that moment wrapped around him pure, untamed joy.

“Don’t just stand there,” her mom said quietly, smiling beside him. “Come into the kitchen. Let’s let them sing their hearts out while we make some peace in the form of chocolate.”

He followed, still a little dazed.

Through the living room past the burst of music and dancing limbs into the kitchen that smelled like butter, sugar, and home.

“I used to sing like that once,” her mother said, putting on an apron and chuckling to herself. “But now my singing’s reserved for burnt rice and angry saucepans.”

Seungcheol laughed. He felt something loosen inside of him like his ribs had been tight for too long, and finally someone was letting him breathe.

He began unpacking the bags without being asked. Eggs, flour, dark chocolate, ripe bananas, cocoa powder.

“I haven’t felt this… alive in a while,” he admitted quietly, as the sounds of off-key Spanish harmonies drifted in from the next room.

Her mother glanced at him, knowingly. “That’s what happens when you walk into a place where people are allowed to be messy. Loud. Real.”

She handed him a whisk. “And now you’re part of the recipe.”

Seungcheol grinned, shaking his head.

A part of him still ached. Maria’s betrayal hadn’t vanished. But here in this flower-filled home, with the hum of love echoing through walls it didn’t own him.

He stirred the batter, laughter ringing from the living room, as if music could stitch together the broken corners of him he thought no one would ever touch again.

And for the first time in a long time… he didn’t feel like a guest in someone else’s joy.

He felt welcome in it.

The chocolate cake was a hit rich, slightly warm from the oven, with just the right amount of bitterness in the dark chocolate and love in every slice. Plates were scattered across the coffee table, mugs half-filled with café con leche and cinnamon tea.

By now, the sun had fully dipped below the horizon, leaving the little house bathed in amber and fairy lights strung up along the veranda. The earlier laughter had softened into that easy kind of silence that only families comfortable with each other share.

Seungcheol leaned against the archway between the kitchen and living room, sipping tea, soaking it all in.

That’s when Julián, YN’s older brother, pulled out his guitar and began to strum. Not wildly — gently. Like a whisper across water.

The room shifted. Quiet fell. Heads turned.

Then he started singing. His voice was low, soulful, raw.

And just like that, the room transformed. This wasn’t karaoke anymore.

This was… intimate.

YN’s voice slipped in next.

Soft at first. Feather-light. But growing with each line. Her tone was warm, honeyed, but carried a kind of ache that made Seungcheol freeze mid-sip.

She and Savanah harmonized like it was muscle memory the kind of blend you don’t learn, but grow into.

Their voices tangled like vines lifting, falling, blooming in every verse.

Alvaro stood and began to rap the bridge from “Alto Suspiro,”

effortlessly flowing into the rhythm with the kind of charisma that filled the entire room. He danced between lines, punctuating lyrics with laughter and footwork that had even their mom clapping to the beat.

It wasn’t rehearsed. It wasn’t performative.

It was who they were.

Songs written from years ago maybe never released but clearly carried like sacred things. Memories put to melody. Shared pain made art. Family bound not just by blood, but by sound.

Seungcheol sat down slowly on the couch, caught in the current.

He watched YN the whole time how her eyes sparkled when she hit the chorus, how her hands moved as if sculpting the air, how the sadness in her voice didn’t dim the light but made it realer.

She was laughing now, spinning with Savanah in the middle of the room while Julián kept playing and Alvaro clapped off-beat just to annoy them.

Seungcheol smiled.

A real one.

Not one he forced. Not one he practiced in mirrors.

A smile that ached in his cheeks because it had been so long since he’d worn one that fit.

And deep inside, somewhere quiet, he thought

So this is what it feels like to witness joy that isn’t pretending.

And for the first time, he didn’t feel like an outsider watching through a window.

He felt like he’d been invited in.

Like maybe just maybe he’d found a place where his silence was allowed… until he was ready to sing too.

The music had faded. The laughter had softened. Now only the hum of summer crickets and the scent of leftover cake remained.

Everyone had slipped into that mellow post-celebration mood scattered across couches and kitchen stools, some dozing off, others half-whispering stories with full bellies and warm hearts.

But Seungcheol?

He’d slipped outside.

The porch creaked as he settled into the old wooden bench near the jasmine vines, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together. He stared out into the little garden, now dim and silvery under the moonlight.

He didn’t know what he was feeling, really.

Something between gratitude and grief.

Something quiet.

He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“You okay?” Her voice was soft. So soft, he nearly didn’t hear it.

He turned.

There she was YN, barefoot, holding two mugs in her hands, hair slightly tousled, cheeks pink from laughing too much. A little piece of cake crumb on her shirt.

He nodded gently, managing a smile. “Yeah. Just… needed some air.”

She handed him a mug and sat beside him, the bench sighing beneath them.

“Chamomile,” she said. “It’s all that’s left.”

“Perfect,” he murmured, taking it.

For a while, they just sat there shoulder to shoulder, watching the moonlight glaze the tops of the flowerbeds, the way light wind rustled through the leaves.

“You sing beautifully,” he said at last, his voice low. “All of you. But… especially you.”

She looked over, a bit surprised. “Thanks,” she said, then looked down at her mug. “We grew up that way. Music was how we got through things. It’s always been… therapy, I guess.”

He nodded, staring ahead again. “I don’t think I realized how long it’s been since I’ve been around something so… alive.”

She glanced at him, studying the side of his face in the pale light. “You’ve been through something,” she said softly. Not as a question just… a truth.

He didn’t speak at first.

Then: “Yeah.”

Another breath.

“It was a lot. I thought I had it all figured out. The life, the woman, the path.” His throat tightened a bit. “But it was all… a lie.”

YN stayed quiet, letting the silence hold him.

“I gave everything,” he added, voice barely above a whisper. “And I didn’t even see it coming.”

There was a long pause. Then she said, gently, “You know… my mom told me once that some betrayals don’t just break your heart they break your compass. You stop knowing where to walk. What to trust. Even in yourself.”

He looked at her, surprised.

She gave a half-smile, a little sad.

“I’ve been there.”

They didn’t have to say more.

The silence between them now wasn’t awkward. It was full.

He looked at her again the way her hair caught the breeze, the way her eyes held stars in them without even trying and he felt it:

This wasn’t just safety. This was presence.

And maybe, for the first time since everything fell apart, someone wasn’t just near him someone was actually with him.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

“For what?”

“For… this. For not asking me to be 

okay. Just letting me be.”

YN smiled, turning her face toward the wind.

“I don’t expect people to be okay,” she said. “I just hope they don’t walk through the dark alone.”

And that night, Seungcheol didn’t.

Saturday became sacred.

It wasn’t planned. Seungcheol never asked to be there but every week, he was. Not because anyone told him to. Not even because YN’s mom expected it. But because he wanted to be.

At first, he came early just to help her carry groceries again.

Then it was: “Cheol, can you chop the onions?” “Cheol, help Julián fix that loose chair?” “Cheol, come taste this too salty or perfect?”

By the third week, he was showing up with extra flowers for the kitchen table, and a Tupperware of marinated chicken he’d made the night before “just in case.”

The siblings stopped treating him like a guest.

Alvaro playfully insulted him mid-cooking.

Savanah taught him how to fold dumplings without letting them burst.

Julián invited him to strum the guitar with him in the late afternoons, even if he didn’t play.

And YN?

She watched it all unfold quietly.

Seungcheol laughed more now. Not loud but genuinely. His posture had relaxed. He took more photos of flowers, asked about songs, offered to wash dishes, and even stayed late to help clean the backyard.

She’d catch him looking around, soft-eyed, like he couldn’t believe this was real.

And maybe that’s when she realized it.

It didn’t hit like thunder. It didn’t bloom like roses. It was quieter.

She noticed it in the way he listened not just to respond, but to understand.

She noticed it when he helped her little cousin braid her doll’s hair for two hours straight just because she asked.

She noticed it when he looked at her like her silences made sense.

She fell. Slowly. Surely. Stupidly. Like water collecting in the same place until it became a river.

And she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Mom…”

Her mother turned from her recipe book, peeking over her reading glasses.

“Yes?”

YN bit her lip, twisting the string on her hoodie sleeve. “Can I… tell you something? But you can’t tell the others.”

Her mom raised a brow. “You’re not pregnant, right?”

“Mom!” she laughed, swatting her arm.

“Okay, okay. Go on.”

She sat down next to her, nervous. “I think… I think I’m falling for Seungcheol.”

Her mom didn’t speak.

Not because she was shocked. But because… she wasn’t.

“I just I didn’t plan to,” YN continued. “I just started noticing him… you know? The way he talks, the way he makes space for people. He’s gentle. He’s kind. Even when he’s hurting.”

She looked down.

“And it scares me. Because I was so broken before. You remember. And I swore I wouldn’t trust easily again. But with him… I don’t feel scared.”

Her mom reached over, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“My sweet girl,” she said softly, “I knew the moment you stopped humming sad songs in the kitchen.”

YN looked up, blinking. “What?”

Her mother smiled. “You hum again. You laugh with your belly. You come alive when he walks into the room, even if you don’t notice it.”

She paused.

“And if you trust him with that heart of yours… I think he’ll treat it gently. Like it’s something sacred.”

That night, YN stood alone by the porch steps, watching Seungcheol play cards inside with Alvaro and Julián laughing, groaning when he lost a round, swearing they were cheating.

And she realized her mom was right.

She didn’t want grand fireworks. She didn’t want sweeping romance. She just wanted him as he was, as she was.

Maybe next week, she’d tell him.

But for now?

She just wanted to watch the man she loved start to feel like he belonged again.

.

Instead, he went to the veranda sat on the bench again under the vines, mug of cold tea in his hand, heart thudding too loud to ignore.

He didn’t know what to do with the knowledge.

But for the first time in what felt like forever, someone had looked at his scars and didn’t flinch.

She… wanted him.

Not the perfect version of him. Not the “used-to-be” him. Not the could-have-been fiancé.

Him. Now. Still healing.

And as he looked out at the moonlight blanketing the flower beds, he whispered to himself:

“Maybe I can love again.”

The stars had fully bloomed in the sky by the time YN stepped outside.

She carried a half-empty glass of strawberry soda, not because she was thirsty but because her heart was restless. Her legs moved before her mind caught up. She had too much to think about, and somehow… she knew where to find him.

And there he was.

Sitting on the veranda bench like he always did when the noise of the world got too heavy one hand nursing a lukewarm mug of tea, the other absentmindedly running across the wooden armrest.

The jasmine vines above danced in the breeze.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” she asked softly.

He looked up, startled for just a split second before something gentle flickered in his eyes.

“No,” he said. “Too much in my head.”

She nodded, walking over, sitting beside him but not too close. She didn’t want to disturb whatever stillness he had carved out for himself here.

They sat in silence.

The air buzzed with crickets and leftover laughter from inside.

After a few moments, Seungcheol finally spoke voice low, almost afraid to shatter the stillness.

“I didn’t mean to hear it.”

YN blinked. Her heart dropped.

“What?”

“In the kitchen,” he added. “Earlier. I was coming to see if your mom needed help. And then I heard you talking to her.”

Silence. Her breath caught in her throat.

“I should’ve left,” he continued, voice even. “But I froze. I wasn’t trying to… eavesdrop. I swear.”

She didn’t answer.

Not because she was mad.

But because her cheeks burned. Her fingers clenched around her glass.

