#I wasn’t even sure when I sat down to do this if I could even still do this

[the-internets-girlfriend]

The Gang Tried to Set Us Up - George Clarke

George Clarke x Reader (1.2k+ words)

Everyone in the group knows Y/N and George like each other – except them. From cozy nights to “totally random camping trips”, their friends try everything to get them together.

warnings: idiots in love, shared bed trope,

masterlist x | this one-shot is based off this request here x

Movie Night (ft. The Beanbag Trap)

I should’ve known something was up when Chris took one look at the living room and said, “nope. Bad layout, vibes are off.”

That’s the exact moment I became suspicious.

Still, I didn’t clock it fully until Becky basically shoved me onto the deflated beanbag in the centre of the room. “You can see the TV better from here,” she chirped, which was a bold-faced lie since the TV was literally at an angle.

Then George wandered in, bowl of popcorn in hand, and Chris – helpful Chris – patted the beanbag next to me and said, “plenty of room there, mate.”

The thing is, there wasn’t plenty of room. The beanbag was ancient and slumped like a deflated souffle. The second George sat down; I rolled toward him like a magnet. Our knees bumped. My arms brushed his. Our thighs touched.

He froze, I froze harder.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, not moving away.

“It’s okay,” I said. Not moving either.

Becky shot me a look from across the room and popped a piece of popcorn into her mouth with a smirk so smug I wanted to throw a cushion at her.

For the next two hours, we sat like that – far too close, quietly pretending not to notice. I could feel the heat of George’s skin through the hoodie. I caught him glancing at me during quiet parts of the film, and once, when I laughed, I swear he smiled just from hearing it.

We didn’t talk about it afterward.

Of course we didn’t.

Game Night Shenanigans

“Lets do a challenge game!” Issac announced like a man who definitely hadn’t planned it for days. “It’s like a couples game, Except we’re not doing couples… justs random teams.”

“Random,” I repeated, deadpan – already knowing what he was getting at.

He nodded furiously and pulled out a hat – his hat, I noticed.

I didn’t even get to reach in. He just grinned and read the first pairing, “Y/N and... George! What are the odds?”

George looked up from his phone at me, and blinked, “huh, alright then.”

We sat together, facing off against Chris and Arthur Hill, and Arthur Frederick and Isaac. The game was simple: to answer questions about “your partner” and see how well you know them.

First questions; “What’s their favourite song?”

“I Wanna Be Yours, by the Artic Monkeys,” George said, the same moment I answered, “Artic Monkeys – I Wanna Be Yours.” Something said between the lines to each other.

We blinked at each other.

Isaac let out an obnoxious, “OHHHH” sound.

We won every round. Favourite food? He knew mine. I knew his. Pet peeve? Check. Childhood dream job? He even remembered my answer from a conversation we’d had once on a rainy walk back from the pub last year.

By the end, our team name was soulmates, thanks to Arthur Hill shouting it every time we scored a point.

We high-fived, my fingers between his for just a second too long.

One Tent, Two Idiots

“We though there were three tents,” Chris said, feigning concern.

Harry was already passed out in one. Isaac and Arthur were in another, pretending to be asleep. And the last? A two-man tent with two sleeping bags zipped together.

“You okay sharing?’ George asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Sure,” I said, heartbeat thudding.

It was freezing. Our sleeping bags were zipped as close as possible. The moonlight made the inside of the tent glow faintly silver. i could hear his breathing beside me – steady, almost nervous.

“You awake?” He whispered.

“Mhm.”

“If hypothetically, someone had feelings for someone else in the group – like, really liked them, should they say something? Or… is it too risky?”

I held my breath.

“I think it’d be brave,” I whispered back.

“Okay.”

But in the morning, he didn’t bring it up again. Neither did I.

Cowards, both of us.

The Great Bake-Off Disaster

“Just a fun bake-off,” Becky grinned, already wearing an apron that said kiss the cook.

Isaac stood behind her holding a bowl and what looked like glitter.

“I’ve randomly paired you all up,” she added. “Totally fair. And what a shock—George and Y/N, you’re a team!”

I glared. The name cards were laminated. Laminated.

George looked equally betrayed. “They’ve planned this, haven’t they?”

“Yes,” I muttered, snatching an apron.

We ended up elbow-to-elbow at the kitchen bench. I managed to get flour in my hair, crack an egg wrong, and knock over the icing sugar. George laughed the whole time, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You’re useless,” he teased, voice warm.

“You’re worse,” I said, tossing a bit of dough at him.

At one point, we were both leaning over the bench to reach something. His hand brushed mine. We didn’t move.

“I like this,” he said quietly.

“Baking?”

“No. This. With you.”

My heart somersaulted. I was about to reply, finally, when Becky shouted “TIME!” and George jumped like he’d been electrocuted.

We didn’t win the bake-off.

We also didn’t talk about that moment.

Again.

The Fake Group Dinner

Chris sent a message that afternoon: Dinner at Luca’s at 7. Everyone coming!

You wore your good jeans and that top George once said looked “really nice” on you—his tone suspiciously shy when he said it. You walked into the restaurant expecting chaos.

Instead, you saw George.

Alone.

At a two-person table, looking like he was about to sprint for the door.

You froze. “Where’s… everyone?”

He cleared his throat. “Funny story. Chris said everyone was coming. But Becky said Chris told her not to come. Isaac said he had plans. And Arthur’s in Devon.”

You blinked.

He shifted in his seat. “We’ve been set up, haven’t we?”

You looked around. The waitress was already heading over with menus and a candle.

“Guess we have,” you said, smiling.

You sat down.

Dinner was… perfect. Easy. Light. You laughed more than you had in weeks. George’s eyes kept flicking to your lips when you talked, which you tried not to notice, except you really did notice.

When dessert came, the waitress placed tiramisu between you with a wink. “For the happy couple.”

George looked like he might combust. “We’re—um—”

You picked up your spoon. “Not correcting her?”

“Definitely not.”

Halfway through the dessert, George set his fork down.

“Y/N,” he said. “I like you. A lot. I’ve liked you for ages. I was just scared. But I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t feel what I feel when I’m around you.”

Your chest ached.

“George,” you said softly, “I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”

His eyes widened. “Wait—you like me too?”

“I like you, you idiot.”

He laughed, full and warm and startled, like he hadn’t dared hope.

Then he reached across the table and took your hand.

It felt like every missed moment, every unspoken word, had finally been worth it.

The moment you both walked in to George’s apartment – hands still linked – Arthr gasped like he’d just seen a miracle.

Chris stood up on the couch and yelled, “TOLD. YOU. SO.”

Arthur Hill fist-pumped the air. “I WIN THE BET!”

George buried his face in your neck. “We’re never living this down.”

You laughed, “and I don’t care.”

Because finally – finally, the quiet glances and near-confessions were over.

And all it took was four failed setups, one dinner date, and a very loud I told you so.

Hi all,

I was so excited to write this one-shot with it being my first request and I hope it's what you were wanting.

I've been working hard on Secrets in Doncaster, and the next few parts will be out soon... with one hopefully tomorrow!

See you next time,

mwah x

[bucketsorbueckers]

No Hard Feelings - Chapter 8

Paige X Azzi

Warning: language.

A/N: didn't plan to post this early get this chapter away from me before i edit to the point of disservice. if it doesn't make sense, its not my business. xoxo

Azzi’s POV

A few months ago.  

Hard fracture.

That’s the only way Azzi knew how to describe it.

There had been small fissures forming between them for a while. Cracks in the foundation. Somehow, putting a name on what they were made it feel heavier. More difficult to carry.

It had been a steady eleven months, mostly. Private. Careful. A thing she held close to her chest.

Caroline knew. Nika too. Though she never said it out loud. Just offered knowing looks and quiet exits when things got too soft around the edges.

But beyond that, it was just the two of them. Her and Paige. 

They said it was better this way. Safer. Cleaner. No headlines. No rumors. No room for people to ruin it before it ever got the chance to breathe.

And in the beginning, that quiet felt like protection. Like something theirs in a world that wanted to take everything.

But the world doesn’t stay quiet for long. Not when Paige was in it.

Because there were nights when Paige would light up an arena and the whole world would look at her like she belonged to them. And Azzi would be in the background, clapping quietly, pretending her heart wasn’t in the front row.

There were moments where she’d catch Paige smiling at someone else and think, I’m not sure she even remembers I’m here.

She didn’t blame her for it.  Not really.

Paige wasn’t really hiding her. She offered soft touches. Lingering glances. Quiet, firm reminders that she belonged to Azzi—at least in the ways that counted. But the longer they stayed hidden, the harder it became to believe there was a difference between protecting something and burying it.

And that quiet, gnawing feeling…the one Azzi couldn’t shake, kept whispering the same truth: Paige belonged to the world. And Azzi belonged to no one.

Som she started pulling back. Just a little. Just enough to see if she still had a pulse outside of Paige Bueckers. And maybe, if she was being honest, it wasn’t just about herself. Maybe it was also to see if Paige would notice. If she’d feel the shift. If she’d say something.

Because sometimes, truthfully, Azzi felt less like a person Paige loved and more like a weight strapped to her ankle—quiet, heavy, and always just barely out of step.

Paige did notice. Azzi could see it in the way she reached for her. In the way her eyes searched the room before her body followed. In the way she kept trying to press her hands to the bleeding wound of who they were. Like if she held it hard enough, long enough, maybe it would stop.

But she didn’t say anything. And Azzi didn’t know how to ask for what she needed without sounding like she was asking Paige to be smaller. To shine a little less bright. To come back down to a place Azzi wasn’t sure she belonged anymore.

So the silence grew teeth. Not sudden. Not sharp. Just slow. Choking. The kind you don’t notice until you realize you haven’t taken a full breath in weeks.

Paige was still Paige. All in. Loyal. Constant. But she didn’t ask.

And Azzi didn’t know how to say it. Didn’t know how to explain that being loved by someone like Paige Bueckers meant being seen by everyone but still somehow forgotten by yourself.

The realization struck her on a Thursday night. There was no grand trigger. No dramatic fight. Just the quiet, aching feeling that had made a home of her chest stretching a little too wide like her ribs were forgetting how to hold it in.

She sat with it. Let it settle. Didn’t cry. And then, two nights later, she showed up on Paige’s doorstep.

The conversation wasn’t angry. They didn’t raise their voices. Didn’t say things they’d regret.

Azzi just stood there in Paige’s apartment—small and familiar and somehow already too far gone—and said the thing she hadn’t known how to say until it became the only thing she could.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Paige looked at her like she’d dropped something. Like any second now, Azzi would laugh. Take it back. Say just kidding, I’m tired, ignore me.

But Azzi didn’t. She couldn’t. Because she wanted to leave while there was still something left of her to carry.

Paige didn’t beg. Didn’t cry. Didn’t chase. She just nodded. And that hurt more than if she’d screamed.

Azzi stood there for a beat, her heart clawing against the inside of her ribs like it might rip its way out. She wanted to apologize. To explain. To say I love you, I just don’t know how to survive it. But the words stuck to the back of her throat like they were trying to save themselves.

So instead, she turned. And let the door close behind her. In that moment, it felt like the right thing.  But God, it still split her clean through.

Paige’s POV

Azzi stirred, and Paige stayed perfectly still. Eyes closed. Breathing slow. Like if she moved, even a little, the moment might vanish.

Azzi fit against her like something Paige had been missing long before she even knew it. And then—soft, gentle—fingers began to walk their way up her arm. Curious. Familiar. Like they remembered this path even after all that time.

Paige couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips.

“I know you’re awake, Bueckers,” Azzi whispered, fingers still tracing lazy lines up her arm.

Paige shook her head, voice low and muffled against the pillow. “Five more minutes.”

“No such luck,” Azzi murmured. “We’ve gotta be downstairs for breakfast in ten.”

Her tone was gentle, but Paige could hear the smile in it too.

“Then five more minutes isn’t an indecent request,” Paige mumbled.

Azzi hummed in mock disapproval, already shifting, starting to slip from her arms with the kind of quiet ease that made it feel like she’d never been there at all. And for some reason, it hit Paige like a wave.

Panic, fast and silent. Like her body remembered every morning she’d woken up without this. Like it didn’t trust that Azzi wouldn’t disappear again if she let go now.

Her hand tightened instinctively around Azzi’s wrist.

“Wait,” she said, too quickly.

Azzi froze. And Paige couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t breathe around the sudden fear clawing at her throat.

“I just… one more minute,” she whispered. “Just stay a minute longer.”

Azzi didn’t answer right away.

Then Paige felt it. The soft press of Azzi’s body folding back into hers. No questions. No teasing. Just quiet understanding. Like Azzi could feel how badly Paige needed her without either of them having to say it out loud.

They stayed like that longer than they probably should’ve. Long enough for the sun to climb a little higher, for the real world to start creeping back in around the edges.

“Paige,” Azzi whispered, voice low against her neck. “We need to go to breakfast. Geno will have both our asses.”

Paige groaned, half into the pillow. “Let him.”

But she knew Azzi was right.

Reluctantly, she began to untangle their bodies—slow and careful, like letting go might break something. Her fingers hesitated for a beat too long at Azzi’s waist before pulling back. And then, summoning whatever courage she had left, she turned. Looked at her. Really looked.

And it was stupid, probably, but in that moment, Azzi looked like the beginning of something. Or maybe the middle of something Paige had never stopped wanting.

“Did you sleep okay?” Azzi asked, pulling on her sweatpants, her voice still scratchy with morning.

Paige nodded. “You?”

“Great,” Azzi said, and it came out like a sigh. Light. Content. Like she meant it.

They held each other’s gaze a second too long. Not uncomfortable, just weighted. Words hovering just below the surface, so many unsaid. So many that didn’t know how to come out yet.

Paige swallowed. Looked away first and grabbed her hoodie from the end of the bed, tugging it over her head.

“You ready?” she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. All good.”

They took the elevator in silence. Walked in silence. But as they neared the breakfast room, the quiet broke. Voices spilling into the lobby.

A few heads turned when they walked in.

“Nice of you to join us!” Jana called, far too loud for the hour.

Paige rolled her eyes, peeling off from Azzi to head toward Nika and Aaliyah. Not out of the ordinary. They always split up at team things, even when things were good. Careful to not draw too much attention. 

She absentmindedly filled her plate with eggs and whatever else was closest, before doubling back for the only thing she actually wanted.

Cereal.

“Will you ever grow up?” Azzi’s voice came from just behind her, amused and familiar and so, so easy.

Paige smirked without turning around. “Wouldn’t hold your breath.”

And even though their shoulders didn’t touch, it felt like something had clicked back into place. Quietly. Carefully. Like maybe they weren’t pretending anymore. Not completely.

Paige dropped into the seat beside Nika and Aaliyah, pushing the full plate to the side without a second glance. She focused on the only thing that mattered, her bowl of Froot Loops.

“Well, good morning,” Nika sang, her grin entirely too knowing. “How are you, Paige Bueckers?”

Paige paused mid-chew, eyes narrowing. “I’m fine.”

“I can see that,” Aaliyah muttered, not even looking up from the book in her hand.

Paige turned to her, brow arched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Aaliyah shrugged. “Just saying. You look like someone who actually slept last night.”

Paige blinked. “Don’t know if I should be offended or flattered.”

“Up to you,” Aaliyah said, flipping a page.

Paige watched Aaliyah for a second longer, then finally dropped her gaze and started eating again.

“Huh.”

The sound came from across the table—low, amused, and laced with something dangerous. Paige gritted her teeth and turned toward Nika, who was watching her like she knew something Paige didn’t. 

“Can I help you?”

Nika licked her lips, clearly trying not to smile. “I wasn’t aware you added a three to your number.”

“What?”

Nika nodded toward Paige’s sleeve. Paige looked down. And there it was, embroidered in soft white thread on the shoulder of her hoodie.

Not just her number. Not just 5.

35. Azzi’s number. Which meant she was wearing Azzi’s sweatshirt. 

Her eyes went wide for only a second before she reeled it back in, smoothing her expression like it hadn’t cracked at all.

“Must’ve gotten them switched up in the room.”

Nika nodded slowly, a smirk slipping through. “Totally. Happens to us all the time, right Liyah?”

Aaliyah didn’t even glance up. “Constantly.”

“Last week she accidentally wore my socks,” Nika added, deadpan. “So intimate.”

Paige shot her a look. “You’re hilarious.”

“I know,” Nika said, grinning now. “And observant.”

Paige swallowed, the cereal suddenly harder to get down. She turned slowly, gaze drifting over her shoulder, like she already knew what she’d find.

Azzi sat at her table, cheeks flushed unmistakably pink. Her eyes darted between Jana and Caroline, who were whispering with the subtlety of a car alarm. Then, like she could feel it, her gaze snapped to Paige.

Their eyes locked. Azzi froze. Then her gaze dropped, first to the 35 stitched on Paige’s sleeve. Then to the 5 on her own.

Her expression flickered, a full-body oh no.

Across the table, Caroline and Jana followed the trail of her stare. Their eyes narrowed in sync before they leaned their heads together, whispering like they knew something the world didn’t. Maybe they did. But Paige didn’t really care. She just kept looking at Azzi.

They locked eyes again, stunned into silence by their own stupidity. Or softness. Or something dangerously close to both.

Paige raised a single eyebrow, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

Azzi’s mouth parted like she might say something. An excuse. A threat. A please stop looking at me like that. But all that came out was a tiny shake of her head.

Paige just shrugged. Too late now.

And maybe it was petty, but she tugged the sleeve up a little higher, just so the 35 was nice and visible.

The rest of breakfast passed without much fanfare. A few lingering looks. A few too-pointed whispers. But no one said anything outright.

Geno dismissed them with two hours to kill before departure, his only instruction being, “Use it accordingly,” in the tone that meant I don’t care what you do as long as you win.

So they filed out. 

Azzi didn’t take the same elevator, and Paige beat her back to the room.

She collapsed onto the bed without thinking, face first into the pillow Azzi had used. It still smelled like her—faint shampoo, maybe lotion. Something specific and warm and unmistakably Azzi.

Real, Paige told herself. Last night was real. She let herself believe it. Clung to it like proof.

But time passed. The room stayed quiet, and Azzi was still nowhere to be found.

Paige rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling like it might give her answers. Her stomach buzzed with nerves and she tried not to read too much into the silence.

She also tried very hard not to listen to the buzz of a phone coming from across the room. Persistent. Again. And again. They didn’t bring phones to breakfast anymore. Geno had made that habit a short-lived one. So, she knew it was Azzi’s. 

Paige tried to ignore it. She really did. But it was steady. Rhythmic. A little desperate.

Azzi still wasn’t back, and the silence had begun to feel like a warning.

And so, Paige stood, slow. Crossed to the other bed, where Azzi’s phone was lit up like it had something urgent to say.

She picked it up before she could think better of it.

Cam — 9 Messages

No nickname. No emojis. Just his name. Three little letters that felt too big. She didn’t mean to read them. Not really. But the previews were right there.

10:42 p.m. let me know when you're back.

10:57 p.m. you said you’d call.

11:10 p.m. guess you got distracted.

11:26 p.m. how close is too close? just wondering.

11:31 p.m. Cam FaceTime missed call

11:32 p.m. Cam FaceTime missed call

11:34 p.m. seriously azzi.

7:12 a.m. Still nothing?

7:16 a.m. it’s wild how she always manages to be the exception.

7:18 a.m. you act different when she’s around.

7:21 a.m. you think she’s not doing this on purpose?

Paige exhaled through her nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite not. He hadn’t said her name. But he didn’t have to. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t supposed to be.

There was something in the messages—some mix of insecurity and entitlement—that made her skin crawl a little. Not loud, not dangerous. Just... controlling. Dressed up as concern.

Like Paige was a problem Azzi should’ve outgrown by now. Like Azzi owed him reassurance just for being near her. Paige set the phone back down, screen still glowing, refusing to let it consume her like she wanted to let it. And at that exact moment, the door swung open.

Azzi walked in, a little out of breath, like she’d been pacing or thinking too hard or both. Paige dove back onto her bed like she’d been caught stealing something. Azzi didn’t seem to notice or maybe she did and just didn’t care. She dropped onto her own bed with a sigh, the kind that sounded heavier than it should’ve.

“Hey.”

“Your phone’s been going off like crazy,” Paige said before she could stop herself. The words landed somewhere between casual and sharp.

Azzi blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Paige said, blunt this time.

Azzi tilted her head, brow barely furrowed, then crossed the room. She picked up the phone and studied the screen, chewing her bottom lip like she didn’t realize she was doing it.

Paige watched her, watched the way her thumb hovered before she finally tapped out a response. Something quick, definitive and set the phone back down, face-first.

“Everything okay?” Paige asked, trying to sound light. She wasn’t sure she pulled it off.

“Oh yeah,” Azzi said, and it was so clearly a lie that it almost made Paige laugh.

They lay in the silence for a while, but it wasn’t the kind that soothed.

It was heavy. It pressed against Paige’s chest like a weight she hadn’t agreed to carry, and the longer it stretched, the more she felt like she might crawl out of her own skin just to get away from it.

“Cam?” she said, too softly to sound casual.

She saw Azzi’s throat bob at the name. A beat passed. Then another.

“Yeah,” Azzi said finally.

Paige nodded, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“He doesn’t like me, does he?”

Azzi rolled over then, slow and quiet, like she already knew there wasn’t a good answer.

“No,” she said finally. “He doesn’t.”

Paige blinked, not really surprised by the answer but Azzi’s honesty. 

Azzi let out a slow breath. “He’s jealous of you.”

Paige huffed a laugh. 

“He thinks I turn into someone else when you're around,” Azzi added. “Someone who might not come back to him.”

That one landed harder.

Paige nodded again, slow this time. “I don’t want you to ever have to be someone else. Not for me. Not for him.”

“I know,” Azzi said.

“But he acts like I do.”

Azzi didn’t argue. Just nodded, barely, and turned her face toward the ceiling like she couldn’t look at Paige anymore.

“I didn’t tell him,” she said after a beat. “About last night.”

The silence that followed felt colder than the room had any right to be.

Paige stared at the ceiling now too. “Because it didn’t mean anything?”

Azzi’s eyes fluttered shut. Like maybe if she closed them, the question would disappear.

“Paige,” she whispered. The name barely audible. “You know that’s not possible.”

Paige turned her head, watching her in the half-light like she might be able to peel her open—layer by layer—until the truth finally spilled out. And then, before she could stop herself:

“Do you think you could love him, Az?”

Not accusing. Not angry. Just a quiet kind of devastation. The kind that doesn’t ask to be answered gently.

Azzi’s breath caught. “That’s not a fair question, P.”

Paige stared at the ceiling for one more second, then turned her head.

“I don’t care,” she said, and she didn’t. Not right now. Not here, with the room pressed full of all the things they’d refused to say for two months. She didn’t want calm. She wanted the wave. Wanted to drown in it. In Azzi. In whatever this was, finally spoken out loud. “I’ve never said I was fair.”

Azzi was chewing on the inside of her cheek again. Paige watched it for a second too long, the familiar twitch of avoidance, and felt something flare in her chest. Anger maybe, or fear disguised as it.

She stood. Crossed the room before she could talk herself out of it. Lowered herself onto the bed and reached out, slow but certain. Her hands found Azzi’s face like they’d done it before. Like they still knew how.

Azzi’s skin was warm. Her eyes unreadable. Paige tilted her chin until their foreheads nearly touched.

“Do you think you could love him?” she asked again quietly.

And then, just a beat later, her voice cracked, the sentence coming out like something pulled from the trenches of her breaking heart. 

“Because if you could… if that’s where this is headed, then just…tell me. And I’ll step back. I’ll get out of the way.”

Azzi didn’t move. Paige smiled. Not kindly.

“I won’t pretend I’ll be fine. I won’t do the whole mature, understanding thing. I’ll be pissed and probably a little unbearable for a while.”

She paused. Her thumbs brushed against Azzi’s cheeks, like she was memorizing the shape of her before she had to let go.

“But if there’s a version of you that’s happy without me...I’ll try not to make that harder.”

The words hung there, trembling between them. Paige didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. She just stayed there, waiting—already preparing for the worst kind of kindness.

Azzi’s POV

Three years ago

Azzi wanted to kill Paige.

She pictured it now—grabbing a pillow, shoving it over her face, maybe just hard enough to shut her up. Paige would probably still talk through it. Still try to win the argument with her last breath.

They were three hours into a game of Monopoly with her family. Her brother had already quit. Her mom was trying to referee from the kitchen. And Paige?

Paige was drunk on power.

She had Boardwalk, Park Place, and a terrifying collection of oranges. She was chewing on the corner of a Chance card and grinning.

“I’m just saying,” she said, leaning across the board like a lawyer mid-cross-examination, “if you invested earlier, this wouldn’t be happening to you.”

“You’re insufferable,” Azzi muttered, watching her dad mortgage yet another property to cover rent.

“I’m winning,” Paige corrected, and tossed the dice with one hand like she was born to do it.

Azzi rolled her eyes.

God, she’s so annoying.

And then Paige laughed—loud and shameless and totally unselfconscious—and looked at her like she’d been waiting the whole game just for Azzi to catch up.

And it hit her.

God, I’m in trouble.

The thought landed fast and quiet. No big reveal. No warning. Just Paige Bueckers, in the middle of her family’s kitchen, being a complete idiot and somehow making every person in the room fall in love with her without even trying.

Including Azzi.

Especially Azzi.

“You’re staring, Fudd. Plotting my downfall?” Paige whispered, leaning in.

Azzi jumped, like she'd been caught thinking something she shouldn't. Which, yeah. She had.