He turned to her slowly, expression unreadable at first until she met his eyes.

And in them… there was no judgment.

Only something soft. And raw. And real.

“You said you weren’t scared when I looked at you.”

She nodded, barely able to breathe.

“That’s funny,” he whispered. “Because when I look at you… I don’t feel lost anymore.”

Her gaze snapped up to meet his.

He offered a small, almost shy smile like a man still learning how to love again with hands that had once held all the wrong things.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted. “Not yet. I’m still figuring things out. Still healing. But if there’s even a small part of you that wants me the way I already want you…”

He looked down, then back up eyes glistening but steady.

“I’ll try. For you, I’ll try.”

YN didn’t speak. She reached out, slowly, letting her fingers brush against his a quiet answer that said:

“You don’t have to know how. Just don’t run. I’m here. I’ll be here.”

They sat like that for a while hands barely touching, hearts whispering louder than words ever could.

Under jasmine vines, on a porch soaked in moonlight, two broken people found something neither of them thought they’d deserve again:

A second chance.

Two Years Later

The living room was filled with sunshine, warmth, and the scent of lavender from the open windows.

YN sat on the couch, eight months pregnant, her feet resting on a pouf while she scribbled baby name ideas into a notebook half of them crossed out already.

In the kitchen, Alvaro and Seungcheol stood at the counter, chopping vegetables and chatting between sips of mango juice.

“She kicked again?” Alvaro asked, glancing at YN from the doorway.

“Hard,” Seungcheol smiled, placing a hand over his heart. “I think she’s training for the national team already.”

Alvaro chuckled. “You ready to be a girl dad?”

“More than ready,” Seungcheol said with a dreamy sigh. “I’ve already bought four books on how to braid hair.”

“Bro,” Alvaro laughed, slapping his shoulder. “You’re gonna cry the first time she says ‘appa.’”

“I cried when she hiccupped during the ultrasound,” Seungcheol admitted, not even ashamed.

They both laughed.

Then a pause.

Alvaro leaned against the counter, a little more serious. “You know… I’ve never seen her this happy before. Not even close.”

Seungcheol looked up, eyes soft.

“Me neither.”

There was a long silence. Not awkward. Just… full.

“She saved me, man,” Seungcheol added quietly, voice breaking the stillness. “Without even trying. Just by being… her.”

“She would say you did the same.”

Seungcheol smiled as he looked over at her again YN, humming to the baby in her belly, head tilted toward the sun.

And in that moment, he didn’t feel like a man who had been broken.

He felt like a man who had been rebuilt with laughter, second chances, warm kitchens, porch conversations, and a kind of love that healed without asking permission.

[ikso69]

"Back To Black" pt.1

Summary: When a late-night walk home turns dangerous, the last person you expect to rescue you is James Cook-college fuckboy, resident troublemaker, and the guy you've spent years avoiding. But after he saves you from an alleyway creep, he won't leave you alone

A/N: This week's been rough-would love to hear how you're all doing.Drop a comment or message me on TG. Your support keeps me going♡

WC: ~3.5k

Warnings: Sexual harassment (non-con/dub-con elements), crude humori, bolence & possessive behavior, smut (eventual)

Pairing: James Cook x f!Reader

Many wondered how he even managed to get you. You came from different worlds, had different upbringings—you couldn’t stand guys like him. But chance and James’ damn luck played their part. One evening, you were heading home late after practice. Your dad couldn’t pick you up ‘cause he was away on business, and of course, some creep had to latch onto you, lurking in the shadows, eyeing your figure and the cherries printed on the back of your burgundy hoodie. Cute, sure—but it drew the wrong kind of attention.

"Hey, sweetheart—don’t be like that. I ain’t gonna hurt ya. Just wanna get to know a pretty thing like you. Do an old man a favor, eh?" The bastard chuckled, rubbing his crotch through his filthy jeans, tongue darting over cracked lips.

"Piss off, freak," you spat, quickening your pace, adjusting the strap of your gym bag. You might’ve looked tough, but inside, you were screaming—scanning the street for somewhere to run, someone to help. And of course, your phone was dead. Just your bloody luck.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, breath hitching as his footsteps closed in. You could *feel* his slimy gaze crawling over you since the moment he spotted you by that brick wall, tailing you slow and steady. Maybe he was just some bloke looking for a quick thrill, too skint for a proper prossie, so he settled on a teen girl who looked soft enough—flushed cheeks from training, messy high ponytail, strands sticking to her temples, chest rising fast under that hoodie. And of course, he’d come from a dark alley. Who the hell thought those were safe?

You were about to bolt when you heard him curse behind you—then a sharp whistle cut through the air, followed by a voice you knew too well. The same handsy bastard from your college, the one who’d copped a feel under more than one girl’s skirt. Cook.

"Oi, you rotting cunt!" The shout ripped through the dark.

You turned just in time to see James—stocky, dishevelled, cig dangling from his lips—grab the creep by the collar and deck him square in the face. The bloke didn’t even make a sound before he hit the pavement, blood gushing from his nose, curling into a ball like a beaten dog. Cook, pissed as hell despite his own shady rep, kicked him twice in the ribs before you yanked him back, dragging him away from the groaning mess on the ground. "Jesus bloody Christ, James! You’ll kill him—stop, please!"

You’d had enough trouble in your life without leaving some bloke with multiple fractures. Sure, the bastard deserved it, but that didn’t mean you needed a manslaughter charge—or worse, if this creep crawled to the cops and spun some sob story.

Cook didn’t even look winded. Just wiped the blood off his knuckles, gave the half-conscious wanker one last kick, then yanked his arm free from your grip.

"You got any idea how thick you’ve gotta be, wanderin’ round this shithole alone past ten?"

His voice was rough, but his eyes—usually all cocky arrogance—were sharp. Pissed. Not just at the bloke who’d been thinking far worse than biscuits and supper. At you.

Your breath hitched. You hadn’t expected his anger to turn your way.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Your heart still pounded, palms slick with sweat, throat tight. That… that arsehole had almost—You couldn’t even finish the thought. But instead of relief, now your skin prickled for a different reason: him. You wanted to shrink, to vanish into somebody’s pocket—anything to escape that judging stare. He was only a head taller, but right now, he felt twice your size, like he might shake you just to check if your skull was empty.

The whole thing was mad, really. Because here you were, being scolded by Cook. The same Cook who’d groped half the girls in college, mouthed off to teachers, and acted like a proper twat. The one you couldn’t stand. And now he stood there, knuckles split, glaring at you like you were the idiot—like he wanted to yell or make you burn with shame.

"You got a death wish or what?" His voice grated, rough from fags and sharper than his punches. "Swanning ‘round backstreets at night alone… You tryin’ to get jumped?" Your head snapped up. Gratitude? Yeah, maybe a flicker of it. But right now? Buried under something hotter. This tosser really thought he could shame you for just walking home? Who the fuck did he think he was? He ought to sod off back to the doctor's if he reckoned he had some holy right to lecture her.

"Oh, piss off already!" It burst out -voice shaking, but fury drowning the fear. "Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?! You, who's shagged half the college, who-" "Yeah, right," he cut in, sarcasm dripping like cheap lager. "'Cause I'm the big danger here, ain't I?" Hands shoved in his jeans pockets, he smirked. "Not the dickhead who wanted to drill you full of holes and leave you in some alley with his spunk leakin' out-nah, definitely not the bloke who could've choked you dead. Never that." Cook barked a laugh, shaking his head. "You're a funny one, Y/N. Worryin' 'bout my rep's got my balls tinglin'. Fancy puttin' your mouth on 'em tonight to-"

You slapped both hands over his mouth, face burning scarlet. Christ, what kind of demon bit him at birth? What twisted urge made him need to prove he was some hard, reckless bastard? "Jesus Christ, shut your filthy gob. Please." Your palms trembled against the heat of his mouth. His lips under your skin were warm. Too warm. Rough at the edges from fags but soft in the middle -a bloody paradox, just like him. You felt them move, trying to form words against your fingers, and it sent a weird tingle up your wrists.

And then-

"WHAT-"

You yanked your hands back like you'd been scorched.

"You-you LICKED me?!" Your voice cracked into a shriek.

He stood there, grinning like a cat that got the cream.

"Well, yeah," he shrugged, tongue swiping his bottom lip. "Hands were salty. Sweaty. Means you were nervous."

"Oh, and I s’posed to strip and dance on a pole for you now, yeah?" you spat, voice dripping with venom.

"I’d even pay extra," he shot back, rubbing his palms together like a fly eyeing rotten meat.

Your face burned—not just from rage, but from that. From the memory of his tongue, wet and quick, sliding over your skin. From the way your body reacted, even now, while he acted like a complete bastard.

Everything inside you clenched—and not from fear. Between your legs, warmth pooled, traitorous and thick, desire spreading low in your belly like your body had been waiting for this, shutting off the brain that still remembered being chased by a creep minutes ago. Instead of adrenaline, something else took over: sticky, shameful arousal that made your teeth grit and your thighs press together.

No-no-no, not this, please don’t say James is my type, anyone but him, God if you’re even up there—

But he cut through your panic, flooding your skull with him—his raspy laugh, the stink of tobacco and blood, the way he held you (rough, no permission asked). It all made your skin prickle. Even his filthy jokes about street blowjobs didn’t disgust you—just sent a nasty shiver to your knees, making you hate yourself more than ever. Without even trying, he’d started a civil war inside you: shame in one corner, want in the other.

"Let go..." you hissed, but it came out weak—whether from the night chill or the way he stood too close, crowding you.

"Wha’? Scared I’ll drag you home and demand a thank-you?" He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. "Relax, sunshine. Won’t ask unless you beg."

Their Walk Home:

You never asked him to follow. He didn't say a word-just trailed behind as you stomped down the pavement like a pissed-off mare, hissing curses under your breath. Something about your reaction amused him, gave him a twisted little thrill-seeing you flustered, cheeks burning under that ridiculous pink hoodie like some demonic Barbie, a wet dream for incels and virgin nerds in specs.

The walk was dead silent. Neither of you spoke, the only sound the scuff of trainers on tarmac.

Then-

"So. How many?" His voice was rough from smoke. "What?" You whipped around, scowling.

"Blokes." He smirked, taking a drag. "Or d'you save yourself for Prince Charming?"

Your face flamed.

"Not your bloody business," you snapped, speeding up.

Predictable reaction. Of course, that just made him chuckle, catching up in two strides, matching your pace.

"Ohhh. So, zero." A pause. "Fingering, though? You even touch yourself?"

"Shut up!" You nearly tripped, ears scorching. "Why the fuck d'you care?" "Wow. Not even that?" He whistled, mock-impressed. "Proper freak, you. Look decent enough, though."

"James!" You stopped dead, fists clenched.

"Alright, alright-don't burst a vein, princess." He raised his hands in exaggerated surrender. "Just... fascinatin'. All that fire, and underneath? Soft. Virgin."

You hated him. Hated that voice, that grin, the way your body reacted to his words. A Week Later

A full seven days had passed since that night, and to your shock, Cook had latched onto you like a fucking limpet. The second you wandered into his line of sight, he’d swagger over, cursing loud enough to rattle windows, waving his hands like a pissed-off traffic warden—acting, in short, like a complete wanker. You kept squeezing your eyes shut, praying it was just some twisted daydream, not your actual life. After that alley, he’d apparently decided he had an open invitation to invade your space, whispering "nice arse" every time he passed you in the corridors, doing everything in his power to make you combust with embarrassment.