She tried to shake it off, the realization still crawling under her skin. She wanted to say no. Just realizing you’re mine. But instead, she laughed. Shoved her shoulder.

“It’s a wonder you still have friends,” she muttered, eyes fixed firmly on the board.

And Azzi, sitting across the table with her arms crossed and her pulse loud in her ears, realized her whole life had tilted slightly off its axis.

That was it. That was the shift.

No thunder. No music.

Just Paige Bueckers in a hoodie that wasn’t hers, trash-talking her little brother, laughing like the world was hers to break open and Azzi watching her like she was already broken.

She hadn’t meant for it to happen. She hadn’t even seen it coming. One second, Paige was just Paige.

The next:

She was everything.

And Azzi loved her.

She loved her in a way she didn’t have the language for. In a way that made her chest feel too crowded and too hollow, all at once. Like something blooming and breaking inside her at the same time.

In a way that made everyone else feel…quieter. Smaller. Like the volume had been turned down on the rest of the world and Paige was the only thing still in color.

Azzi blinked the memory back into her chest, where it lived. Where it always lived. And when she looked at Paige again, almost nothing had changed.The world was still dimmer. Softer. A little out of focus.

Except for her.

Paige in screaming color. Heart-stopping, breath-stealing, goddamn technicolor. Inches away, close enough to touch, and somehow still not close enough.

And Azzi, despite everything, still wanted to reach for her. She always had.

Azzi exhaled, slow and shaky, and Paige winced—like she was bracing for impact. Like she expected to be shattered. Like she had no idea. No idea that Azzi had never loved anyone else. That she couldn’t.

No matter how hard she tried. No matter who she kissed, or how far she ran, she couldn’t outrun Paige Bueckers. And if she was being honest? She never really wanted to.

Still, she’d spent the last few months trying to keep a safe distance. Not because she didn’t want Paige. But because she did. Too much.

In the kind of way that made her want to wrap herself around her and never let go. In the kind of way that made her believe, just for a second, that maybe love could be enough to protect someone like Paige from everything else.

But love didn’t work like that. No matter how badly she wished it did. 

Azzi had seen it. Watched the world wear people down until all the soft parts were scraped raw. And Paige…she was made almost entirely of soft parts. Of second chances and wide-open faith and that stupid, stubborn light that made people want to be near her, even when they didn’t deserve to be.

Azzi wanted to protect her. Wasn’t that the root of it all? The world was loud, and terrifying, and unforgiving—and that scared Azzi. But the real rot, the thing she never said out loud, was simpler than fear. It was doubt.

The quiet, aching belief that she couldn’t do right by Paige. That she couldn’t give her what she needed. Not fully. Not in the ways that mattered.

Azzi had always wanted to be the person who could take on the world so Paige didn’t have to. But the truth was... she couldn’t. She couldn’t shield her from the pressure. From the attention. From the thousand tiny ways the world tried to hollow her out. 

And over time, loving Paige started to feel like standing at the edge of a storm, arms stretched wide, trying to hold it back with nothing but good intentions. And it drained Azzi wholly until there was nothing left to give that didn’t ache.

She thought leaving was the kindest thing. For Paige. For herself. The most loving choice she could make. Because staying felt like dragging them both through something she couldn’t name without bleeding.

She told herself it was mercy. That walking away would hurt less than slowly coming undone. And since then, she has tried. Tried to move on. To force Paige too as well. 

But now, looking at her, color-bright and too close and still holding out her heart like it wasn’t the most dangerous thing in the world to give…

Azzi felt that familiar weight settle in her chest again. That impossible, unshakable truth: I love Paige Bueckers. Even if it’s the most impossible thing in the world.

And just like that, all the shuttered windows of her heart—ones she’d nailed closed out of fear and exhaustion and the ache of almosts—swung open again. Not easily. Not cleanly. But with the creaking kind of honesty that only comes when you finally stop pretending you’re not still standing at the door, waiting.

She hadn’t meant to want this again. Hadn’t meant to let it back in. But Paige had always been the thing she couldn’t unwant. The one thing she’d never outgrow.

So maybe, finally, it was time to stop trying to outgrow impossible things. Maybe it was time to live with them. To choose them. To choose her.

She sighed, leaning her head into Paige’s palm like it steadied her. Life with Paige would never be simple. It wouldn’t be quiet. Or easy. Or something you could fold neatly into a plan.

Azzi would probably stumble. She’d fall short. Say the wrong thing when it mattered, shut down when she should speak up, lash out when all Paige wanted was softness. But she was starting to understand. Paige didn’t need perfect. Didn’t need a protector. She just needed honest.

She needed someone who would stand beside her when the lights were too bright and the world asked too much. Someone who wouldn’t flinch when the noise got loud or the pressure cracked something open.

And Azzi, God help her, wanted to be that person. Not just when it was beautiful. Not just when it was easy. But when it was messy and loud and real.

Because loving Paige Bueckers meant standing still while the world shifted. Meant holding on through the storm, not waiting for the calm. And Azzi was done running from it.

Azzi was quiet for a long time. Too long. And Paige just waited—like she always did—still and patient and probably bracing for an answer that might undo them both.

“I think I wanted to,” She finally said. “I really, really wanted to.”

Paige didn’t move. Not a blink. Not a breath.

“Because he made sense. And I was so tired of wanting things that didn’t make sense.” She laughed, barely. “But the whole time I was with him, I kept thinking about how it didn’t feel like it did with you.”

Her voice cracked. She didn’t bother to fix it.

“It didn’t make me nervous. It didn’t make me ache. It didn’t make me feel anything, not really.” She blinked, looked away. “I thought maybe that meant it was good. Safe. But it just felt quiet in all the wrong places.”A breath. “And I missed you. In every version of him.”

She forced her eyes back to Paige. 

“So no,” she said. “I don’t think I could ever love him.” She paused. Let it sit there for a second. “I don’t think I could love anyone else.”

Her voice didn’t break. It didn’t have to. Then, after a beat, quieter:

“How could I Paige? I know you.” She looked up. Met Paige’s watery eyes. “Not the version people cheer for. Not the one they write about or put on billboards.”

A breath.

“I know the you who shuts down when things get too loud. The you who tries to make everything okay for everyone else even when you're barely holding it together.” Another breath, tighter this time. “And the thing is… people love the idea of you.” Her voice dropped, barely above a whisper now. “But I know you. And it’s… impossible. It’s impossible not to love you.”

Paige didn’t speak. Not right away. She just looked at her like Azzi had cracked something open in the room, in the air, in her chest. Like the words had knocked the breath out of her but left her standing.

Her hands stayed on Azzi’s cheeks, unmoving, like she was afraid that if she let go, this would all disappear. That Azzi would take it back. That the moment would fold up and vanish the way it had so many times before.

And then, quietly, so soft Azzi almost didn’t catch it:

“I’ve loved you so long it started to feel like grief.” Azzi’s breath caught. Paige blinked like she was still trying to hold herself together. “I tried to bury it. To grow around it. To pretend it wasn’t still there every time you walked into a room.”

She let out a breath, sharp and shaky.

“But it never left. You never left.”

Her thumbs brushed gently across Azzi’s skin—almost like apology, almost like worship.

“I think I’ve been waiting years for you to say that. And I think some part of me would’ve waited forever.” Paige sighed. “I know we said it—that we were together. Girlfriends. But we never really talked about what that meant. Not when it got hard.”

Azzi didn’t move. Just listened.

“We never talked about how to stay when it stopped being easy,” Paige said. “Or what it would mean if one of us started pulling away. Or how to ask for more without sounding like we were asking the other person to be less.”

Her voice cracked, just a little.

“I think I kept waiting for us to just...figure it out. Like we always did. But this wasn’t something we could outrun or joke through. She looked at Azzi then. “And I should’ve said something. Sooner. I just didn’t know how. And when you showed up at my apartment that night, I thought the kindest thing I could do…the thing that would prove I loved you most, was to let you go.”

She looked away, jaw tight, eyes watery.

“I shouldn’t have let you leave. I should’ve fought for you. For us.”

Azzi exhaled slowly. Not in frustration. Just heartbreak. Or relief. She wasn’t sure. 

“It’s on me too, P,” she said gently. “You can’t always be the one doing the holding. I could’ve said something. I could’ve stayed.”

Paige blinked at her, like hearing it was somehow worse.

Azzi smiled, small and sad. “We both broke it. We both thought the other one would stop us.”

“We didn’t break it.” She looked up, eyes steady. “Not fully. I don’t think we could.”

Azzi stared at her. Breath caught. And Paige just nodded once, like that was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Things bend,” she said, “but they don’t break. Not really. They bruise. They splinter. But they hold.” Paige exhaled. “We hold. Because we’ve always been each other’s. Terribly. Damningly. Even when we were too afraid to say it out loud. Even when we pretended we weren’t.”

The words settled between them. Confessions bleeding out slowly. Shortcomings they both named. Faults they both owned. No one flinched. No one looked away.

“I know there’s still more to talk about,” she said. “Things we have to figure out. “But I’m yours. If you’ll have me. Always been yours”

Azzi bit back tears, reached out, and traced Paige’s face the way she always had, like she was memorizing her all over again.

“You were never mine to lose,” she whispered. “You’ve always been the thing I came back to. Even when I didn’t know how.”

She let her thumb rest against Paige’s cheek, breath catching.

“So yeah. I’ll have you.” A pause. “I think I always have.”

Paige leaned forward, carefully, as if touching something holy. 

She rested her forehead against Azzi’s, and for a moment, they just breathed. Like that was enough. Like it had always been enough.

Then, with a smile so small it almost hurt:

“I don’t want easy.” Her voice cracked, just a little. “I want this. I want you.”

And then, finally—finally—she kissed her.

Not like a beginning. Not like an apology. But like the middle of something they’d been writing for years. Something neither of them had words for yet, but both of them had always known.

Paige’s POV

The game came and went without much stress. They did what they were supposed to do. Won. Controlled the pace. Made it look easy. No one made too much of it. That was the expectation.

There wasn’t time to celebrate doing what was expected. There never was.

The press conference was routine. Predictable questions. Predictable answers. Nika sat between them like a human buffer, mic in front of her, legs crossed  It was halfway over when someone asked it. Not a stat question. Not a headline grab.

Just: “There seems to be a real shift in the team’s chemistry this season. What do you think’s changed, culture-wise?”

All eyes shift don Paige and she cleared her throat. 

“I think we’ve just committed to each other more this year. Everyone knows their role, and no one’s trying to be the hero. It’s not about who scores—it’s about who shows up. We hold each other accountable, but we’ve also learned how to have each other’s backs. That kind of trust doesn’t happen overnight.”

She leaned back, stretched her arms a little like it was nothing. Just another answer. Just another press cycle. But Azzi turned her head. Looked right at her.

“That was a really good answer,” she said.

Not to the room. Not to the mic.

To Paige. Direct. Steady. Soft in the way that made Paige’s entire ribcage feel too small. Paige’s eyes flicked sideways. Her cheeks flushed, color blooming fast.

She stretched her arms again, suddenly a little restless, blinking like the lighting had changed.

“What?” she asked, not quite casual.

Azzi shrugged, still looking at her. “I said it was a good answer.”

They both snapped their attention back to the room, as if remembering they weren’t alone in it. But beside her, Nika shifted. Not much. Just a slight stiffening of posture, the kind of movement that meant she was holding back a smile so smug it could power a city.

Nika stared straight ahead, face neutral, but the smug was radiating.

Paige narrowed her eyes. “What?”

Nika tilted her head. “Nothing,” she said, far too quickly. “Just listening. Press conference, remember?”

Paige’s eyes darted to Azzi again but she was pretending to read her stat sheet like it held national secrets.

The next question rolled in, something about defensive matchups, but Paige could feel it. The heat still rising in her cheeks, the ghost of Azzi’s compliment still pressed into her skin.

When the conference finally wrapped and they stepped off the dais, Paige didn’t get more than three steps down the hallway before Nika spoke.

“You’re not subtle.”

Paige froze. “Excuse me?”

Nika didn’t even look at her. Just kept walking.

“You know you were making heart-eyes at her for half the press conference, right?”

“I was not,” Paige muttered, cheeks already warming.

Nika glanced sideways, all innocence. “Sure. And I’m not sitting directly between you like the world’s most underpaid chaperone.”

Paige groaned. “You’re making things up.”

“You blushed when she said your answer was good.”

“That’s not—”

“You stretched, Paige.” Paige clamped her mouth shut. Nika just laughed. “God, I can’t wait to get paid.”

Paige blinked. “Paid?”

“I’ve been in the betting pool since day one.”

Paige narrowed her eyes. “A betting pool?”

Nika gave her a look. “Paige. I told you this last year. Well, I told you I wasn’t involved. But truth is, I practically started it.”

Paige groaned, already regretting this conversation. “You’re unbelievable.”

“No,” Nika said, grinning now. “You two are. I’ve been emotionally and financially invested in this mess since sophomore year. I deserve a bonus for emotional damages alone.”