Sure, he still hung with his mates and skipped half his classes, but whenever he did show up, it meant guaranteed psychological warfare.

Today, you’d stayed late to study—partly for exams, partly because the library was right there in the college building, and your flat was a trek across town. (And if you were honest? Home was… quiet. Dad was always away for work, and your mum—well, she’d left years ago, started a new family, happy as you please. Maybe you should be glad for her. But Christ, even a text once in a while would’ve been—)

You hunched over a battered textbook, thumbing through yellowed pages stained with coffee rings and God knew what else, when—

Hands slammed onto your shoulders.

You jolted so hard your heart did a backflip, a tap routine, then nearly gave out entirely. Clutching your chest, you whirled around, ready to murder whoever had just shaved a decade off your life.

His hands were still there —hot, heavy, like he had some fucking claim on you. You jerked back, nearly toppling off the chair, pulse hammering loud enough to drown out thought.

"What, you finally decided to finish me off after a week of terror?!" Your voice shook, adrenaline sour on your tongue.

He loomed over you, grinning like the ginger devil he was—ripped jacket, cig tucked behind his ear, looking pleased with himself.

"Fuckin’ jumpy, ain’t ya?" He leaned in, close enough you caught the stale tang of tobacco and—mint gum? "Sat here like a library mouse. Not even livin’."

"I’m studying" you hissed, snatching the book up like a weapon. "Unlike some people, I’ve got plans. Goals. Things that don’t involve being a waste of oxygen."

"Oh, goals," he mocked, yanking the book from your grip. He flipped through it like he understood a word (who knew? Maybe he was a ruined genius). "Shaggin’s a goal too. Protein in spunk, friction’s basic physics, babe. Just gotta find the fun in it."

He was still crowding you, breathing filth into your ear, when—

Ahem.

The librarian—a battle-axe of a woman—glared over her glasses. "Out. Now. "

Old biddies like her hated noise, which explained why Cook was never here. Heat flooded your cheeks. You’d never been kicked out before—now you were getting lumped in with him, like you were some troublemaker too. Lips pressed tight, you grabbed your bag, ready to stomp home to your empty flat. Cook caught your wrist.

"Oi. Not that way." He dragged you toward the lockers instead.

"Let go! I never agreed to—what the hell are you *doing*?!"

"Liar." He turned, eyes alight with something reckless. "You want to. Just too scared to say." A shrug. "S’better than rotting at home, yeah?"

You opened your mouth—then shut it.

Bastard.

He wasn’t wrong. Your mates were off with their boyfriends, at parties, doing stupid shit while you… didn’t. Clubs bored you, smoking made you cough, and after that one time with vodka left you puking for two days, your dad had near kicked you out, snarling "I didn’t raise a pisshead slag." Against Your Better Judgment

You caved. Maybe it was his stupid pinky-swear that he wasn't planning anything illegal (like you'd believe that otherwise). Maybe it was the way he made momentum sound like something you could grab by the throat. Either way, now you were both lurking in some dingy college corner, you shifting awkwardly while he took his sweet time finishing that damn cigarette.

"Well?" You crossed your arms, glancing around. "Why're we here?"

He took a drag, leaning against the brick. "Gotta know the rules first, ain't I?" Smoke curled from his lips. "S'how it works when you fancy a girl who's got her shit together."

"I don't know how it works," you admitted, slumping beside him, shoulders brushing. "Thought you'd ask me to a club or... I dunno, walk around town." The words came out too soft. There was something terrifyingly vulnerable in this-in how you'd started anticipating his crude compliments, the way he talked to you like you were already his. And Christ help you, part of you liked it. Wanted to be on his team.

Or at least look like you were. "Could do." He exhaled, watching the smoke drift. "But be honest-don't wanna piss you off turnin' up pissed if some bouncer lets us in." A smirk. "You're hotter'n you think, and that brain of yours? Just makes it worse. Wanna take you proper-cafés, shit like that. Where you take nice girls."

You choked. Was that... a compliment? Or just his usual filth repackaged?

"That's not-I'm not-"

He didn't let you finish. His mouth was on yours, in yours, before you could react. Hands pinned you to the wall, his tongue mapping yours like he owned it. You tasted tobacco, felt the cheap cologne stuck in your nose like poison-or maybe something you'd choose to drown in. His palms slid lower, and fuck, fuck-

You kissed him back.

And just like that, you were screwed.

[uhuhmaries]

Still Into You | CHAPTER 8

Warnings: NSFW/18+

Series: PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5 | PART 6 | PART 7

⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —

College kicks in like a punch to the gut.

You meet new people. A few friends from class. Some from your sorority. There’s this one guy, Milo, who walks you to your Art Theory lecture with oat milk lattes and tells you you’re too pretty to keep looking down at your shoes.

You laugh. You don’t flirt.

But you wonder if Harry would care if you did.

Harry’s busy. Really busy.

He’s trying to wrap up his Master’s coursework faster than anyone in his department. Football practices pile up. Frat house events double because of fall rush. You hear his name whispered from all corners— Styles. President. Captain. The one who could sleep with anyone.

But he still texts you. Sometimes.

u up? come over. missed u today. wanna ride me til i stop thinking?

And it’s always hot. Always intense. But always empty when he kisses you and falls asleep without asking how your day was.

You try to play it cool.

You throw yourself into your fashion classes. Join a sewing circle with upperclassmen. You go out more. You wear tighter skirts. Lip gloss instead of chapstick.

But when Harry forgets to reply to your texts for two full days, only to show up unannounced at your dorm and ask if he can “make it up to you” by going down on you until your legs shake—

You start to feel like you’re just the reward after a long day. Not the thing he thinks about during.

You throw a tantrum. Not loud. Not cruel. Just quiet. Icy. Petty.

You ignore three of his messages. You take selfies with Milo— nothing flirty, just enough to post. You tell Liv you might start dating for real soon. “Just for fun,” you say. “To feel something.”

When Harry does get a hold of you again, he invites you to a frat dinner. Doesn’t even say please.

So you show up in red. Red lips, red dress, red heels.

And you barely look at him.

Later that night, back in his room, when he grabs your hips and tries to pull you on top of him, you say it— a little louder than you mean to:

“You don’t actually care, Harry. You just want someone to fuck when your brain won’t shut off.”

He stills.

Your voice keeps going, trembling and furious:

“You don’t try. You say you don’t want labels but you act like I’m yours. You get jealous, you text me when it’s convenient, you call me baby when I’m naked— but never when I need it. I’m not your therapy. I’m not your fucking cure.”

Silence. He stares at you. And for the first time in weeks— he snaps.

“Jesus Christ, you think I’m not trying? You think I don’t have enough going on without adding a full-blown relationship with an eighteen-year-old who throws tantrums when I don’t say the exact right thing?”

You blink. He’s never raised his voice at you before. He scrubs a hand over his face. Frustrated. Ashamed. Angry.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, but it’s clipped. Tired. Not tender.

“I’ve had a shitty day. My professor grilled me in front of the whole class. My knee’s fucked from practice. And I still came here hoping to see you and forget the rest of it. But you—you’re not happy unless I say all the perfect shit, and I can’t do that right now.”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

Your voice is small. “So you just want me to shut up and open my legs?”

He freezes. The air turns sharp.

“Don’t do that.”

You shrug. “Feels like that’s all I’m good for lately.”

“That’s not fair.”

You swallow hard. Then stand. Grab your bag before you turn your head to him.

“Neither is falling for someone who only wants me when it’s dark out.”

And then you leave.

Weeks pass.

No texts. No late-night knocks. No booty calls. No apologies.

Just silence.

The longest he’s ever stayed away.

You tell yourself it’s for the best. You tell your friends you’re fine. You focus on uni, your sorority, your sketches, anything that doesn’t have green eyes and dimples and fingers that once traced your body like a prayer.

But some nights— when your phone buzzes— your stomach still flips before you realize it’s not him.

It’s the week of the Northcrest football championship. The biggest one of the year. Frats are throwing bets. Sororities are choreographing cheers. People care more about this than finals.

Your roommates beg you to come.

“Just for the atmosphere,” they say. “Everyone’s going. You need it.”

You almost say no.

But you’re tired of sulking. Tired of wondering.

So you go.

The stadium is packed.

You’re wearing your school colors. Hair down. Lip gloss on. High heels. Just enough edge to feel like armor.

Your friends grab snacks, take photos, make TikToks you barely appear in. You try to stay present. Laugh when they laugh. Sip your soda and pretend your eyes aren’t searching the field.

But you are.

And then— There he is.

Harry. In full uniform. Helmet tucked under one arm. That damn jawline, sharp as ever. His biceps flex as he high-fives teammates, laughing like nothing ever touched him, like nothing broke.

Your throat goes dry.

He doesn’t see you right away.

But you see her.

A cheerleader. Blonde, ponytail too high, hands too familiar.

She clings to him before kickoff, whispering something in his ear, nails raking down his chest through the jersey. He grins. Doesn’t pull away. Lets her fix his shoulder pads like she belongs there.

You hear some girls nearby where you're sitting make casual comments.

“Is that Harry Styles?” “He’s so hot.” “Wonder if he’s single.”

You say nothing. Your heart is silent, too.

He finally spots you.

Right as the anthem ends, his eyes flick across the bleachers —just a quick scan— and land on you.

His smile falters for a second.

You look away before it can mean anything.

The game kicks off.

And he plays like hell. Fast. Aggressive. Focused.

You don’t know if it’s rage or pride or adrenaline— but every time he scores, the stadium goes feral. The cheerleaders scream. The crowd swells. And you… you feel nothing but cold.

Because you know what it felt like to hold him afterward. You know how quiet his voice gets when he’s tired. How soft his hands are after gripping the world too hard.

But now… you’re just another girl in the crowd.

The game ends in victory.

Everyone rushes the field. Your friends want to follow— but you don’t.

You stay behind. Stand still. Watch from the bleachers as he’s lifted onto shoulders, drenched in sweat and praise.

The cheerleader from earlier runs up to him, throws her arms around his neck. He lets her.

You’re still standing when he finally walks toward the bleachers.

Helmet off. Jersey soaked in sweat. Eyes scanning the small clusters of people who stayed behind.

When he sees you, he slows.

His lips tug into a cautious smile.

“Hey.”

Your heart gives a pathetic stutter. But your lips curve into something polite— something detached.

“Hi.”

He looks exhausted. Buzzed from the win, flushed from the cold, hands still red from gripping victory too tight.

“You came,” he says.

You nod once. “My roommates dragged me.”

His jaw ticks. A faint flicker of something in his eyes— amusement? Disappointment?

You keep going. “Congratulations. You played… amazing.”

“Thanks.” He sways slightly on his feet. “Means a lot. Coming from you.”

Before you can say anything else— She appears.

The cheerleader. Blonde. Perfect. Smug.

She wraps her arms around his waist, presses a kiss to his damp jawline, and grins at you.

She knows.

You can see it. You say nothing. Just glance down at her neck— and your stomach drops.

Bruises.

Bite marks. His marks. Fresh. Dark. All over her throat and collarbone.

She doesn’t cover them. She wears them like trophies.

You swallow hard.

His arm doesn’t move. He doesn’t push her off.

You nod again, lips tight. Turn toward his teammates— a few of whom you recognize from parties.

“Congrats to all of you,” you say. “Hell of a game.”