Paige muttered something under her breath. Azzi was already waiting near the locker room door, trying very hard not to laugh. Nika leaned in as she passed, voice just low enough to sting a little:

“Took you long enough.”

Then she winked. And Paige—red-faced and heart full—didn’t even argue.

As they walked into the locker room, Nika threw her arms open and bowed like a queen returning from war.

“Pay up,” she announced, gaze sweeping the room. “Every single one of you.”

The chatter stopped. Every eye in the locker room flicked to Paige and Azzi. Not subtly. Not quickly.

Just…assessed. The space between them. The not-so-casual brush of Azzi’s shoulder against Paige’s. The way Paige didn’t even flinch when it happened, like it had already become a habit.  The room practically buzzed with the sound of realization.

Jana immediately groaned. “No. Absolutely not. I won.”

Nika snorted. “You said before the season, which—spoiler alert—is not what happened.”

“We’re still in preseason,” Jana countered, already standing, arms crossed like a lawyer preparing her closing argument. “So technically, I win.”

“Technically,” Caroline chimed in, “you tampered with the outcome by getting them to room together. That’s rigging the bracket.”

“I was accelerating fate,” Jana said.

“You were cheating,” Nika corrected. “You played God with the rooming chart. You’re disqualified.”

Jana lifted her chin. “Caroline did help me with my psych project!”

Caroline sighed. “I did. But still, rules are rules.”

“There were no rules,” Jana argued. “And if there were rules against…gently pushing them together, I would’ve been disqualified forever ago.”

Nika laughed. Loud, delighted. “Yeah, we know. Between ‘accidentally’ texting Paige from Azzi’s phone and rearranging the movie night seating chart so they’d end up next to each other—”

“That was a coincidence,” Jana cut in.

“You literally made us watch The Notebook,” Caroline said flatly.

“I was creating emotional vulnerability!”

Nika grinned. “You’ve been toeing the line for weeks. But rooming them together? You cleared it. That was a full-on sabotage play.”

Jana rolled her eyes. “I should at least get half.”

“You should get a moral penalty,” Caroline muttered.

In the middle of it all, Azzi paused, towel slung around her neck, brow furrowed.

“Wait,” she said slowly. “What?”

Silence.

She turned to Nika. “Paid for what?”

Nika blinked. “Oh.”

Jana looked at her. “She doesn’t know?”

“Guess not,” Nika said, not even a little apologetic. She smiled. “There’s been a...small betting pool.”

Azzi blinked. “A what.”

“On when you and Paige would finally get your shit together,” Caroline said, like it was obvious.

“Been going since sophomore year,” Nika added cheerfully. “Technically it closed when we all knew you were together last year. But then you broke up—or, like, emotionally imploded without telling anyone—so we reopened the pool. Odds were terrible a month ago but I held the damn line.”

Azzi looked around the room like she’d been dropped into an alternate universe. “You were betting on us?”

“I prefer to think of it as investing in emotional inevitability,” Nika said.

Azzi’s jaw dropped. “We were in turmoil.”

“And we appreciate your suffering,” Jana said, clapping her on the back. “Deeply.”

Azzi turned to Paige, scandalized. “Did you know about this?”

“Don’t look at me. I just found out in the hallway.”

Azzi opened her mouth, then shut it. And then, she laughed.

“You’re all insane.” 

“And you’re in love,” Nika said, already opening her phone. “Which means I’m rich.”

The room went quiet for a second, but then it hit Paige.

“Wait,” she said, eyes narrowing. “You all knew we were together last year?”

The entire locker room groaned in unison.

“Not like you’re subtle, P,” someone muttered.

“You used to wait for her after film,” Aaliyah said. “Like a golden retriever in basketball shorts.”

“You guys shared entire closets,” Caroline added. “You’d wear something one day and then Azzi would show up in it a few days later.”

“That’s just being proactive with fashion,” Paige argued.

Snorts followed. “Yeah, because you’re so known for sharing your NIL-funded closet with the rest of us.”

“I’m generous,” Paige muttered.

“Name one other person on this team who’s worn your coach jacket,” Nika said, raising a brow.

Paige opened her mouth. Closed it. Pointed at Azzi. “Technically, she wore it without asking.”

“Exactly,” Caroline said, triumphantly. “You didn’t even blink.”

“Because she’s Azzi,” Paige said, like that explained everything.

The room, once again, groaned. But this time, it sounded different. There was laughter, yes, but behind it, Paige could see it. The love in their eyes. The knowing. The relief.

She looked around and saw it clearly: They’d never been hiding. Not really. And keeping it a secret had been a waste of time. Because the people who mattered had always known. And worse…they’d been rooting for them.

Paige let out a quiet breath. Then glanced sideways, where Azzi was watching her with something soft behind her smile.

Nika shoved her before clearing her throat, “With that said, Venmo me or bring cash to the next practice. Thanks for playing.”

“Split pot,” Jana grumbled.

“No chance,” Nika replied, already texting. “Love and capitalism, baby.”

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡⌦ .｡.:*♡❁۪۪ ཻུ♡˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡

They didn’t say much on the way back. Not because there was nothing left to say, just because the silence finally felt like something they didn’t need to fill.

Azzi’s pinky brushed against Paige’s once, then stayed there. And Paige held on like it was permission.

It was late when they got to campus, the sky a kind of navy that made the world feel folded in. Paige lingered outside the door of Azzi’s dorm, keys in Azzi’s hand, like maybe it wasn’t real until they were inside.

“I can go back to mine,” Paige offered, not really meaning it.

Azzi turned to her. No hesitation.

“Or you could stay.”

The words landed soft.

Paige nodded, like her heart had already decided. “Yeah. Okay.”

They didn’t do anything important but being together was important enough. 

Azzi tossed her an old worn shirt. Paige’s favorite, secretly. And they grinned at each other as she tugged it on. They sat on the couch, sharing one blanket, and half watched a movie neither of them cared much about. 

Around 1:30 a.m., Azzi’s head dropped against Paige’s shoulder and stayed there.

Paige didn’t move. Didn’t breathe, maybe.

The credits were halfway through when Azzi finally stirred, blinking up at her with sleep in her eyes.

“You could’ve woke me up,” she murmured.

Paige shrugged, eyes still on the screen. “Was kind of enjoying it.”

Azzi laughed and stood, tugging Paige up by the hand without a word.

Later, tangled in sheets that smelled like laundry detergent and something distinctly Azzi, Paige lay there for a while, eyes on the ceiling, heart doing something that felt both too fast and too careful. And then, without looking at her, she asked:

“Do you think we missed it?”

Azzi didn’t move. Just listened.

“The timing,” Paige added, like she couldn’t bear to say it twice.

There was a beat. Then Azzi’s sighed.

“Maybe.” She shifted just enough for their arms to brush under the blanket. “But I think we found the version of us that lasts,” she said. “And I’d take that over the one that didn’t.”

Paige closed her eyes. Let that sit in the dark with them. Then she whispered, barely audible

“Don’t let me ruin it.”

Azzi didn’t laugh. Didn’t say you won’t.

She just reached under the covers, found Paige’s hand, and held it like that was the answer.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡⌦ .｡.:*♡❁۪۪ ཻུ♡˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡

The knock came in the morning.

Not hesitant. Not aggressive. Just…certain. Like whoever it was already knew what they’d find on the other side.

Paige stirred first. Azzi’s shirt hung off her shoulder, boxers hanging from her hips, hair a tangle from sleep. She rubbed a hand over her face, still floating in that warm, soft quiet The kind that made her feel like the world had stopped just long enough for them to exist.

She opened the door without thinking.

Cam.

He laughed. Not loudly. Just once. Low. Bitter.

“Bueckers,” he said, like it tasted wrong in his mouth. “Of course.”

Paige tucked her hair behind her ears. “Good morning to you too.”

He didn’t smile. Just shook his head, eyes flicking down to the shirt she wore. Clearly Azzi’s. Then past her—to the two mugs on the table. One blanket on the couch. The faint sound of movement from the bedroom.

“I think I always knew,” he said, voice low but clean. Like he’d practiced it. “I just kept hoping she’d grow out of you.”

Paige’s jaw twitched, but she didn’t bite.

“I’m not a phase,” she said, finally.

Cam let out a dry laugh. “No. You’re a habit. A bad one she keeps calling back.”

Paige swallowed. “You should go.”

“You know what the worst part is?” Cam went on, like he’d been waiting to say this. “I watched her. Watched her watch you. Squirm when you were around. I could tell you hurt her. One way or another.”

He stepped forward a little. Not close enough to touch. Just enough to make her brace.

“And then she goes back to you.”

Paige's voice was flat. “She made a choice.”

He smiled without smiling. “She made a mess.”

There was a beat—long enough for the air between them to curdle. And this time, she saw it. The hurt. The fury. The part of him that wanted to say something worse, and the part that knew it wouldn’t change a thing.

Cam’s eyes narrowed.

“She used to flinch when your name came up.”

Paige hated that. Hated that he knew it.  Hated that she knew it was true. It hit somewhere specific…somewhere ugly. The part of her that burned too hot, too fast. The part that never liked Azzi’s name in anyone else’s mouth. Especially his. But she didn’t let it show. Didn’t blink.

She just raised an eyebrow. Deadpan.

“And now she wears my shirt to bed,” Paige said. “We all evolve.”

Cam’s jaw twitched.

“She’s going to regret this,” he said.

Paige just nodded. She knew he was pissed. Hurt. People say all kinds of things when their back’s against the wall. But for all her media training and carefully crafted answers, she didn’t really care.

She hated Cam. Unfairly, maybe. But fully. So she shrugged, casual.

“It kind of sounds like you’re just trying to convince yourself, Cam.”

She didn’t give him time to respond. Just shut the door gently in hopes to not wake Azzi. Exhaling, she leaned her head against the door, trying to slow her heart. 

“Baby?” Azzi’s voice floated down the hall, groggy and warm.

Paige smiled and any tension still clinging to her spine unraveling with that one word.

“Coming, Az,” she called back, her voice gentler now.

She turned away from the door. From Cam. From all of it. And walked toward the only thing that felt like peace.

[crowsofdarkness]

pairings: bucky barnes x female!reader. slight steve rogers x female!reader.

While Bucky and you are in the shower together, him needing to prove a point to you, there's someone there in the darkness watching,

18+ CW's below the cut: slight degradation, language, slight choking, unprotected p in v, shower sex.

“I swear, Yelena! I faked it. Every time.” 

She looked at me with wide eyes trying not to choke on her sandwich as we sat in the kitchen area of the tower. It had been a slow week, mission wise for everyone, so we were all taken advantage of the time off.

“You didn’t even get one?” She asked, dropping her voice since someone walked past the table we were currently occupying. 

“Well, with my ex boyfriend. I faked it all. Now, I’m determined to make sure I get at least one before the guy gets off,” I admitted but then snapped my mouth shut when another body stood behind Yelena. 

Looking away from her and up to the man that now stood behind her, looking through the spread of food that was laid out on the large kitchen island. His bright blue eyes glittered in the light of the room and when he glanced over his shoulder at me, I couldn’t take my eyes away from his neck as his Adam’s apple bobbed slowly. 

“Hi,” I gave Steve a small wave as crimson warmed my cheeks when I remembered what happened yesterday.  

I accidently walked into Steve's room because I’d been too engrossed in my thoughts to pay attention and managed to catch him mid dress. He was shirtless and stepping into a pair of shorts. My mumbled apology fell off my lips when I saw all those hard muscles, the very prominent hard on underneath his briefs. Steve made no move to kick me out, instead he backed me up into a corner, hands resting on my hips. 

“Need something?” He asked. 

“Depends on if you want to give it to me,” I playfully shot back. 

He hummed while slinking his hand underneath my hoodie, fingers grazing over the blazing skin of my stomach. “All you have to do is ask.” 

“I want you to make me cum with your fingers. Think you can do that, Steve?” I breathed over his lips. 

He didn’t say anything, simply pulled down my jeans to my ankles. 

Steve now gave me a smile before gathering a plate of food to go sit on the couch right behind me. When I saw who Steve sat next to, my heart stuttered in my chest as I locked eyes with a pair of eyes that had clearly been watching me. Not just today but ever since I started on the team a few months ago.

Bucky scratched at his chin, sending a wink my way, which made me spin back in my chair to face Yelena. 

“What’s going on between you two?” she wondered. 

I blinked while shifting in my chair. “Me and Steve? No-nothing. We’ve just been flirting, that’s all.” 

Yelena raised her brow with a sly smirk. “I meant with you and Bucky.”

“Oh,” I mouthed while feeling a burning gaze at the back of my head. 