They thank you, one by one— a few giving sympathetic looks, like they’re not sure if they should say more.

Harry says nothing.

Neither do you. You just leave.

Liv’s text comes as you’re walking toward the parking lot:

Where r u? Let’s grab coffee. Just us.

You don’t say much when you get there.

Just sit across from her in a corner booth at a 24-hour diner, fingers curled around a plastic cup of iced coffee that tastes like water.

She watches you carefully.

“I heard,” she says softly. “About him. Her. You.”

You nod. Stare out the window.

“I’m done,” you say. Your voice doesn’t crack. “It’s over.”

Liv doesn’t argue. She just reaches for your hand.

And holds it.

“Let's go. Let's grab a drink.” Liv breaks the silence after she consoles you. She stands up and pull your hand. You follow her to walk to her car and a few moments later, you end up at a party near campus.

Well you weren’t going to go. Liv said you needed to let go, even just for a night.

So you drink. Hard.

Vodka shots. Champagne. Someone hands you a lime with sugar and it makes you laugh. You sway to music that’s too loud and bass that rumbles through your chest like a second heartbeat.

You dance with strangers. Let a guy twirl you like you’re light as air. Scream the lyrics to a song you don’t know.

For a second— it works. You forget. You’re just you.

Until someone at the keg says—

“Styles just showed up.”

You turn your head. And there he is.

Harry.

Still damp from the post-game shower. Wearing all black. Arm draped around her shoulder like he doesn’t even care she’s got fresh bite marks leading down her cleavage.

Your blood goes cold.

He sees you.

Stops.

But doesn’t move. Doesn’t come closer.

He just watches you. Eyes dark. Expression unreadable.

And beside him, the cheerleader smirks.

Leans up to kiss his cheek.

And makes damn sure you’re watching.

You take another drink. Too fast. Too much.

Your throat burns.

The room is spinning. Not fast— not yet. Just slow enough to make the lights too bright and the floor too soft.

You wave it off. But your eyes are on him.

You’ve been quiet for too long. Bitten your tongue too many nights.

And the alcohol is doing all the talking now.

You step forward. Your cup spills a little.

Liv’s voice echoes behind you— warning, worried, trying to stop you. But you’re already in front of him.

Your voice cuts through the bass:

“Did you fuck her before or after you begged me to keep things simple?”

The cheerleader freezes. Harry stiffens. People turn. A hush falls— the kind that only happens right before a car crash.

You don’t stop. You can’t.

“Is this why you didn’t want a label? So you could do whatever the fuck you want and call it freedom? So you could fuck around and not feel guilty?”

His eyes darken. “You’re drunk.”

You laugh— loud and bitter.

“No shit. I'm not even trying to hide it. You think saying that justify your whole charade? I’m not stupid.”

“You made me feel crazy for wanting anything real from you. For wanting to be someone you chose. And now you’re out here parading her around like I never fucking mattered?”

The cheerleader tries to scoff, step away like she’s not involved.

You step in closer.

“You knew I was younger than you. You knew you had all the power. And you used me like a warm body and a distraction and I still liked you.”

“But I’m done.”

Your voice cracks.

“I don’t care if you’re Harry Styles, golden boy of Northcrest, future fucking therapist— you're just another coward with pretty eyes and commitment issues. Fix your shit.”

The room is silent.

Harry’s mouth opens. But you don’t wait for him to speak.

You throw your drink to the ground— it splashes at his shoes, and stumble away.

The last thing you hear is Liv yelling your name— Then nothingness.

The next morning.

You wake up on the couch of Liv’s dorm, wearing someone else’s sweatshirt, your mouth dry and your stomach twisted in knots.

Your head pounds.

The sun is cruel through the windows.

Liv’s sitting across from you, a coffee in one hand, her eyes unreadable.

“…I fucked up,” you whisper.

She doesn’t say anything at first.

Just hands you a glass of water.

You drink, hands shaking.

“You don’t remember?” She asks.

Flashes come back.

His face. Your words. The way the crowd had gone dead quiet.

You groan, collapsing back into the cushions.

“You went off,” she says gently. “Fully. In front of everyone. Facts though.”

“What did he do?” You croak.

Liv shrugs, careful. “Nothing. He just… took it. Didn’t say a word. Watched you walk out like you ripped his chest open.”

You exhale.

She hesitates.

“…He was still there when I left. Alone.”

You press your hand to your forehead, heart pounding like it wants to crawl out of your throat.

Your phone buzzes.

One message. From Harry Styles.

I deserved that.

But I still wanted you to know I never touched her until after we stopped speaking.

And even then… it didn’t mean anything.

You stare at the screen like the words are supposed to make it hurt less. They definitely don’t.

Without thinking twice, you block his number.

Liv leans over and gives your back a firm, reassuring pat— like she’s proud of you for choosing yourself this time.

“If he really wants you,” she says gently, “he’ll grow up and show it. But for now… you’ve got your whole freshman year to enjoy. Don’t waste it on someone still figuring himself out.”

⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —

THIS CHAPTER MAKES ME ANGRYYYY AHHSHAHSHSHHWHW

[pink-sparkly-witch]

The Girls Next Door, Part Two

Summary: When Beau moves next door to Y/N and her daughter, Mia, he finds something he didn’t know he needed: another chance at love. Now, he needs to convince her he’s worth the risk.

Pairing: Beau Arlen x Single Mother!Reader

Rating: General

Triggers / Warnings / Tags: Fluff, nerves, a teeny bit of angst

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: Consider reblogging to spread this far and wide around this Hellsite or leaving a comment. It truly fuels a creative’s muse. If you’re too shy or too cool for people to know you read fanfic and you don’t want it showing on your blog, you can submit an anonymous ask or drop me a DM 💖

My Masterlist AO3 Ko-Fi

Beau’s POV

“Are you really going to stand there until I lock my door when you’re right there, and nothing is going to happen?” Y/N looked amused but flattered as she folded her arms across her chest.

“You’re damn right, I am! You can never be too careful,” Beau smirked. “Goodnight, Y/N.” Maybe it was the cop in him, or perhaps it was just his feelings for the beautiful single mother that made him want to take care of her.

“Goodnight, Sheriff,” Y/N grinned as she closed the door. Beau remained on the porch until he heard the key turn in the door, locking them in safely for the night.

Emily smirked at him when he got into the truck, and he knew that look never meant anything good. “You should ask Y/N out. Y’all would be cute together,” she eventually said, impatient at his silence.

“That’s not…” he sighed. “Alright, listen. After your mom, I’m not looking—I don’t want another…” Beau paused before he sighed, and Emily quickly filled the silence.

“I know, Dad. I hate what Mom did to you. You didn’t deserve it, and I’ll never forgive her for it. But it doesn’t mean you can’t try again. You deserve that. And so does Y/N.”

“It’s complicated, Emily, alright? Your mother deeply hurt me, and that’s not something you get over easily. And Y/N has a young kid. She’ll be wary about introducing someone new into Mia’s life.”

“You’re not new, though, are you?” Trust Emily to be the voice of reason, beating away his insecurities, and he wondered when his baby girl had become such a wise young lady.

“What if it doesn’t work, Em? We’re neighbours, and she has a kid who could get caught up in the fallout. I don’t want another child hurt because I’ve failed at another relationship,” Beau voiced one of his deepest insecurities, immediately regretting putting it on his teenage daughter’s shoulders.

“Why wouldn’t it work?” Emily said as if it was the dumbest thing she’d ever heard.

“There’s a million reasons. First of all, I’m a workaholic,” Beau said, stopping short at Emily’s grunt of disapproval.

“That’s Mom talking. You weren’t working tonight, were you? And thanks to Y/N’s offer, you’re not working on Sunday either,” she smirked again. “What are you really scared of, Dad? I want you to be happy. You deserve that after Mom.”

Beau glanced at his little girl, growing up right before his eyes and sighed. “What if she doesn’t see me that way?”

“You’ll never know if you don’t ask her,” Emily said as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

“Saved by the bell, now get! It’s late, and you’ve got school in the morning,” Beau said, pulling to a stop outside Carla and Avery’s house.

“Deflecting as usual, I see!” Emily laughed as she unbuckled her seat belt and grabbed her school bag. “This conversation isn’t over!” she pointed at him with a stern look that was too much like her mother’s and opened the car door.

Beau walked her to the front door and, as he’d done with Y/N, stood on the porch and waited until he heard the locks turn before heading back to his truck.

Driving home, he thought about Emily's words. He wished he was as fearless and free with his heart as she was, but Carla’s wounds ran far below the surface, and he didn’t know if he had the strength to put himself through loving someone again. Still, something in him wanted to try. Something deep down in his heart was telling him it was worth it. Y/N was worth it.

“I can’t believe I’m taking dating advice from my teenage daughter!” Beau scoffed as he put his truck in park on his driveway and got out.

He glanced at Y/N’s house and smiled. There was no harm in finding out where she stood with the whole dating thing, right?

Y/N’s POV

To say Mia was excited for their dinner guest was an understatement; bouncing off the walls seemed more appropriate. If Y/N didn’t know better, she’d have sworn her daughter had been pumped full of sugar.

She’d made sure to wait until Beau had confirmed he would make it before telling Mia he was coming. The little girl had taken an instant liking to the gentle sheriff, and she couldn’t bear to see her disappointed if he had to rain-check on the invitation.

“How about,” Y/N said to Mia, who was jumping up and down on the sofa, “we put on Frozen, and Beau will be here by the time it’s finished. How does that sound?” Trying to calm a hyper four-year-old was no easy task, but for whatever reason, that movie was the only thing that could hold her undivided attention from start to finish.

“Okay, Mommy.” Mia jumped off the sofa and turned on the television. Y/N wasn’t sure if that fact embarrassed or impressed her, but it wasn’t a surprise. Working two jobs had made Mia a little older than her years and more independent than she liked to admit, but it had to be done if she wanted to keep a roof over their heads, food in their bellies, and clothes on their backs.

With her daughter settled and distracted, Y/N returned to preparing dinner. She wanted the meal to go perfectly, which was strange because Beau’d had her cooking many times before and had nothing but good things to say about it. The self-proclaimed meat man even raved about her vegetarian lasagne to anyone who’d listen for weeks afterwards.

She was nervous, too, and that was another strange feeling about her neighbour coming over for dinner. It wasn’t a feeling she associated with Beau. He’d never made her nervous before, and it made her feel more than a little bit uncomfortable.

The opening bars of “Let It Go” floating in from the living room felt timely, and that was exactly what she did: let her thoughts go.

As predicted, Beau knocked on the door with ten minutes left of the movie, allowing him just enough time to have a few sips from a bottle of beer before Mia barreled into the kitchen and almost knocked him off his feet with the force she threw herself at him.

“Well, hey there, little lady!” Beau grinned at her delight at seeing him. “What d’ya say we help Mommy and set the table for dinner?”

“You don’t have to do that, Beau. You’re our guest,” Y/N tried to protest, but he waved her off, taking Mia’s hand as she led him around the kitchen, pointing out the cupboards and drawers he needed to go to.

“The plates live there,” Mia pointed to one of the wall cupboards, “and the grown-up glasses live next door. Mine live in here!” She opened the cupboard next to the sink and triumphantly pulled out a plastic Elsa cup, making him laugh.

“Alright, and what about the knives and forks? Do you want to show me where they live?” Beau grinned. He already knew where they were, but Y/N found it cute that he entertained Mia.

As she finished cooking, Y/N couldn’t wipe the smile from her face. Mia and Beau talked and laughed the whole time they set the table, making her feel more content than she had in a long time.

“What are you so happy about?” Beau’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“It’s nothing,” she waved him off.

“Come on now, darlin’! A smile like that isn’t nothing,” he said, grabbing dishes filled with food and putting them on the dining table.

“Seeing Mia right now,” she sighed, “It’s something I never thought… you know what? It’s stupid,” she shrugged as she took the carving knife and fork from their wall hooks.

“Hey, listen to me. Your thoughts and feelings aren’t stupid, darlin,” Beau said as he blocked her route to the dining table with his broad body. “They’re valid, and they’re yours. Now, you don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to, but never think something like this is stupid.”

“Okay,” she smiled. “As you know, Mia’s never known her father or had a father figure. And it’s nice to see her happy. I mean, she’s always happy. She’s a little ray of sunshine all the time, but seeing her when you’re around, it’s a different kind of happiness. A kind that I never thought I’d see,” she shrugged, and Beau tilted his head silently, requesting more information.

“A father figure, Beau,” she smiled. “I’m not trying to put any responsibility on you for anything, but it’s just so nice to see her have a good and kind man in her life that she can look up to.”

“And you didn’t think she’d ever have that?” Beau frowned as she shook her head.

“Why not?”

“Well, at least not when she was young enough for it to make a significant impact on her. My priority will always be Mia. So, I’ll probably wait until she’s older before I think about having another person as a priority in my life. Or bringing someone into hers who might not stay.”

“Mommy, I’m hungry! Can we eat yet?” Mia asked.

“Alright, we’re coming!” Y/N chuckled.

After dinner, Y/N bribed Mia with watching cartoons in the living room, giving her and Beau a chance to talk as they cleared up after the meal.

“You don’t have to do that,” Y/N smiled softly, watching as he rinsed the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher.

“Come on, now, darlin’. You’ve spent all afternoon cooking this delicious meal for me. It’s the least I can do.”

“You’re a guest, Beau. Guests don’t do cleanup duties!” she chucked, filling the refrigerator with leftovers.

“You think I could get some of that to go?” Beau nodded towards the fridge, gesturing to the leftovers.

“Already got a Tupperware filled for you!” Y/N grinned as she closed the fridge door. “And don’t change the subject!”

“It’s the polite and right thing to do when someone offers you a home-cooked meal. Think of it as my way of thanking you and giving you a little time to put your feet up.”

“Beau—”

“Y/N, please,” Beau huffed a laugh. “Sit, enjoy your beer and let me clear up.”

“Okay,” she relented. “Thank you.”

Taking a seat at the breakfast bar, Y/N groaned as her tired muscles relaxed. She took a long sip from the bottle and sighed contentedly.

“What?” she smirked at Beau’s chuckle.

“Nothing, darlin’. I just thought I’d have a bigger fight on my hands getting you to relax!” Y/N laughed at how accurate Beau’s statement would usually have been.

“Normally, you’d be right, but it’s not often I have someone around to help me clean up after mealtimes, so I figured I’d take advantage of your offer,” she shrugged and sipped from her beer bottle again.

“Good. Because you deserve to be taken care of, too.” Beau had wanted to continue their conversation from before dinner and hadn’t known how to bring it up again, but this gave him the perfect opportunity. “You know, if you had a boyfriend, he could take care of you.”

“Maybe. But my priority is—”

“Mia, I know. As she should be. But it’s not fair on you to put your future on hold. Don’t you want to have love and companionship? Or more kids?”

“If I meet the right guy, yeah, absolutely. But I’m not going to go out and look for someone. I work two jobs, and I only get a few hours a day with her and every other weekend as it is. If I start going out to bars or whatever looking for dates, I’d get to spend even less time with her.”

“Okay, then let me ask you this: who is the right guy for you? What would he have to do to convince you to go on a date with him?”

“He’ll be kind and considerate. He’ll be a gentleman and good with kids, obviously. He’ll love at-home date nights as much as out-on-the-town date nights.” She was smiling as she told him what her perfect man was, and he was smiling because he knew he was that man.

“He’ll also need to be understanding and able to accept that I have a kid, and we’d need to take things slowly and at my pace, and then at Mia’s pace. They’d meet her on my terms and continue to be a part of her life on hers.”

“For someone who’s waiting until her daughter gets older, you’ve thought a lot about this!” Beau laughed. “Are you sure you’re not looking for a boyfriend?”

“Why? Do you have someone in mind?” Y/N cocked an eyebrow and smirked.

“What would you say if I told you I did?” Beau asked. All playfulness was gone from his voice, and a more serious and deep tone took over.

“Beau, I—” Y/N began, but Beau wasn’t finished, and he walked around her kitchen island and stood next to her.

“Because I do. And I think he’d be perfect for you. And for Mia.”

“Who?” she gulped.

“If you’re not ready to date, then I won’t tell you because, darlin’, he won’t survive another heartbreak.”

She knew it was him because of the change in his stance and body language, the contortion of his facial features, the shift in his tone and their conversation. She never wanted to let herself believe it. It was something she’d only dreamed about, and if she was completely honest with herself, something she’d tried–and failed–to fight.

Beau was perfect in every way for her. She’d known that since the day she’d invited him in for coffee when he’d moved in and knocked on her door to ask where the nearest coffee shop was. But back then, she didn’t know him. Back then, she was protecting herself and Mia.

“Tell me, Beau. Please.”

Beau’s POV

All Beau had done since his conversation with Emily a few nights ago was think about how right she was. He did deserve another chance at love and happiness. He might have messed it up the first time, but he and Carla were young, and he’d changed a lot since then. And he realised now that the downfall of their marriage wasn’t entirely his fault. Yes, he’d kick-started the unfortunate chain of events, but she’d given up on him when he’d needed her the most.

The more he thought about Y/N, the more he noticed it: the coy smiles and soft, lingering touches. The way she asked him how he was or how his day had been and genuinely wanted to know the answer, doing everything she could to cheer him up if the occasion asked for it. He knew friends could do all of those things, but his gut told him this was different.

He didn’t know when it’d happened, but they’d gone past friendship and became someone important in each other’s lives. Emily questioning him in the way she did made him see it. His thoughts had been on nothing else when he wasn’t at work, and it made him accept it and want to fight for it. It’s what made him bring it up with her in the first place. And what made him revisit the conversation when they were alone again.

“What would you say if I told you I did?” he asked when the opportunity presented itself. It hadn’t been planned, but he couldn’t take it back now.

“Beau, I—” Y/N began, but he interrupted before he backed out of this conversation altogether.

“Because I do. And I think he’d be perfect for you. And for Mia.”

“Who?” she asked, but her face, tone, everything told him she already knew.

“If you’re not ready to date, then I won’t tell you because, darlin’, he won’t survive another heartbreak.” It wasn’t a lie. He wouldn’t survive it. Not from her.

“Tell me, Beau. Please.”

“Me, Y/N,” Beau admitted. “I’m perfect for you. For both of you.”

Part Three

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[the-lazyyy-artist]

Roommates Wanted! fem!reader x o. aiku if i fall

summary: accompanied by city lights and a single beer bottle, aiku opens up about his thoughts.

tags and themes: roommate au, angst, comfort, tw: alcohol consumption (not too much), middle child syndrome, mentions of shidou's and aiku's eb, late night talking, ooc but is written in a way that fits the au

author's note: a little short, like the one we had for shidou. this one is also close to my heart. i like picturing aiku as the middle child. i wanna explore that more someday. after these chapters, we'll have a few more special one-on-one chapters, and i know you'll like the next one after this heheheheheh! as always, likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!

Check out the Masterlist!!

@ysvanielle  @kai-zawa @literallyushiwaka @londonsworldddd @itz-phantomz @imcheshire @loverlixie @byzantiumhollow @bontensbabygirl @sugacor3 @saekisserfr @d4rlinxs @0sunnyside01 @magicsness @saeglazer @kaidostwin

“Imagine if we had a balcony instead of this big window.”

You smiled and then took a long sip of beer. “I don’t know what would happen if we had a balcony, Aiku,” you replied as you handed him back the beer. Aiku took it from your hand and took a gulp himself. You watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed, the city light below not helping much with how it illuminated his face in the right way. “Imagine. Come on, indulge me a little, Blue.”

Blue. He began calling you that not too long ago. Said it was fitting because you had blue as your designated color in almost every little thing in the apartment. You hummed and began to think. “Well,” you said, “I can see Sae taking his readings from our balcony. We’d set up a small tea table and chair. Plastic, of course, in case it rains.” Aiku hummed, smiling softly at the thought. “Yeah,” he replied. “Sae would love the breeze. It might blow all of his documents away, though. Would that make him upset?”

You scoffed, taking the bottle from his hand. You cradled it for a moment, then said, “It would.” You took a sip and wiped the beer off your lips using your thumb. You can see Aiku watching your every move out of the corner of your eye. “I can also see Shidou screaming out on the balcony every morning. He’d wake up our neighbors.”

“You think he’d do that naked?” Aiku asked. That made you burst out laughing. Lately, you, Aiku, and Sae discovered that whenever Shidou’s alone at home, he’d often walk around naked. How’d you know? Sae came home and walked in while he was shadow boxing in the living room, bare and naked to Sae’s unwilling eyes. “Maybe?” you replied.

“Yeah, a balcony would have been nicer.”

You two were enveloped by silence, just passing the beer bottle between you. For a moment, Aiku sighed and lowered his head. “Blue?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think I’m doing a great job?”

That made you straighten up. You were no longer leaning against the windowsill. The city lights made Aiku prettier, you thought, even when his face was slightly twisted into a sad smile. Not the smirk he usually wears or that wide grin he’d sport when he teases you or dances you around the kitchen. This one… It’s a rare sight.

“You are,” you replied. Aiku scoffed softly, and he straightened up, crossing his arms as he held the bottle by its neck. “Did you know I have two sisters? One older and one younger?”

You shook your head. “You’re a middle child.”

“Yeah,” he exhaled. “Being the only boy between two sisters was fun, mostly. I got babied, sometimes bossed around. But I was loved. Still… you give and give, and sometimes you wonder if anyone even notices.”

“You do know we see you, right?” you asked, soft and careful. Aiku nodded, bumping your shoulder. “Yeah. But sometimes I still think about what I could’ve been. I wanted to study Sports. Be a coach. But that dream got shrugged off like it didn’t matter. So, I became a teacher. Not even P.E… Health.” “Why not?” you asked.

“It would hurt me. But it’s worth it. I got a car after I passed the exams,” he chuckled. “Aiku,” you murmured, “you don’t have to perform here. If that’s what you’re thinking. I… we… we appreciate you here. All your efforts. From handling our meals, reminding the boys about their grocery lists, to helping me nag about bills and cleaning.

“If I were to be honest, I owe you an apology.”

Aiku turned to face you, a frown forming in his eyes. “For what?”

“For not helping much. We were roommates first, we planned everything, bought everything, arranged the apartment, and had systems. But then I was too busy to even help out with the cooking and everything. Heck, I couldn’t even accompany you on your bi-weekly grocery runs.”

“Blue,” he murmured, voice low and steady, “I don’t really mind. But… can I ask you something?”

You look up. “If I ever fall apart… would you be there to hold me together?”

A moment of silence passed. Soft but thick with meaning.