For two months, Bucky and I had a complicated relationship. We would flirt with each other but not in the way you’d expect. Bucky liked to tease me while I was a brat with him who couldn’t control my mouth. What started as light physical contact like the occasional brushing of hands or his hand on my lower back when he needed to walk past me soon became something more. Any chance he could, Bucky would corner me and whisper filthy things in my ear to gauge my reaction. Most of the time I’d be so caught off guard that I would gaze up at him like a deer in headlights. When I did gain the courage, I would find the most revealing yet modest outfit to wear while walking around the tower, showing off the right parts of my body that drove him wild. 

The other night was the first time that we got sexual when he pulled me into his room and whispered five words in my ear. 

“Need to taste you, baby.” 

Of course, I didn’t say no. I’d been riled up all week and needed a good orgasm that wasn’t brought on by my vibrator or hand. 

Yet, it never happened. Because as Bucky was in the middle of devouring me, my hands gripping the back of his head so he couldn’t leave, his phone rang.

“No, please,” I whined when he pulled away. I’d been so close to my orgasm and was starved for it. 

He kissed the inside of my thigh. “Just give me a few minutes. I’ll be right back.” 

After laying there naked from the waist down for fifteen minutes, I swallowed the lump of embarrassment in my throat and got myself dressed again, leaving his room. Neither of us said anything about that night which made me believe it wasn’t what he imagined. 

I wasn’t what he imagined. 

“There is absolutely nothing going on with Bucky and I,” I finally told Yelena while pushing away my plate of food, suddenly not hungry. “We just like to have fun teasing each other.”

“I think what you and Steve are doing is fun. Which is fine. You’re single, you deserve to have fun. But I think whatever is going on between you and Bucky is more serious.” 

“What do you mean?” I pursed my lips. 

She began gathering her things before motioning over my shoulder. “He hasn’t stopped staring at you since you stepped into the room. And the look he has in his eyes tells me everything I already knew.” 

With a wave, Yelena left me alone at the table with only my thoughts. 

Not for long, however. 

Bucky kicked out the chair next to me before falling into it, ocean eyes pinning me in place. 

“Need something?” I asked with a narrowed gaze and rubbed my sweaty palms on my bare thighs.

A smirk played on his pink lips underneath the slight stubble peppering his face as he leaned forward to whisper in my ear. “With me you won’t be faking it because you’ll be fucked like the whore you are.” 

My face blanched for a moment, wondering if I’d heard him correctly, but then anger festered low in my gut when it finally registered what he said. 

“Fuck you, Bucky!” I seethed while pushing away from him and rising to my feet, him sitting laxed in the chair as he looked up at me. 

He shrugged. “All you have to do is get on your knees and beg.” 

I sneered while snatching my phone off the table. “All you are is fucking talk. You talk such a big game to make up for your shit performance in the bedroom! You couldn’t even get me off the other night!” 

Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing to watch us as I dared a glance over to Steve who was watching with an amused smirk on his face probably because he felt proud that he was able to get me off while Bucky couldn’t.

Bucky slowly rose to his feet so he could peer down at me. His breathing was deep and even, almost scary from how calm he was. It was the muscle in his jaw ticking that told me he was trying hard not to retort back. 

But of course, I was a brat, so I stood up on the tips on my toes to whisper in his ear, letting my hands rest over his broad chest. 

“At least Steve was able to get me off.”

Oh, I really fucked up. 

All because I couldn’t keep my stupid mouth shut. 

After leaving Bucky behind  I needed to be alone so I locked myself away in my room, more so my shower.

Or so I thought I locked myself away. 

I’d been alone under the scalding water for less than five minutes before the door to the bathroom clicked open causing me to peer through the steam covered class, seeing Bucky leaning against the door with a sly smirk. 

“What are you doing?” I asked, slightly shocked he managed to sneak in but made no move to cover myself. 

“You said I had a shitty performance in the bedroom. Do you want to find out?” He asked while taking off his leather jacket, leaving him in a pair of jeans and a white tee.

I should say no. 

I should tell him to fuck off and leave.

But I didn’t.

Which is how I found myself pressed up against the wall of the shower, Bucky harshly whispering in my ear, dragging his teeth along the lobe, as the water splashed against his large back. 

“You’re such a fucking brat, you know that?” 

A loud smack echoed in the tiny shower when he brought his hand down on my ass causing me to yell out in slight pain and arousal. 

I bit my tongue nearly drawing blood so I didn’t ask him to do it again. 

“Fuck you, Bucky,” I spit out instead, the anger from our earlier argument still brewing deep in my gut. 

A dark chuckle brushed against the back of my neck as he pressed his cock against my ass. 

“You can act like you hate me all you want, baby. But you keep pushing that perfect ass against me. I know what you want. But the question is, do you deserve it?”

Yes I do. 

“Go fuck-oh.” 

My threat fell away when his finger brushed along my folds, slowly teasing my clit. 

“Is this for me? Or for him?”

Don’t say something bratty. Don’t say something bratty. 

“Steve knows how to touch a woman,” I shot back over my shoulder. 

Bucky let out a low growl while kicking my feet farther apart and bringing my ass closer to his hips so I was bent over, hands spread on the shower wall. I knew I didn’t need any foreplay, I was ready to go, and it seemed like Bucky knew this as well because he angled his cock at my pussy. 

“Do I-?” 

I shook my head, already knowing what he was going to ask. “I’m clean.”

Our moans tangled together when Bucky pressed inside of me, meeting some resistance so he pulled out slightly before going deeper this time. 

“That’s it,” he grunted while resting his forehead on the back of my shoulder. “Take all of it, Y/N.” 

The sound of him fucking me over powered the noise of the shower as he ruthlessly snapped his cock in and out of me. I clawed at the wall, trying to grasp onto something to keep grounded, and the familiar bliss of euphoria began to burn low in my gut. My orgasm was so close and I needed to finally tip over the edge so I dragged my hand down my stomach towards my clit. 

Bucky smacked it away. “Hands on the wall.”

“I hate you,” I grumbled while doing what he said. 

His pace was ruthless, never letting up as his cock speared me open and hitting that spot each and every time. 

“Oh, God.” I panted. 

Bucky’s nails dug into the skin of my hips to keep me planted as his cock swelled inside of me, indicating he was close too. 

“Say my name,” he breathed into the skin of my back, his slight stubble tickling my spine. 

His cock is inside of you, don’t be a fucking brat. 

Once again, I did not listen to the voice inside my brain. 

“Steve,” I moaned while dropping a hand to my clit, rubbing fast circles. “SHIT!” 

Bucky stopped mid thrust to wrap his vibranium arm around my throat, bringing me flush against his chest. By now the water had run cold, chills covering my body, and when I tried to get him to move again, Bucky chuckled darkly. 

“If you want me to keep going, Y/N, let me hear you say it,” he bit down on the side of my neck. 

“No,” I shot back but still tried to get him to move inside of me. 

The fire of my orgasm was beginning to dwindle. Bucky began pulling his cock out of my tight folds, making me whimper in a pathetic mess. 

“Please,” I dug my nails into the ink on his arm. “Don’t.”

The head of his cock was the only thing inside of me and I whined, never feeling this empty before. 

“You sound so fucking pretty when you whine for my cock. Just say my name and it’s all yours,” he said in between nipping and sucking on my neck. 

His name was quiet as it fell from my lips with a beg but it wasn’t enough for Bucky. 

“Use your manners, baby. I need you to speak up so I know what you want,” his cock was nearly all the way pulled out. 

“Fuck,” I wrapped a hand behind his head. “Please, Bucky. I need your cock. Please, I promise I’ll be good.” 

With a hand over my cheek, he turned my face towards him so our lips were meters apart. 

“That’s my girl,” he praised before crashing our mouths together and filled me up again. 

Our tongues fought for dominance and I wasn’t going to give up, something Bucky knew so he let me take the reins of our kiss while he brought me closer to that familiar edge of euphoria again. With past relationships, I was never able to orgasm by intercourse, I always needed something extra to help. But with Bucky, he was able to make those stars dance at the corners of my vision and my stomach fluttered just with his cock. 

Pulling away from our kiss, Bucky rested his forehead against mine, the water running down body. “You can tell me you hate me all you want, Y/N. But the way your pussy is gripping me tells me otherwise.” 

Movement through the shower panes of the door caught my attention as I looked into the mirror of the bathroom, nearly falling to my knees in Bucky’s grasp. The familiar face stared at me in the reflection of the glass. Bucky must not have shut the door completely because Steve was watching through the small opening. 

I tapped Bucky’s arm, trying to get his attention that Steve was watching but it only made him fuck me even harder. “Let him watch, baby. Let him know what he can’t have.”

I tried my best to meet his pace but it was so erratic, I opted to fall deeper into his body as his grip around me tightened when my orgasm finally tore me. I let out a loud scream, writhing in his grasp. 

A large hand clamped over my mouth and Bucky pressed me against the wall of the shower, his stomach fleshed against my back. 

“You need to be quiet. I can’t have the guys hear how pretty you sound coming apart on my cock.” 

Bucky fucked me through the after shocks with a few thrusts before his cock twitched, finally spilling himself inside of me while panting my name. 

Almost immediately he pulled out to turn off the water of the shower, both of us freezing, and I lazily turned around to face him. I stole a glance to the mirror in the bathroom, expecting to see Steve, and I couldn’t ignore the way my stomach dropped when I didn’t see him there anymore. 

“I still fucking hate you,” I grumbled. 

He snickered while gripping my chin so I had no choice but to meet the fire in his eyes. 

“If you keep up with that attitude, I might need some help in punishing you next time.”

I gulped while wrapping my arms around me. “Some help?” 

A sinister smirk broke out on Bucky’s face. “Do you want to find out?” 

Please. 

[bunnysturniolo]

- teach me dom!Matt

WARNINGS: softdom!matt, innocent!sub, daddy kink, no p in v oral (fem receiving)

Bunny bit her lower lip as she stood in the doorway of Matt’s apartment, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her oversized sweater. She looked up at him through long lashes, eyes wide with uncertainty and something softer—something expectant.

Matt leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching her. There was a calm, deliberate intensity in his gaze that always made her feel like he could see right through her. Like he knew what she needed before she did.

“You sure you want this?” he asked, voice low and firm.

Bunny nodded, then paused, unsure. “I think so I just— I’ve never done anything like this.”

He stepped forward slowly, his boots heavy on the hardwood floor. When he reached her, he tilted her chin up with two fingers, making her meet his gaze.

“That’s okay, baby,” he murmured. “I like teaching.”

Her breath caught a shiver down her spine.

He traced his thumb along her jawline. “You just have to listen. Follow my voice. Can you do that for me?”

She nodded quickly, breath hitching, her cheeks flushing pink. “Yes, Daddy.”

His smirk was slow, satisfied. “Good girl.”

Matt’s hand slid from her jaw down the side of her neck, warm and grounding. Bunny’s breath trembled as she leaned into his touch, overwhelmed by how steady he was how sure. Her innocence wasn’t just about lack of experience it was about never having felt this wanted before.

“Take off your sweater,” Matt said, voice still soft, but edged with authority.

Bunny blinked. “Here?”

Matt raised an eyebrow, amused. “Yes. Right here. For me.”

Her fingers trembled as she grasped the hem of the oversized knit and tugged it over her head, revealing the soft lace bralette underneath. She felt exposed, but not unsafe. Vulnerable, but not weak. Not with him.

Matt’s gaze swept over her slowly, like he was savoring the sight. “You’re beautiful, Bunny.”

Her breath hitched. “Thank you, Daddy.”

That word still tasted strange on her tongue, but the way Matt reacted to it his jaw tensing, his eyes darkening made her want to say it again. Earn his praise. Please him.

He circled behind her, his hands brushing her bare arms. “You like being good for me, don’t you?”

She nodded. “I do.”

“Say it.”

“I like being good for you, Daddy.”

He let out a low, satisfied hum and leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Good girl.”

The praise made her knees wobble. She felt her body responding to him in ways she didn’t fully understand yet. But she wanted to learn. She trusted him to show her.

“Come with me,” he said, guiding her gently by the waist.

He led her to the bedroom a space that was minimalist but warm, the kind of space that made her feel safe. Matt sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her close, his hands on her hips.

“I’m going to teach you what it means to give up control, Bunny,” he said, his voice low and reverent. “Only when you’re ready. You’ll always have a choice.”

She swallowed, heart racing. “I want to learn. I trust you.”

His eyes softened, even as his grip on her waist tightened just enough to remind her who was in charge. “That’s all I need, sweetheart.”

He pulled her into his lap, cradling her thighs around his hips. She gasped as his hands slid up her back, slow and firm.

“No rushing,” he said. “Tonight’s lesson is about listening. Feeling. Letting go.” And when his lips met hers possessive, commanding, but never cruel she surrendered. Not because she was weak, but because with Matt, it felt powerful to be wanted like this. To be taught, cherished, guided. To be his.

Matt’s hands were warm as they slid under the curve of Bunny’s thighs, pulling her tighter into his lap. She gasped when his lips found the hollow of her throat, his breath hot against her skin. Every kiss felt like a claim every slow drag of his mouth down her neck marked her with unspoken promises.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured against her skin. “Is it fear… or excitement?”

Bunny swallowed. “Excitement.”

He smiled, brushing her hair back gently. “Good. Because I want you trembling but only from me.”

Her skin burned at his words, and when he leaned in again, the kiss this time was different. Deeper. Commanding. His tongue teased hers, slow and controlled, as if he was setting the rhythm and daring her to follow. Her hands gripped his shirt, anchoring herself to him as the world narrowed to just his mouth, his voice, his hands.

“Let me show you,” he whispered. “Let me show you how good it feels to give in.”

She nodded, but he didn’t move.

“Say it.”

“I want you to show me, Daddy.”

That smile again slow, approving, dangerous in the best way.

He laid her back on the bed with a tenderness that contradicted the heat in his eyes. Every movement was deliberate, reverent. He didn’t rush he didn’t need to. Bunny felt like he was worshipping her, dragging his hands over the fabric of her thighs, her hips, up to the delicate line of her bralette.

“You’re soft everywhere,” he murmured, tracing the lace. “Like you were made to be touched. Tasted.”

Her breath caught again. He kissed down her body, his mouth leaving a trail of heat over the lace, never quite where she craved. It was teasing. Torturous. Perfect.

Matt’s voice was velvet and command. “Keep your hands above your head. I didn’t say you could touch.”

She whimpered but obeyed, her fingers digging into the sheets as he continued his slow, devastating exploration. Every kiss, every brush of his hands made her more aware of how much power he had not just over her body, but over her thoughts, her breath, the way she needed him.

“You’re learning fast, Bunny,” he said, voice thick. “Such a good little thing… already aching for me.”

She couldn’t speak her body was already giving the answers. And Matt, reading her like a book, gave a soft chuckle full of dark promise.

“Lesson one,” he whispered, lips brushing just below her navel. “Obedience earns pleasure. Disobedience… well—” he nipped gently, making her gasp. “That’s another kind of lesson.”

She had a feeling she’d love both.

Her eyes were closed, face contorted in pleasure and moans were coming out of her plump lips. He smirked. Kissing her body in a downward direction, Matt placed his mouth around her clit and started sucking. Looking up, he saw her open her eyes wide in surprise but quickly closed them to enjoy what he was doing.

Matt took his time, licking, sucking and biting lightly at her clit. Bunny bucked her hips towards him, but he placed his hand on her to keep her still. he was loving it.

Lowering himself a little more, he licked her entrance, one of her hands coming to entangle itself in his hair and pulling him closer, while the other grabbed the sheets close to her hips. Matt conceded and started licking and sliding his tongue inside of her. Tasting her like this was enough to make Matt moan too.

Matt heard Bunny tell him she was close, so he picked up speed. He wanted to taste her, to drink her in completely. He felt her starting to clamp around his tongue and he knew this was it. She was coming. Darting his tongue in and out a few more times, he heard her scream his name once more, before she collapsed on the bed, her quick breathing the only sound in the room.

He stood up, wiping his mouth on the sheet, and leaned over her body so he could kiss her. She kissed him back and smiled. “Thankyou”

[ilovolderman]

Game Night

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: It’s game night, and Sam is being extra suspicious about your secret relationship with Bucky.

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, uno

A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". it doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10 thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

It was a Monday, and Sam Wilson was once again spiraling.

Not because he had a particularly bad day or because a rogue pigeon had decided his sandwich was a target. No, Sam’s mental breakdown was much more subtle, much more insidious.

It was because of the vibe.

The vibe was off.

At first, it was innocent. Steve had invited everyone over for "a quiet evening," which meant they were playing board games and pretending they weren't all secretly trying to outsmart each other with complex strategies and alliances.

But it wasn’t the games that were bothering Sam.

It was you and Bucky, like always.

You and Bucky entered the living room at the same time. He was holding a bag of fries like it was an offering, and you had a look on your face like you were trying to keep from laughing at a private joke. It wasn’t obvious to anyone else, but Sam’s gut tightened. He'd been through this before.

He had a sixth sense for this kind of thing.

A totally normal looking Bucky waved at Sam, but there was something about the way he did it—too casual, too... loaded. You smiled as you sat down on the couch, and Bucky followed.

Then, the thing happened.

You both reached for the same side of the couch at the same time. And you didn’t immediately pull away like people usually do when they're not on the verge of launching into some kind of... well, whatever this was.

You just... stayed there.

Sam squinted, his eyes narrowing like he was a detective trying to crack an impossible case. This was the moment. The moment when his suspicions shifted from theory to solid fact.

Sam wasn’t sure who made the first move, but suddenly—without explanation—Bucky’s arm was draped over the back of the couch like it was the most natural thing in the world.

A few moments passed.

Still no words.

Just an... unsettling silence as you both stared ahead at the game unfolding in front of you.

Sam looked from you, to Bucky, then back to you. His fingers twitched. The notepad was in his lap, but he hadn’t written a single thing down yet. How was he supposed to document what was happening?

It was... too subtle.

He turned to Steve. “Are they—?”

Steve, blissfully unaware, was deep into his Monopoly strategy. “Hmm?”

“Do you notice anything... off about them?” Sam asked, nodding toward the couch.

Steve glanced over and blinked. “What? They’re sitting next to each other?”

Sam clenched his jaw. “It’s the way they’re sitting. They’re... too comfortable. Like they’re already sharing the same DNA. You see that?”

Steve squinted for a moment, then shrugged. “I think you’re reading too much into it.”

Sam was about to respond when Tony strolled into the room, “What’s this about reading into things?” he asked casually, taking a seat next to Steve.

“They’re being weird,” Sam muttered, pointing to the couch.

Tony leaned back, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, you mean how they’re subtly acting like they’ve been married for thirty years, without the commitment?”

Sam’s eye twitched.

Tony grinned at the chaos unfolding in Sam’s mind. “Don’t overthink it, Sammy. Some people just get comfortable with each other.” He took a sip from his glass.

Meanwhile, you and Bucky were still sitting there, but now you were exchanging an absurdly synchronized look.

You both looked at each other like you were reading a secret book written in a language only the two of you could understand. The silence was thick enough to slice with a knife.

Then—just as Sam felt his sanity slip away completely—you both laughed. At nothing.

A soft, almost eerie laugh, like you were in on some joke only the two of you got.

Tony, who was now practically snickering, leaned over and whispered to Steve, “We should’ve put money on it. Sam’s on the edge, and he’s about to combust.”

Sam stood up abruptly, looking at the pair on the couch, then back at Steve, his eyes wide with the fury of a thousand unanswered questions. “That’s it. I’m gonna ask them directly.”

“Oh, no,” Steve said, shaking his head in mock sympathy. “You really don’t want to.”

But Sam was too far gone. His mind was locked in a war with his instincts. He marched over to the couch, put his hands on his hips, and shot you and Bucky an unrelenting stare.

Bucky didn’t even look at Sam, he was handing you the fries, leaning toward you. You smiled at Bucky like he was the best thing since sliced bread, and Sam felt his soul physically leave his body.

This was it. This was the moment that proved it.

"You two are literally a walking romcom," Sam spat out in a low voice, too quietly for anyone to hear except you and Bucky. "I see it. The fries. The eye contact. It’s like... like... a plot."

You smirked. “What’s your deal, Sam? I’m just getting some fries. Everyone loves fries.”

Bucky nodded, biting his lip in an attempt to stifle his grin. “Yeah, Sam. What’s your deal?”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “You guys. Are you really gonna sit there and keep telling me you’re just friends?”

Both of you paused. The air felt like it shifted, like it thickened, as if the universe was waiting for the punchline. Sam’s pulse quickened.

And then, in perfect unison, both of you said:

“We’re friends.”

Sam stared at you both, utterly dumbfounded.

“Friends?” he whispered in horror. “With... this?”

You both blinked at him innocently.

“Of course,” you said.

“We’re just good pals,” Bucky added, just barely holding in a laugh.

 “I—I can’t,” Sam muttered, trying to make sense of the absolute absurdity unfolding before him.

Bucky slapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder, like the world’s least convincing therapist. “You’ll get there, Sam. You just have to let go and stop thinking so hard about it.”

Sam made a strangled noise that could’ve been a scream or the noise of a man who had just realized he was doomed. He glanced at Peter, who was giving him a look of pure, unfiltered sympathy.

“Is this some kind of test?” Sam asked, his voice rising. “Am I being pranked? Are you two secretly married? Or, like... I don’t know, are you... trying to get a rise out of me?”

Bucky leaned forward slightly. “No, Sam. We’re just casually enjoying life... together.”

“Together,” Sam repeated, clutching his head dramatically. “I’m going to be sick.”

And then, just to make sure he was completely defeated, you reached over, casually brushing your hand against Bucky’s arm before giving him a tiny, affectionate squeeze.

Sam blinked. His notebook hit the floor with a dramatic thud.

“I knew it.” he gasped, and then, as if the universe had somehow heard him, he heard Natasha’s voice from across the room, still half-asleep:

“Sam, you’re being ridiculous. Just let them enjoy the vibes.”

Sam’s soul left his body.

Meanwhile, you and Bucky exchanged yet another impossibly synchronized glance.

Tony, still grinning, patted Sam on the back. “Don’t worry. One day you’ll look back on this and laugh. Just not today.”

And with that, Sam grabbed his coat, shook his head, and walked out the door.

Meanwhile, Bucky reached over, snagged the last of the fries, and handed them to you. “You think he’s buying it?”

You shrugged. “Nah, I think we’ve got him exactly where we want him.”

Bucky smirked. “Good. Let’s mess with him some more tomorrow.”

The room was quiet now. The chaos had died down. Steve had gone to clean up the kitchen, Tony had retreated to a mysterious project involving lasers, and Natasha was now fully asleep, curled up with a blanket over her face on the armchair.

That left just you and Bucky, still curled on the couch — the battlefield of your dramatic emotional warfare against Sam.

You reached over to the coffee table and grabbed the deck of Uno cards you’d swiped earlier. You looked at Bucky with a mischievous little glint in your eye.

“Wanna play?”

He grinned, tilting his head. “I thought we already emotionally destroyed a man tonight. Isn’t that enough chaos for one evening?”

You started shuffling the deck, your fingers moving deftly. “Just one game. Come on. I promise not to make you cry.”

“Oh, please,” Bucky said, grabbing a throw pillow and tossing it at you. “You’re only confident because you’ve been cheating.”

You gasped, mock-offended. “I do not cheat! I win with style.”

“Sure,” Bucky said, lounging comfortably as he took the cards you dealt him. “Style, manipulation, same thing.”

The game started quietly, the soft rustle of cards filling the silence. You both sat cross-legged on the couch, knees bumping occasionally. The warm, low lamp cast a golden hue over everything, and the mood had shifted from chaos to... something soft. Comfortable.

Halfway through the game, you narrowed your eyes. “You’re letting me win.”

Bucky paused mid-draw. “What?”

You pointed at his hand. “You had a +4 and a Reverse like, four rounds ago. You haven’t played either.”

He blinked, all innocent puppy eyes. “What are you talking about? Maybe I just forgot.”

You squinted harder. “James Buchanan Barnes. Do not lie to me.”

He chuckled, then leaned forward, lowering his voice like it was a secret. “Fine. Maybe I’m letting you win a little. You get this cute little proud look when you think you’ve cornered me. It’s adorable.”

Your face flushed, and you tossed your card at him. “That’s cheating in a different way.”

“It’s strategic emotional warfare,” Bucky replied smoothly, grinning as he finally laid down a card. “I’m adapting to modern combat.”

You crossed your arms, but a smile tugged at your lips. “Well, stop it. I want a fair game.”

He nodded solemnly, eyes twinkling. “Understood. No mercy.”

You resumed playing, and this time he was relentless—Reverse, Skip, Draw Two. You shrieked in betrayal as your carefully constructed hand crumbled.

“This is what happens when you ask for a fair game,” Bucky said, laughing.

“I take it back!” you shouted, laughing as you threw your hands up. “Bring back the gentle sabotage!”

Bucky leaned over, gathering the cards again, but this time he didn’t start a new game. He looked at you, expression softening.

“Hey,” he said, voice quieter now. “Being here with you… it just makes everything else fade out..”

You tilted your head, suddenly serious. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He reached over and brushed a piece of lint off your sleeve. “Feels like home. Like peace.”

Your heart melted a little, the kind of soft ache that came when you realized you were exactly where you were supposed to be. You shifted closer, your legs pressed gently against his, and rested your head on his shoulder.

He didn’t move for a moment—then his arm wrapped around you, pulling you just a little closer, like muscle memory.

“Uno?” you whispered.

“Only if I get to win this time,” he whispered back.

You smiled into his shoulder. “We’ll see.”

And in the warm, quiet room, surrounded by discarded fries and chaos-shaped memories, the two of you played on.

“Uno,” you announced, placing your second-to-last card down with a triumphant grin.

Bucky stared at you in betrayal. “You said we were being nice this round!”