You shifted and fully leaned on him, your head resting on his shoulder as you two stood there by the window. “I would,” you replied, voice steady despite the way your heart tugged. “Even if it’s just takeout and tea and spending time like this, I’d still try.”

Aiku huffed a breath. Not a laugh, but not quite a sigh either. He uncrossed his arms and took you in, wrapping you loosely with his warmth. He rested his cheek on top of your head and whispered, “Thanks, Blue.”

As he handed you the beer bottle again, you held it tightly for a while before taking a sip. The city outside blinked on, quiet and unaware. Inside the apartment, the two of you stayed together in the hush between questions and answers, comfort and chaos. In that stillness, Aiku didn’t have to be the guy who kept it all together.

For a little while, he was just a person being held together.

[harringtonfeels]

(Stuck in a) Sad Summer Daze - Chapter Two

fem!Reader x Steve Harrington | Ch. 2 word count: 5k | Fic post | Previous chapter

A three week trip from Indianapolis to sunny Santa Barbara, CA and back becomes an opportunity for you to reconnect with Eddie, Robin, and Steve, regain the closeness you never realized you lost, and see your friends in a different light. Some of them, more than others.

Chapter description: A fateful ICEE purchase helps you break the ice while you and Steve take the night shift. Featuring, the riveting landscape of Oklahoma, and a late-night sing-along, and a poorly-executed gas station transaction.

June 19th, 1992

Miami, OK | 6:45 PM CST

You agree on a short dinner when you make your first stop in Oklahoma. Robin parks at the pump at a Phillips 66, and you all get out to stretch your legs. Robin's driving made a remarkable recovery, eventually staying good enough for long enough that Eddie joined you in the second row and busied himself by trying to toss balled up pieces of wrappers down your shirt when you weren't looking.

Now, it's the end of Robin's shift and the start of yours. Steve and Eddie run to the Burger King next door and grab dinner for everyone, and you and Robin stay behind with the van, pumping gas and replenishing the snack supply.

You're lost in thought while pumping gas when Robin withdraws herself from where she was gathering the snacks in a more orderly pile in the second row. She walks around the back of the van and looks at you with those big Robin eyes. The concerned kind.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

"What do you mean?"

The fuel nozzle clicks. The pump reads $20.00. You withdraw the nozzle and put it back where it belongs, tightening the cap back over the filler neck.

Robin frowns, and you realize she must think you're trying to shut her out. You're not, so you make a more honest attempt to humor her. "I've had a hard few weeks is all, and I got a little stressed earlier. But you didn't do anything wrong, Rob. I'm fine."

She hesitates for a moment, and then she says, "Are you sure? You've been quiet all day. I just want to make sure we're not making you feel left out or anything."

You close the door to the gas tank and lean against the van, brow furrowing. "Yeah, I'm sure. I don't feel left out at all. I've just got some stuff on my mind, that's all."

Should I feel left out? you begin to wonder. Everyone else seems to be reclaiming their footing in the group a little better than you are. Is there a reason for that?

Now you're overthinking it when Robin was just trying to tell you not to overthink it. It would take more than Zoloft to fix whatever's wrong with you, at this point.

She asks if you need to talk about it, and you're not sure where you'd even start if you wanted to. So you politely decline and strike up a conversation about how things have been going with Vicki, if she's still enjoying Columbus. Robin lets you change the topic with ease, although you can see from the way she glances at you out of the corner of her eye that she knows exactly what you're doing. She's nothing if not observant.

Dinner is uneventful. Eddie's set up a pallet on the floor of the van for Robin, and he posts up in the second row. He's got a bad back, and no number of blankets in the floor is going to protect him - although, having spent a while lying in the backseat yourself earlier, you're not sure the bench will be much better for him. If it bothers him, though, he takes it like a champ.

As you pull out onto the main road and navigate back to the highway, you give Robin a little credit. The van jerks and jostles, and she wasn't wrong - it's damn near impossible to tell where you're at in your lane.

"Steve, can you, like, adjust the side mirror a little?"

He unbuckles his seatbelt and leans forward, arm out the window to nudge the passenger side mirror. "Up or down?"

"Down."

He presses the bottom of the mirror gently. "Say when."

After about half a second, you say, "That's enough. And can you push it to the right a little? Yep, that's perfect."

While Robin was driving, Steve plotted out a few places that could be good opportunities to stop for gas. You wonder if he realized he was doing algebra when he calculated the number of miles it'd be before you need to stop for gas again.

It was 170 miles to Oklahoma City when you left Miami half an hour ago. Robin's quiet in the back, although you doubt she's asleep. She brought her Walkman and a couple of books - she told you all about the one she's already started before it was her turn to drive. You and Steve play games, making nonsense words out of the license plates and trading bumps when you see punch bugs. Within forty-five minutes, Eddie's snores are louder than the radio, even from the front seat.

Even though the conversation has been nothing but lighthearted, you're wound tight, and you're not really sure why. Until Steve finally says, "So what have you been up to in Indy lately?"

It's a broad question. Why does it feel like a trap?

You throw your hand up at the Porsche that just cut you off. They don't seem to notice.

"Uh, you know. Working and everything." You think hard on the last year or so since you saw Steve in person. "I guess that's really all I've been doing, is working. Saving up for a house, finding a house, closing on the house, moving into the house…"

"Wow," Steve says, and you can tell he means it. "That sounds like a lot."

"Yeah, it's… not easy when you're doing it all yourself."

There's a beat of silence. "You did that all yourself?"

"Well, I didn't want to pay a realtor."

"No, I mean—" He twists slightly to face you, seatbelt digging into his collarbone. "—did Jeff not help you?"

There's a beat of silence before you say, "Jeff doesn't live with me."

"Oh." Steve doesn't sound that surprised, but his face says otherwise. "I don't know why I assumed he did. Maybe 'cause you've been together for so long."

"He's living on campus," you say, and it's not a lie, but it's not the whole truth, either.

"Oh, yeah, what's he going to school for, again?"

You talk about Jeff for longer than you'd like, just listing facts but dancing around the truth. Oh, he's working on his Veterinary MD. Yeah, he's working as a vet tech right now. There's a lot you don't say. I know who I am. How I build a life matters less to me than actually building it. He knows who he wants to be but not where, or who with.

"What about you?" you ask, finally. "How's it going in Chicago?"

Steve shrugs. "Pretty good. Well, really good, I guess."

You raise your eyebrows at that - both due to genuine curiosity and thankfulness for having something to talk about that's not yourself. Or Jeff.

His grin is a little sheepish. "I mean, it's not Hollywood or anything, but they seem to like me a lot at work, so I got promoted to middle management." You mirror each other's grimaces at that, but Steve breaks into a self-deprecating smile. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Death to middle managers. Your subordinates hate you, your superiors hate you, and you hate yourself - I know. But the funny thing is, they don't. There've been a few issues here and there, but overall, I think people kind of… like having me as a manager. Or at least, better than the last guy."

"Huh," you say, trying to wrap your mind around it. "I guess you always did have a little bit of leadership in you - captain of the basketball team and all. And the kids - oh my God. You were so hit or miss with the kids."

When you laugh, Steve does, too. "Those little shits. It was always, 'Yes, Steve. No, Steve. I would never split the party, Steve. Oh, by the way, I'm driving your car into the abyss and we're all gonna die together against your explicit instructions, Steve.'"

"And Mike hated you so much, I swear, he would have done anything Robin or Eddie asked him to, as long as it didn't come from you."

"I hate to inform you that, in every group, there is always a Mike. You know, I still don't know what his problem was."

"You were dating his sister. And he thought you were an asshole."

"I wasn't an asshole."

You tilt your head to the side, and the corner of your mouth lifts a little. "You were kind of an asshole."

"I was not." There's a beat of silence, and that silence speaks volumes. Steve folds his arms across his chest and slouches against the bench seat. "Okay, maybe I was a little bit of an asshole."

"I think your level of asshole was directly proportionate to how much time you were spending with Tommy, Hawkins' Supreme Asshole."

"Asshole in Chief," Steve agrees.

"Archon of Assholery," you offer.

His nose scrunches. "What the fuck is an archon?"

"Can you guys shut the fuck up?" Eddie grumbles from the backseat, and you wince, shooting an apologetic grimace in Steve's direction.

You turn the radio down so softly you can barely hear it.

Steve's expression reeks of "I should be sorry, but I'm not," but you both grow quiet nonetheless, and you refocus your attention on not just the road ahead but also the scenery surrounding you.

To its credit, Oklahoma is a lot greener than you expected. Hopefully, that will give you something to pay attention to as you drive in silence.

Oklahoma City, OK | 9:52 PM CST

The sun set when you were passing through Tulsa about half an hour ago. The heat is starting dissipate, although only marginally. You've got a quarter tank of gas, and Steve just correctly pointed out that gas stations would probably begin shutting down for the night soon.

Robin hasn't made a sound in hours, and Eddie's snoring loudly enough to rattle the doors when you make it off the exit and coast into a gas station parking lot. The neon logo on the awning and fluorescent lights illuminating the gas pumps transport you right back to Starcourt, briefly. You get déjà vu like that from time to time, where the liminal spaces of your past all meld together into the inescapable Starcourt Mall.

If Steve notices you're a little off as you pull up to the pump, he doesn't mention it. He hops out and meets you at the front bumper, shoving his hands in his pockets as you both cross the parking lot. His voice cracks a little from lack of use as he says, "I think they're about to close. How much do you think that thing'll hold?"

You shrug. "Twenty got us, like, half a tank."

"Half a tank?" He rolls his eyes. "Leave it to Eddie to drive the biggest gas hog in America."

Smiling a little, you bump his arm with your shoulder. "Leave it to Eddie to be the only one with a car big enough to fit us all."

The door chimes as you open it, a little bell strung up on the doorframe. And it's a good thing, too, because you're seemingly the only people in the building. A gruff voice calls from a room in the back. "Coming!"

You and Steve split up - you toward the drinks, him toward the snacks.

"Grab me an AriZona Tea?" Steve suggests, peering over the shelving at you as you open a cooler door.

You throw a thumbs-up his way and grab a Sprite and a Mountain Dew for Robin and Eddie respectively. You reach out for a Coke, and just then, something catches your eye.

An ICEE machine.

Letting the cooler door swing closed, you pivot. You're on the prowl.

Just then, a bald, skinny guy with a full beard walks out of the back room. "Do you people have any idea what time it is?" he huffs, looking like he could use a cigarette.

You open your mouth to respond, juggling the two drinks in your arms as you reach for an ICEE cup from the stack.

"Looks like 9:55 to me." Steve's tone is bored, but you recognize the undercurrent - you'd recognize it anywhere. Hidden in the layers of his voice is a challenge.

You pull the lever to fill your cup with cherry, and the attendant groans. "I just cleaned that. You've got no decency, coming in here five minutes to close and making a mess."

"I'm not making a mess," you say, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. You've worked customer service before; you know how shitty people can be. But you never had this big a stick up your ass about a couple of people wanting to buy some drinks before closing time.

"She's not making a mess," Steve repeats, stalking toward the cash wrap. "If you're not taking customers, you should probably lock the door."

The attendant huffs and starts ringing Steve up. You're trying to move quickly, but the ICEE machine only dispenses so fast, and then you're extra careful to put your lid on tightly - that's all you need, is to actually make a mess. Ruin this guy's night and everyone else's, too.

Once the lid is on, you approach the counter and deposit your ICEE and the bottles in your arms.