You shrugged, biting back a laugh. “I was nice. I could’ve skipped you again. You should be thanking me.”

He shook his head in disbelief, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Hmm?” he asked, all wide-eyed innocence as he picked up a card from the draw pile.

You squinted at him. “Say it again.”

He leaned in, his voice low and smooth like velvet. “You heard me.”

Your heart fluttered. Stupidly. Ridiculously. And yet, you couldn’t stop the shy smile that spread across your face. You rolled your eyes and tried to keep your cool, placing your final card down with a flourish.

“Game,” you declared smugly.

Bucky groaned and dropped his hand. “Unbelievable. First you destroy Sam’s psyche, now you destroy my winning streak.”

“I’m on fire tonight,” you said, laughing.

“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes softening as he looked at you. “You really are.”

There was a pause—just long enough to feel like something was shifting again. Not in a chaotic, Sam-spiral kind of way. In the way the air gets thicker when something good is about to happen.

He leaned forward, slow and certain.

You met him halfway.

The kiss was soft. Unhurried. His hand cupped your cheek gently, thumb brushing along your skin like he’d been waiting forever for the right moment and wanted to savor it now that it was here. You melted into it, your fingers curling into the sleeve of his henley.

When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his, and you both just... stayed there.

No words. No teasing. Just you and him and the warm hum of everything unspoken.

You yawned a moment later, trying (and failing) to hide it behind your hand.

Bucky chuckled, pressing a tiny kiss to your temple. “Okay, game champ. Time for bed.”

“I’m not tired,” you said, already half-asleep against his shoulder.

“You just yawned into my clavicle.”

“Coincidence,” you mumbled, snuggling closer.

He smiled, shifting so you were tucked more comfortably into his side. He grabbed the discarded throw blanket and wrapped it around both of you.

“You’re staying right here,” he said softly, voice barely above a whisper.

You made a sleepy little noise of agreement, already drifting.

And as the last of the game night chaos faded into silence, Bucky pressed one more kiss to your hair, rested his cheek against your head, and held you close.

Neither of you moved for a long, long time.

Hours later, the room was wrapped in a sleepy kind of silence, warm and golden under the dim light.

You and Bucky were curled up on the couch, tangled beneath a blanket, both long since surrendered to sleep. Your head was tucked against his chest, his arm securely around you like he wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon. His metal fingers rested gently against your side, thumb unconsciously tracing small, soothing circles.

It was peaceful.

Quiet.

Almost.

From the armchair in the corner, Natasha Romanoff slowly opened one eye.

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Just... observed.

Because of course she’d heard everything. The kiss. The whispers. The “you’re lucky you’re cute.” The affectionate laughter. The unmistakable sound of two people falling completely, irrevocably into something more.

A slow, knowing smile tugged at the edge of her mouth.

She watched as Bucky instinctively pulled you closer in his sleep, like even unconscious, he wasn’t letting you drift far. You murmured something incoherent and nuzzled into him, and he murmured something back that sounded suspiciously like your name and definitely like trouble.

Natasha shook her head slightly, amusement flickering across her face.

“You two are the worst,” she whispered to herself, barely audible over the sound of the heater kicking on. “Hopeless.”

But her voice was warm. Fond.

She leaned back into her chair, pulled her blanket tighter around her, and closed her eyes again—smiling like she’d just watched the final twist in a very long-running, extremely satisfying spy mission.

She wasn’t going to tell.

Not yet.

After all, what fun would it be if she ruined the secret when she could just enjoy watching the rest of the team slowly unravel trying to figure it out?

She’d wait.

She could keep a secret.

For now.

taglist: @svtbpbts @cupids-mf-arrow @whitewolfluvr @cece2608 @yehfitoormera @yesiamthatwierd@poodleofstardust @poodleofstardust @homeless-clown @kitasownworld @loversrocktvgirl2 @herejustforbuckybarnes @stormy-stardust @fallen-w1ngs @winchestert101 @f4d3d-st4rs @ultravioletter @xamapolax @theendofthematerialgworl @doilooklikeagiveafrack @fablehaven-rulez @theproblemisthatimnotfictional @winter107soldier@softpia @shakysif @lucyysthings @unadulteratedpastazonkpeach @surebutwhy @tmb510 @kaiari @totallynotabuckybarnessimp @quinquinquincy @tellybearryyyy @roxyym@starstruckfirecat @theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction @oliviaohanessian1 @arignipanja574 @creat0r-cat @katheriner1999 @kaiari @authoressskr @antisocialfiore @f-1-girlies-blog @ifilwtmfc @darkrock3t @navs-bhat @ravenswritingroom @lunawitchbitchraven @elfypineapple

[tonellivision]

rule three

authors note: this is my first story, so have some grace for my terrible writing. This is not based on my life, BUT i am a camp counsellor, so this is what I got the idea from.

setting: canadian cottage country

pairing: kimi antonelli x fem!reader

warnings: flirting, angst, slow-burn, fluff, reader is canadian (this doesn't matter to the plot), very light swearing, angry confession, death threats? (it's a joke), not proofread

word count: 10.3k (my bad)

summary: y/n has three rules to survive living at camp for a summer, and they work pretty well considering she has been going back for the last 4 years. the rules are simple: have fun, do not get caught up in drama and most importantly, do not fall for someone at camp. but what happens when she meets a boy that could make her break the most important of the three.

rules were great.

my rules made sure my camp life wasn't complete crap.

my rules had made sure that my second, third and fourth summers working at camp went perfectly, and i was sure they were going to make sure i had another wonderful year.

they were very simple:

have fun

don't get involved in drama

DO NOT fall for someone at camp

– june 22nd –

i had been driving on the back roads for nearly an hour after exiting the highway, on which i had also been driving on for several hours before. now, i was surrounded by trees, my arm sat on the open window, noah kahan playing through the speaker of my crv. my car was packed full of everything i’d need for the summer, my exams had finished a couple weeks before, i had graduated a few days after that and now, I was going to my favourite place on earth. life was good. as i drove, i passed familiar mail boxes, towering maples, and gravel driveways. soon, i saw the rustic sign which displayed the camp's name in big bold letters which made me smile softly, knowing i was nearly at my home away from home.

i turned down the dirt road and drove even further into the woods. i knew there was a large lake through the trees ahead (simply because i had lived here for 4 summers), but the trees were so dense, i couldn’t see anything. rays of sunshine shone through the thick ceiling of leaves, keeping my car in the shade haphazardly.

i adored my job as a camp counsellor. if i didn’t, i wouldn’t be coming back. i adored pouring into the kids lives over the summer, bonding with them, making bracelets, swimming, sitting by the bond fire. sure, the pay was ass and my sleep schedule was never healthy but there were pros and cons to every job.

as i pulled into the main clearing, i could already see the other staff bustling about. there were a lot of returnees but i saw a few new faces. i drove passed the dining hall, shouting a few “heys” and “hellos” to my friends out the window. most were dragging suitcases and other things they had brought from home down to the cabins, a cody, carter, heather and jenna (who must have already unpacked) were playing spikeball in the field, and luke, julia and a few others were just lounging on the hammocks chatting and catching up about their school year. i drove into my parking spot, which was really just an empty bit of grass by the edge of the woods, hopped out of my car, flipped my shades in front of my eyes and opened up my trunk to begin unloading everything.

although i had tried to pack as light as possible for the almost 10 weeks i’d be here, there was still a ton of stuff. one big suitcase, a laundry basket packed full of essentials i knew i'd need, my bedding, my guitar and a few extras. i huffed and decided to begin with the suitcase. I had just started to pull the suitcase out, when a voice came from behind me, making me jump and nearly drop it.

“need a hand?” the voice said. it was heavily accented, italian probably? i wasn’t sure. i turned and was greeted with probably the most attractive boy i had ever seen in my life. he had gorgeous curls and a charming smile and these soft brown eyes and- oh no. i cut off my thoughts and i quickly recovered, hoping my face hadn’t displayed the wave of fear that i washed over me when i realised there was, in fact, someone here that may cause me to break rule three. “i’m kimi, by the way”

“oh! that would actually be fantastic. i'm y/n” i said smiling and sticking out my hand, knowing that this boy would be my downfall.

— july 1st —

we had been at camp for over a week now. we spent the first week prepping, cleaning and training for when the kids arrived, so when they arrived on the 29th we were ready. we were three days into the first actual camp week, and things had been great. i had gotten assigned the twelve-to-thirteen-year-old girls, and they were awesome. super energetic, funny, but unfortunately, not blind.

they had seen me and kimi talking and obviously began teasing as soon as they realised. i had finally managed to calm their giggles and explain that coworkers do, in fact, have to speak to each other, and it is not a sign of me wanting him to be my boyfriend, but kimi decided he was going to have a staring problem.

the first few days, his eyes would drift to me. i could feel them on me, but i managed to keep my eyes away from his. not only did my campers notice kimis eyes, but even worse, HIS campers noticed. so now i had to not only deal with nine twelve-to-thirteen-year-old girls trying to get me to admit i liked kimi, but i also had to listen to another nine pre-teen boys screeching at kimi to “use his italian rizz to seduce her” (an: this is a direct quote i experience this summer, im being so fr rn).

aside from this whole fiasco, the week had been going great. i had already bonded pretty well with my campers, we had gone tubing, swimming, played capture the flag, all the stereotypical camp activities. and of course, today was canada day, so that meant bonfire, red and white themed snacks and fireworks.

the sun was just starting to dip behind the trees when we got to the bonfire. the air smelled like woodsmoke and bug spray, and the mosquitoes were already beginning their nightly war against everyones ankles. my campers had rushed off to grab s’mores supplies and claim the best log seats, shouting over each other about who could roast their marshmallow the best. i let them go. they were good kids. loud, chaotic, a little too observant for my liking, but good.

i took a seat at one of the logs at the back. quieter, in the dark away from the fire light, more peaceful. of course, the moment i pulled out my guitar, a handful of my girls immediately perched around me like ducklings, asking for me to play different songs.

i started strumming a song i was pretty sure none of them would know but i knew the other counsellors loved. death wish love was just something soft to keep their chaos level from climbing too high. i didn’t even get through half a verse before the whispers started.

“miss y/n, he’s staring again.” kiana whispered.

i didn’t look up. i didn’t have to. i already knew who “he” was. i could feel his gaze from across the firepit like it was physically leaning on me. perhaps that was a tad bit dramatic. but accurate.

“i’m sure he’s just zoning out,” i said, not looking up from my guitar. “there’s fire. it’s hypnotic.”

giggles. always with the giggles.

“yeah, sure, he’s zoning out into your soul,” layla sassed.

i sighed. deeply. “go toast your marshmallows before i make you clean the latrines tomorrow.”

that scattered them fast enough.

i continued quietly strumming and singing softly, hoping to seem far to busy to care about the boy across from me.

kimi was across the fire pit, sitting on a log with his boys, pretending to be engaged in whatever story one of them was telling about catching a frog or making a leaf boat, but he wasn’t slick. i could feel his eyes on me. again.

the first firework went off with a bang that made the younger campers squeal and the older ones cheer like it was a soccer game. i stopped playing, just resting the guitar on my lap, letting the kids get lost in the colours. it was quiet for a few seconds.

peaceful.

then someone sat down next to me.

i didn’t have to look to know who it was.

not peaceful.

“you’re good with them,” he said after a beat, voice low enough that only i could hear it.

i shrugged. “bribery and thinly veiled threats work wonders.��

he huffed a laugh.

“you have a pretty voice too,” he said. i felt the tips of my ears heat up.

i turned to look at him, but he wasn’t looking at me this time. he was staring straight ahead, his profile all soft angles and flickering shadows from the firelight. he looked calm. he looked—ugh. he looked good. so good.

“you're really bad at being subtle,” i muttered.

he smiled, barely. “maybe.”

we sat like that for a while. i should have moved. everything in my body said move. but i didn’t. i didn’t move away, and he didn’t either.

— july 15th —

wednesday was the counselors' first day off. a few of the kids’ parents had come up to visit for the day, taking them away from camp for little day trips and lakeside lunches, which meant one thing: blissful, precious silence. the directors took charge of the stragglers who hadn’t been picked up, and the rest of us got the green light to do whatever we wanted as long as we were back before curfew and didn’t, quote, "get arrested or start a forest fire."

so naturally, that’s how i found myself crammed into the old camp van with seven other half-sweaty, half-hyper counselors and one very worn-out air freshener dangling from the mirror. kimi was driving, which should’ve been illegal, honestly. not because he was bad at it—he was actually really good—but because there was something about him driving with one hand on the wheel, sunglasses on, window down, wind ruffling his curls, that made it really hard to remember how to form coherent thoughts.

i was in the middle seat, squished between julia and heather, trying very hard not to look at kimi in the rearview mirror. or out the window reflection. or literally anywhere near his direction. it was fine. totally fine.

carter was in shotgun when he spoke “town run? or beach first?”