"Do you two need anything else?" You wonder if he's always this moody, or if it's only at closing time.

"Thirty on three," Steve chirps.

You didn't come into the store at the last second for the purpose of being a menace, honest. But seeing the guy look like he's about to pop a vein has you coughing to stifle a laugh.

Steve generously drops two twenties on the counter before you can get your wallet out. The attendant gives him back all his change in quarters and starts the pump.

Outside, mosquitoes seem to swarm you, and you bat them away as you both make your way across the lot, back to the van. Moths circle around the overhead lights. It's still warm, not to mention humid, but it's not as brutal as it was in the daylight.

"Here, I'll put the snacks away," you offer as he opens the gas door and starts pumping. He hands you the bag, and you trot over to the passenger door, stuff the drinks in the cooler and set the snacks in the middle of the bench for easy access.

It's not until you reach into the bottom of the bag to put Steve's AriZona Tea in his cupholder that you realize you've made a fatal mistake.

There is no AriZona.

You look up at the door to the glass gas station doors just in time to see the grumpy attendant locking up from the inside. He must be able to tell you forgot something, because you hold his gaze for a moment and then he flips you off.

What the fuck.

Shutting the passenger door gingerly behind you, you bounce on the balls of your feet while making your way back around to the other side of the van.

"Hey, Steve," you sing.

"Yes, sunshine?" He draws out the syllables, singing right back to you with an expression that says I don't know what you're about to say, but I'm sure I won't like it.

You bite your lip and say, "I did something bad."

At that, he locks the pump handle in position and turns to face you, hands on his hips. "You forgot my AriZona," he accuses.

Cheeks hot, you try to defend yourself. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I got so excited when I saw the ICEE machine, and then that guy was so rude and I—"

His brown eyes level with yours, and he inhales deeply. What if he's really mad? you think, but there's just a sliver of mischief in his eyes that tells you otherwise.

"Okay, so what?" He flaps a hand with half-hearted attitude. "You get your ICEE, which I paid for, and I get nothing until sunrise?" he snipes.

"No," you say quickly. "I still have some Coke in the cooler! You can have it. And I can give you some money for the snacks."

He pulls a face. "Shut up. That's New Coke, and it sucks."

"It's called Coke II now, and it's good!"

"Nobody calls it that, and it sucks," Steve insists with a huff. "Give me that ICEE."

"What?"

Steve takes a step forward that's actually closer to a lunge, hand outstretched. "I said, give me your ICEE."

"Steve, please," you beg, taking a step back toward the front of the van as he climbs over the fuel hose. Instinctively, you hold your ICEE behind you with one hand and put the other out in front of you to fend him off. "She's innocent. She did nothing wrong. Take it out on me, not the ICEE."

"Oh, I'm gonna take it out on you, alright." With a mischievous grin, he takes a step forward, and you squeal, rounding the front of the van.

The problem with Steve is that he's always been too fast for you. He's sure-footed where you're cautious, and he's got a wingspan much larger than yours. Of all the years you spent playing Capture the Remote, you've never won. And there's a lot more on the line than just remote privileges - you still haven't even had a taste of your beautiful, cherry ICEE. Your pulse thuds in your ears as you round the front bumper, heart pounding like a rabbit backed into a hedgebush with no escape.

Before you've even made it around to the driver door, Steve's on you, trapping you between his arm and the side-mirror. You could try to duck and run, but you know you've been beaten. You hold your beloved ICEE close to your chest, looking up at him like a deer in the headlights. Years and an unspoken web of tangled energy spans between you and Steve and your Capture the Remote days; you're not sure what the rules are for rough-housing with him anymore, or where he'd draw the line.

"Not the ICEE," you say, deflated, but as he leans in, you're forced to accept that your humble plea is futile. He pries the cup from your hands and wraps his lips around the bright red straw, and there he goes, depriving you of your one true love. You watch as he swallows, then sips again, then swallows, and then—

The buzzing of the fluorescent lights above ceases entirely, and the world is cast into darkness. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, but it evidently doesn't take Steve that long. By the time you can make out his outline, he's already passing your ICEE back to you and pushing himself off the fender of the van.

He hollers at the attendant, who's locking the doors from the outside. "Thanks, asshole!"

"Get a room, lovebirds," the other guy yells back. And then he flips you off. Again.

Steve rolls his eyes. "What is that guy's deal?" he huffs, then turns back to face you. His long hair casts shadows across his face in the barely-there streetlight. "You're sharing the rest of that with me."

It's not a request, but it doesn't have to be. You'd share anything with Steve if he asked you to, and you know he'd do the same. "Okay," you agree, finally taking your first sip of ICEE. You're honestly just grateful you didn't drop it during all your shenanigans.

The fuel nozzle clicks, and Steve takes a step back. "I'll take care of that. Start this thing up and get the A/C moving again, will you? Mm, wait, one more sip."

You do as you're told, and when you're back on the highway, you catch glimpses of Steve in the lights that illuminate the exit signs. His lips are stained cherry red.

June 20th, 1992

Shamrock, TX | 12:39 AM

You're forced to take back what you said about Oklahoma being green. As it turns out, about thirty minutes outside of Oklahoma City, it all turns to dirt, which, believe it or not, makes it pretty hard to stay engaged with your surroundings.

To be completely fair, the grass returns during the last thirty minute stretch of Oklahoma, but by then, the damage is done. Your ICEE is long gone, split evenly between you and Steve, and you're beginning to feel your eyelids droop as you pass the mile marker signs. You've been trying to be quiet for Eddie and Robin's sakes, and the lack of conversation is making the drive even harder. So when you see a sign for a rest area just past the state line, you take the exit.

Rest areas always feel a little spooky at night, so you generally try to avoid them. You only ever traveled long distances with Jeff to see his dad in Cincinnati. Since he seemingly knew all the 24-hour gas stations along the way from Indy, it's been years since you've actually stopped at one.

Your sagging shoulders lift a little when you see it. Under flickering fluorescents in a little building off to the right of the gas station, there it is: a vending machine. You're only a few yards away, and you'd know that aqua color anywhere.

AriZona Tea.

Steve ducked into the bathroom building a minute ago, and Eddie's currently rolling - literally rolling - out of the side door of the van. His curls are sleep-rumpled, and there's a red mark on his face from the seam of the seat upholstery. You can't help but smile a little. For all that Eddie puts on a fierce front, you like him best when he's a little silly.

You roll your shoulders and neck, stretching your stiff muscles, and you walk a loop around a solemn little tree between the two buildings to get your blood pumping again. You told Steve you'd drive until Amarillo, which is still about a hundred miles out. If you're going to succeed, you're going to have to get some pep in your step, so to speak.

Once you've had a couple minutes to stretch, you head over to the vending machine to peruse the wares. There's a pack of spearmint flavored Extra in there. The shock of mint always seems to help wake you up a little, if only for a while.

Extra and AriZona Tea it is.

You've got a handful of quarters in your pocket, so you count them out. A dollar for the tea, and seventy-five cents for the gum. And you've got a dollar fifty.

While you're staring into your hand, lamenting your poor fortune, a pair of hands grab you around the waist. "Boo!"

Spinning around, you attack your assailant with an open palm. Your hand connects with Eddie's leather jacket, and it's instant chaos. The clink of your quarters scattering across the ground is not far off from the sound of Sonic the Hedgehog losing his rings.

Eddie, however, is doubled over in laughter, one ring-clad hand pointing at your face. "Ohhhh my god," he wheezes between gasps for air. "I got you so good."

"You are such a fucking menace," you hiss, shoving his shoulder to get him out of your way. Kneeling in the dirt, scrounging up a bunch of change at a rest stop in Texas was not on your agenda, but here you are.

He's still laughing, but at least he has the decency to help you find the remaining coins, feeling around in the spot where the dirt patch meets grass.

"Do you have any quarters?" you ask him. "Call it penance for your crimes?"

"You should have seen your face." His dimples pop with unbridled joy. Then, he shakes his head. "Sorry, Princess. Only crisp dollar bills for me."

The machine doesn't take dollars, unfortunately, so you're screwed. When Eddie hands you back the last of your quarters, you turn to face the machine. Unfortunately, sometimes, sacrifices must be made.

You put your quarters into the slot and enter the code, watching with a frown as the product you purchased hits the floor in the machine with a clunky thud. Lovely.

"If you touch me while I'm getting this out of the machine," you warn Eddie, expression fierce, "I will kill you."

He raises his hands in exaggerated surrender. "Loud and clear," he says, taking a couple slow steps back. "I'll be in my bunk."

Your nose wrinkles at the insinuation, and you turn away, fetching the can and shoving your remaining quarters in your pocket.

About the time you turn around, Steve is leaving the bathroom. His eyes first land on Eddie, whose boots are thumping halfway down the sidewalk already. As you begin to make your way over, you see Steve glance toward the van, then back at Eddie. Concern paints his features. "Munson," he calls, "where's our fearless leader?"

You toss the can into your other hand, angling your arm such that he can't see your purchase, and say, "I'm coming."

Something like relief washes over Steve's face as his eyes land on you, not thirty feet away. At the same time, Eddie turns around to face you both, walking backwards as he hollers, "That's what she said!"

You're certainly not the only group at this rest stop, and your cheeks burn as you glance around at the other cars occupying the parking lot. Some people are reclined in their driver's seats, some smoking at the table by the bathrooms. You feel a little bad on behalf of your group. Eddie could wake the dead, and his penchant for theatrics feeds into that in such a way that social restraint… well, it's not really Eddie's thing, putting it mildly.

Steve waits for you to meet up with him on the sidewalk before starting after Eddie. "You okay?" he asks. "You seem a little tense."

You shrug. "Just Eddie being Eddie." Quickly, you change the subject. With a grin, you reveal the AriZona Tea you just scored from the vending machine. "Got this for you," you say, placing it directly in his unsuspecting hand.

His brow furrows, and then he looks up at you, a slow smile spreading across his lips. You've always liked doing nice things for Steve in particular, and you're not sure why. Maybe it's that he always seems to truly appreciate it. All those years hanging out with friends who didn't really see him, parents who looked right through him, girlfriends who cared more about what he could do for them than the other way around.

For someone who, at one point, could have had any material possession he wanted, Steve always accepts gifts like he's never expected that someone might consider him at all.

"Thanks," he says simply, brown eyes shining in the dim, yellow light from the street poles. Then, he clears his throat. "Okay, so we made it to Texas. Want me to take over?"

You consider it for about half a second. "No, I'm okay. I'll get us to Amarillo, and then we can switch. But I don't care if Eddie and Robin complain - I'm turning the radio back on."

"No need," he says breezily as you part ways at the front of the van. He opens the passenger door, and you make eye contact through the rolled-down window. For just a moment, he rummages under the bench seat.

The ruckus rouses Robin - you can hear her asking Eddie where you are from the back of the van. Just as you're shutting the driver door behind you, Steve resurfaces with two tapes in his hand.

"Aerosmith or Queen?" he asks.

It's not contest. "Queen, obviously."

Eddie pulls a face at the mention of Aerosmith, and you can literally hear Robin scrambling to sit up. "Queen!" she agrees, expression equal parts sleepy and hopeful.

As you back out of your parking spot, Steve loads the cassette into the tape deck and cranks the volume. You can't help but smile at the new energy that swells throughout the van - it's a welcome reprieve from careful whispers and nodding off in the slow lane from boredom. Radio Ga Ga rumbles through the speakers, chorus launching just as you get up to speed on the highway.

Robin's voice is just audible above the stereo. She knows all the words, and so do you. You and Steve beat The Works to death after Steve graduated high school - so much that Steve's tape got worn out and he had to replace it.

When you glance over at him out of the corner of your eye, you can see he's already looking at you. The Works didn't get mass airplay in the United States, not like some of Queen's other albums did. It didn't even crack the top twenty of the Billboard 200. But Steve loved Queen, and as a result, so did you.

Your mind replays a buried memory of Radio Ga Ga blasting through the speakers of his Beemer, windows rolled down on the way to prom. Other memories come flooding back, as well. I Want to Break Free blasting through the headphones of his Walkman, your ear pressed against his like a couple of idiots hell-bent on sharing. Hammer to Fall echoing through his parents' near-empty house while you lounged by the swimming pool.

It's crazy to think there was a time before Eddie and Robin - or, at least, before their friendship. It's even weirder to think that you and Steve used to be so embarrassingly attached at the hip, and that now, you don't quite know how to find that groove again.

But you're going to. Your eyes meet Steve's as Tear It Up kicks in, and you know from the smile on Steve's face that you have to get your shit together. He's your best friend in the whole world, and it's time you start acting like it again, so you can see that smile again.

It starts with The Works.

[seeyousoonnnnnn]

it started small.

billie handed sihloh a pen in class without rolling her eyes.

the next day, sihloh asked, "do you have a charger?" and billie tossed one to her wordlessly.

the day after that, sihloh sneezed and billie, without thinking, muttered, "bless you."

sihloh almost dropped her book.

by wednesday, they'd traded six words before breakfast.

by friday, sihloh was leaving half her granola bar on billie's desk without comment. billie never said thanks, but she always ate it.

sihloh started keeping count in her head — every time billie didn't ignore her. it was ridiculous. but something about those quiet exchanges felt like finding pieces of a locked diary left half-open.

she was still sharp with everyone else. still rolled her eyes at teachers and shoved past macy in the hallway. but not sihloh.

never sihloh.

and sihloh didn't know what to do with that.

they sat in silence most nights. sihloh reading, billie drawing in a sketchpad she never let sihloh see.

the red and blue lights hummed around them like opposing moons. tension lived in the middle of the room — not cruel anymore. just curious.

one night, sihloh dared to ask, "why do you never turn the red lights off?"

billie glanced up. "...i don't like the dark."

sihloh blinked. "oh."

that was the most personal thing billie had ever said.

three days later, sihloh pushed further.

they were sitting on the floor, backs against their beds, billie's knees drawn up, headphones hanging around her neck. she looked half-asleep. sihloh felt brave.

"can i ask you something?"

billie didn't answer, but she didn't say no either.

sihloh went for it.

"what’s in the book?"

billie's jaw shifted.

her whole body went still — like something inside her locked up all at once.

"none of your business" she said, flat.

"its probably some silly love songs. or loveee notes." , “why you so scared? punk.” sihloh laughed. billie didn’t.

billie stood up without a word, unplugged her headphones, shoved her sketchpad into her backpack, and walked out.

sihloh stared at the door, heart sinking.

billie didn't come back that night.

—

the next day? silence.

billie sat in the back of class with her hood up. didn't speak. didn't pass pens. didn't look at sihloh.

the dorm stayed empty. sihloh fell asleep alone for the second night in a row, the red lights still on.

a week passed like that.

no eye contact. no words. no hoodie on the desk chair. no sketchpad by the bed.

macy said she saw billie hanging around the off-campus seniors. older students who snuck out, smoked behind the dorms, didn't care about rules.

"probably found someone new to corrupt," she joked.

sihloh just nodded. didn't say how her chest felt hollow every time she walked into room 206 and saw billie's bed untouched.

then one afternoon, in the middle of the hallway, sihloh saw her.

billie. walking ahead with two seniors. laughing.

and there — bold as daylight — a dark hickey on the side of her neck. not just one. three. maybe four. scattered like bruises, climbing toward her collarbone.

sihloh stopped walking.

her she felt something sharp and stupid rise up in her throat.

jealousy wasn't the right word. she had no right to feel that. no claim. no title.

but the way her stomach dropped? the way her face flushed? it felt a lot like grief.

she turned the corner fast. heart racing.

that night, sihloh didn't speak.

she sat on her bed with her light off. the room stayed dim and red, heavy with unspoken things. billie came in late, hoodie tugged high around her neck. didn't look at her. didn't sit on the bed. just grabbed a charger, a water bottle, and left again.

no eye contact. no explanations.

just quiet cruelty.

sihloh stared at the ceiling and wondered what she'd done wrong.

and why it hurt so much.

[fruitcoops]

Sugar Boy

Tremzy, that sweet tooth needs a license. More fluff for day 5, because fests are for fun and I love it when these three get a little break from their regularly-scheduled suffering. Characters belong to @lumosinlove, fest prompts are from @oknutzy-week-2025 :)

Prompt A4: Summer

Summers at home were a rare treat Leo was learning to savor more each year. Travel without a strict schedule had been fun for the first few seasons; they could go anywhere they wanted, free of game obligations and nutritional advice. He refused to think about recommended daily calories when French butter was involved. Seeing the world with his favorite people was nothing short of unbelievable, and Leo held it in both hands with care. Italy, Spain, Wales, Austria, Brazil…it didn’t feel real. They had tried to fit as much as they could between trips to see family and training camp, but they always came home and Leo always ended up wondering why they had ever left.

The house helped. Always a project to be done here or there, a sense of long-lasting permanence Leo was unaccustomed to. This, flipping an omelet while Finn sorted their photos from Tulum for the photo album in the breakfast nook ten feet to his right. This, chopping an extra bit of green onion while the birds discussed all manner of things outside the open window above the sink.

They had forgotten the can of paint on the porch last night. It was a pale, pretty blue, and growing smooth as Logan applied a second coat to seal it. The rain wasn’t supposed to come for another two days and Leo had wanted to set up the porch swing before it arrived. If worst came to worst, they’d wait until next week. He had no plans at all.

“Harz?”

“Mhm.” Finn set aside a stack of pictures and crossed the room to take his omelet with a kiss for Leo’s cheek. “Thank you, baby, this looks amazing.”

“Well, see how it tastes.”

Finn fixed him with a look of teasing disbelief. “Come on.”

“I used bacon grease instead of butter,” Leo admitted. “And the green onions are fresh out of the garden.”

“God, I love you.”

“You better.”

His pans were just where he wanted them, and just what he needed for any dish. It was ridiculous, but there were times that they would be halfway across the world and all he wanted was his skillet for a late-night grilled sandwich. Did it make him spoiled to be glad they weren’t going abroad this summer? It felt silly to think.

“You both got so tan,” Finn muttered, back in his nook. “Do I look like a ghost all the time?”

“No, sweetheart, only when there’s sun out.”

“Ha-ha.”

Leo grinned, leaning out the window above the sink. “Lo! Breakfast!”

“Merci!” came a shout from the porch. Logan had apparently decided laying flat on his belly with a paintbrush was the best way to do things this morning. His attention to detail was devastatingly sweet.

Speaking of…

Leo turned the stove off and slid Logan’s omelet onto a plate beside his own, reaching for their shelf of mugs. Finn had started the coffee when he came downstairs that morning in his usual routine, but he always made a fresh half-pot if they had a later breakfast. The container for the cream was a little light when he took it from the fridge. Leo weighed the merits of stopping by the grocery store in the afternoon versus waiting for the farmer’s market on the weekend while he shuffled his various bits of cookware out of the way.

Logan Coffee Sugar. A relic of their old apartment all three had been passionate about keeping. I don’t want to go drag the whole bag out every time I have coffee, Logan had argued. You are so fucking cute, Finn and Leo had agreed. It was nothing but an old glass jar with a duct-tape label across the front, but it was Leo’s favorite thing in the entire kitchen.

(That was a lie. His alligator-shaped casserole dish won by a landslide. Thank you, Finn.)

Logan Coffee Sugar was a very, very close second, though. And he did have to admit, it was a convenient and creative solution to the secondary problems that arose when Logan originally used a salt shaker for the same purpose. Logan’s chief complaint was that it took too long to get the appropriate amount, while Leo was more concerned about accidentally seasoning his dinner with cavities. Thus, the honey jar was freed from the junk cabinet and enlisted for a new purpose.

He set the lid aside and eyeballed two heaping spoonfuls into the nearest mug. A dash of coffee to dissolve it, cream to temper the heat, and then more coffee to fill the remaining space. He poured himself a cup as well before moving to the nook; Finn shifted the album and photographs over before he made it two steps, lifting his legs to make room for Leo on the bench seat.

“Good morning,” Finn said happily. “We’ve been on some really cool trips.”

Leo hummed his agreement around a bite of omelet. “What’d you find?”

“Nothing you haven’t already seen,” Finn said, though he was already moving his coffee to spread a few pictures out. “Remember that part of the wall? And here’s your shark buddy, I found our snorkeling pictures in my backpack.”

The front door creaked open and closed with a heavy thud, followed by the familiar clomping and jangling of Logan coming home. Leo pressed his smile into the side of his mug. “We’re looking at pictures from Tulum, cher. Breakfast and coffee are by the stove.”

Logan gave an audible sigh. “Parfait, you’re a godsend.”

“Done with the porch?”

“Just about. We can’t leave through the front for another couple hours, sorry.” Logan settled across from them and stretched his legs out until his ankles found Leo’s, already craning his neck to see the photos. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

“That one’s the castle, and Finn found the underwater camera stuff in his bag.” Leo tapped the edge of a picture from the top of the ruins. Glittering water bloomed below, surrounded by shades of green a camera couldn’t hope to catch accurately. “This one’s from the ruins.”

“Mm, I remember.” Logan blew on his coffee before taking a sip. “This is fantastic, wow. Have you put the book together?”

“Thought we’d do it together,” Finn explained. “I got the photos sorted by days, though, and then the snorkel ones are separate.”

“Good thing you painted up to the door,” Leo noted. Can’t leave for a few hours, his heart trilled. The back door would remain shut, too, if he had his way.

Logan caught him immediately, darting a grin across the table. “Oh, was someone excited to stay home?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh.”

It was so unfair that he blushed that easily for them. He was a homeowner, for fuck’s sake. Wasn’t that supposed to grant him emotional stability or something? Leo took a pointed bite of his omelet before speaking again. “I love going on vacation.”

“Never said you didn’t.”

Logan was wiggling his foot up the leg of Leo’s pants. “And sometimes I also like a bit of downtime.”

“Translation, with love,” Finn began, still flipping through the photographs. “You’re an incurable homebody with an abiding love of your home base, and truly you would flourish as a hobbit in another life.”

“Oh, look,” Logan said, pointing to their plates. “It’s second breakfast and everything.”

“I like traveling,” Leo insisted. Arguing any of the other points would be both futile and false.

“You can love traveling and also be visibly gleeful about literally being painted into the house,” Logan laughed. He caught Leo’s hand across the table and kissed the back. “Merci beaucoup, soleil. This is delicious. Did you use the onion from the garden?”

He noticed. Of course he did. Leo’s cheeks hurt from containing his smile. “I did, yeah.”

“It adds something.” Logan collected their plates and forks and brought them to the sink, but returned in mere moments to nestle himself against Finn’s other side and open the photo album. “D’accord, where do we start?”