“town,” jenna said immediately from the back. “we need snacks. and i need dry shampoo or i’ll actually die.”

“respectfully,” luke added next to her, “you already kind of look like a victorian ghost.”

jenna whacked him over the head with her empty gatorade bottle, and cody attempted to restrain luke, who had started trying to yank the bottle from jennas hands.

“honestly, why do we need campers when we already have you too,” i said, rolling my eyes playfully. kimi just grinned and turned the van toward the highway.

the town was tiny, one of those classic one-street, general-store-and-ice-cream kind of towns, but it was basically a major metropolitan city to us after being stuck in the woods for weeks. we pulled up to the general store called Buck n Wilsons General Store but the sign was missing the B and G so it was uck n Wilson eneral Store.

“okay, you’re with me,” julia said, dragging jenna and carter toward the toiletries aisle. cody and luke bee-lined for the cold drinks. heather disappeared without a word. wow. fantastic.

i lingered by the door, pretending to look at a rack of keychains but mostly just needing a second to reset from the body heat of the van.

“you coming, tesoro?”

i blinked. “sorry—what?”

i turned, halfway expecting i misheard him or he was talking to someone else. but no—there was kimi, holding a handbasket, giving me that stupid little smirk like he knew what he was doing.

“did you just—what?” i asked.

he tilted his head. “tesoro. you don’t know what that means?”

“should i…?.”

“it means… like… treasure, sweetheart, or something like that. i think that's the english equivalent”

i stared at him. he looked way too casual about the fact that he just casually called me sweetheart. in his native language. while standing next to a rack of beef jerky and car air fresheners. i felt my cheeks dust with colour.

“right,” i said slowly. “that’s… normal coworker talk.”

he grinned. his stupid grin. and i swear i felt my stomach do an actual backflip, which was dumb, because this wasn’t a rom-com and i wasn’t about to fall for the guy who’d just spent the last two weeks accidentally making my campers think i was secretly dating him.

we wandered down the candy aisle together. i kept my eyes very fixed on a display of sour peach rings, hoping my face would stop feeling like it was on fire. kimi noticed this too.

“you like these?” he asked, holding up the peach rings.

“julia does. she always eats any of the packs i bring back to camp.”

he raised an eyebrow. “didn’t ask that. i asked if you liked them.”

“… maybe.”

he tossed pack into my hand before i could stop him.

and yeah, maybe i did spend the next five minutes walking through the store like i was completely fine, like i wasn’t still thinking about that stupid word and the way he said it.

but i didn’t like him. i didn’t. i was not breaking rule 3.

i just needed a snack.

that’s all.

— july 23rd —

sneaking out after the campers were all asleep was a pretty common occurrence. the campers slept like the dead due to how much energy they spent throughout the day, so it was very easy thing to accomplish. were we good role models? absolutely not, but you know, we were still kids too.

i slipped out of my cabin and made my way down to the dock. the dock was my spot. it always has been. just far enough away from camp that i could breathe again, with the lake stretching out in front of me like a secret. i was already picturing myself sitting at the edge, toes dipped in the water, maybe humming a song under my breath—until i spotted someone already in my spot.

i paused, squinting.

a figure. hoodie. legs stretched out. confident posture.

of course.

i sighed, louder than i had meant to, and sure enough, he turned his head just slightly like he’d been waiting for that. even in the dark, i could feel the smirk on his face.

“you’re in my seat,” i said flatly, already considering turning back.

“oh no,” kimi said, stretching out a little more like he was making himself comfortable on purpose. “don’t tell me this whole dock belongs to you now.”

“it’s an unspoken rule,” i muttered. “everyone knows it.”

“funny,” he said. “i must’ve missed that part in training week.”

i hovered for a second, fully ready to turn and go sulk by the archery range or something, but then he said—

“wait. stay.”

i blinked. “why?”

“because i’d rather not sit out here alone like a weirdo. it’s less depressing if you’re here.”

“you are a weirdo,” i muttered, but didn’t move. he didn’t deny it—just patted the space beside him without looking at me. bold.

but i obliged. i sat next to him, letting my crocs graze the top of the water. we sat in silence. goodness, i hated it.

“so, what do you do?” i asked, breaking the silence.

“hmm?”

“like what are you going back to? after camp i mean? like school? a job?” i asked

he glanced over at me, a little grin playing on his lips. “i drive.”

i stared at him. “okay. vague.”

he shrugged. “it’s the truth.”

“like what—uber?”

he snorted. “no.”

“pizza delivery?”

“worse.”

i tilted my head. “then what?”

“formula one.”

i blinked. “like… racing? like… cars?”

kimi nodded, eyes fixed on the water like this was just some casual little hobby he was telling me about.

“formula one,” he repeated, like i didn’t hear him the first time.

i scoffed, a small smile playing on my lips. “you’re joking”

“i’m not.” he reassured me. “you can google it if you want”

“no, it’s okay, i believe you…” i said.

i mean, i knew formula one was a big deal—fast cars, european guys with accents, monaco and champagne or whatever. i wasn’t an expert or anything, but i’d heard of charles leclerc. and lewis hamilton. mostly because of cars 2 and tiktok,

i played it off though. i'm not sure why. maybe i just didn't want him to know that i knew it was a big deal.

“huh,” i said, trying to sound cool. chill. unbothered. “that’s… neat.”

he huffed a laugh. “neat?”

“i mean, it’s no camp counselor,” i said sarcastically, pulling my knees to my chest. “but sure.”

in the moonlight, i can see him smile.

we sat there for a while, the silence settling around us like an old friend. it was nice—too nice, almost. the kind of nice that made you want to close your eyes and just breathe, but that also made you wonder why the hell you felt so comfortable. he stretched beside me and let his fingers rest on mine. thank goodness for the darkness, because my cheeks were probably pink at this moment. but i didnt move my fingers. and he didn’t either.

“so,” kimi said, breaking the silence. “what about you? what’s your big plan after camp?”

i glanced over at him. “plan?”

“yeah, you’re training for something, right?”

“i’m training to be a medic,” i said, feeling the words roll off my tongue easily. “already finished half of my training, actually. graduated early. i was supposed to graduate next year, but i graduated this year.”

his eyebrow arched slightly. “graduated early?”

i shrugged, not really seeing what the big deal was. “yeah. but i don’t want to work in a hospital. that’s not my thing. i want to be an onsite medic, for places like camps, events, stuff like that.”

“not a fan of hospitals?” he asked, his voice softer now, more interested.

i shook my head. “hospitals are too… sterile? too much red tape. i’ve always liked the idea of being in the field, more hands-on. i’m already a trained lifeguard, so i know how to keep calm in high-pressure situations. but working in a hospital just feels… too boxed-in, you know?”

the quiet stretched again, but this time it felt different—comfortable. he wasn’t pushing, wasn’t trying to get too deep, but there was a warmth in his eyes like he actually cared about the answer. it was nice, but… maybe too nice. and that’s when he threw me off again.

“so,” he started, breaking the quiet. “do you have a boyfriend?”

i blinked, caught completely off guard. “what?”

“you know,” he said, leaning back a little, casually. “someone back home.”

my stomach dropped for a second, but i couldn’t let him see that. i let out a short laugh and looked away, trying to cover the sudden wave of unease. “no…why?”

“i don’t know,” he said, the smirk back in place. “just curious. you seem like someone who would have someone by now.”

i felt my face flush slightly, but i fought the heat creeping up my neck. “well, i’m not exactly looking for someone, and… people don't really pay attention to me.”

the awkward silence came back. what do you even say to follow up after that?

“so, you’re not staying in canada after the summer, then?” i asked, trying to sound casual, but something about the way i said it made my throat feel tight. it wasn’t like i wanted him to stay. it wasn’t like i was planning on visiting or something, but something about the idea of him leaving felt like it hit a little closer to home than i was willing to admit.

he paused, glancing at me sideways. “yeah. i’ve got pre-season training after summer, then the racing season starts in march.” he shrugged, his gaze drifting back to the water, the casual air about him making the words somehow sting more than i expected.

i tried to mask my disappointment with a quick, forced smile, but i wasn’t fooling anyone. least of all myself. "right," i said, staring at the ripples in the lake. "guess you’ve got a whole world to go back to."

it was stupid to feel anything about it, i told myself. i didn’t even like him. so why did it feel like a weight in my chest when i thought about him leaving?

kimi didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t say anything about it. we just sat there, side by side, both lost in our thoughts, the quiet stretching longer than before.

— july 27th —

it was dusk and the lake looked like glass, all soft purples and pinks reflecting off the water like someone had dropped a watercolor palette on the sky. today was another counsellor off day. we had a few volunteers come up to deal with the kids for the day while we took some time to ourselves. the air smelled like sunscreen and pine, and it was warm in that sticky, end-of-july kind of way where no one really bothered with towels anymore because you were just going to end up wet again anyway.

i was sitting cross-legged at the edge of the dock with heather and jenna, our legs dangling over the water, damp from earlier swimming and now slowly drying under the setting sun. we had lemonade in plastic cups and were trading gossip in low voices, like we were thirteen again at a sleepover.

“i’m just saying,” heather said, sipping dramatically, “if kimi stares at you any harder during breakfast, the table’s going to catch fire.”

“he’s not staring,” i muttered, picking at a bow on my swim top.

“he absolutely is,” jenna added. “he doesn’t even blink when you walk into the dining hall.”

“i think he just has one of those… intense faces,” i said, already hating how lame that sounded.

heather gave me a look. “babe. be serious.”

i shrugged. “it’s not like it means anything. he’s just flirty with everyone. that’s his thing.”

“right,” jenna said with a knowing smirk. “and you just happen to blush every time he talks to you because you’re allergic to compliments.”

“i’m not blushing right now,” i shot back.

“because he’s not here,” heather said.

i rolled my eyes and opened my mouth to argue—but i didn’t get the chance.

strong arms suddenly wrapped around my waist and i let out a shriek, my cup of lemonade launching into the air.

“what the—kimi!”

before i could protest any further, i was lifted completely off the dock.

“no, no, no—don’t you dare—!”

he started towards the end of the dock which made me shriek more, my arms went instinctively around his neck, holding on tight in the name of self-preservation.

“oh, now you want to be close to me?” he teased, walking us steadily toward the edge of the dock.

“you’re insane. put me down—gently.”

“i was going to,” he said innocently, “but then you started holding on like your life depended on it. can’t say i hate it.”

“you are impossible,” i hissed.

“i’ve been called worse.”

he then tried to throw me off, but this was made difficult because due to how i was clinging to him like a koala.

he huffed. and then, he didn’t throw me in.

he just… fell.

pulled us both down into the lake with one solid, dramatic step, like he couldn’t bear to let go of me either.

the water was shock-cold against the warm air, wrapping around us in a whoosh of bubbles and sunken laughter. i hadn’t realized how tightly i’d been holding onto him until we hit the water—and even then, i didn’t let go.

we hovered there under the surface, still tangled together, limbs brushing. i felt his hand steady on my back, the soft pressure of his chest against mine. he looked at me underwater, amused, and something warm stirred in my stomach.

then—light as a whisper—his mouth brushed the edge of my jaw. too soft to be on purpose. too lingering to be an accident.

i blinked at him through the water.

and then we broke the surface, gasping and laughing. i pushed my wet hair out of my face and splashed him.

“you’re ridiculous,” i said, half out of breath.

“you liked it,” he grinned, swimming backward, smug and soaked.

behind us, heather and jenna were howling with laughter, someone was already yelling, “called it!” and i dove under the water, swimming to shore, hoping to hide the heat rising in my cheeks.

pretended it didn’t mean anything.

pretended it wasn’t everything.

— august 1st —

breakfast at camp was always chaotic in a familiar, comforting way—wooden benches scraping against the floor, the smell of slightly-burnt toast, kids yelling over one another about what table got pancakes first. organized chaos.

i sat at my usual table with my girls, doing my best to mediate a very passionate debate about whether ketchup belonged on eggs (it did) while keeping an eye on the one camper who always tried to sneak a third juice box.

everything was normal. or at least it should’ve been.

until i felt it again.

the staring.

i didn’t have to look. i knew. kimi’s eyes drifted across the dining hall and landed on me like i was the only person eating breakfast in a room of a hundred. and for some reason, he still hadn’t figured out how not to make it obvious.

i took a sip of my lukewarm coffee, very purposely not looking in his direction. if i didn’t look, i could pretend it wasn’t happening. that was the game. denial was key.

but of course, his campers had zero interest in subtlety.

“broooo, stop looking at her!” one of his boys, landon, shrieked loud enough for half the room to hear, voice cracking halfway through.

i didn’t flinch. didn’t blink. just nodded along as one of my girls described a dream that featured a dinosaur, her dad, and tate mcrae.

“she’s not even at our table, man, focus on your oatmeal!” jake added.

i bit down on the inside of my cheek, eyes trained firmly on the center of my table, nodding like i was still deeply invested in a camper’s retelling of her dream from last night.

“i think he’s trying to use his italian rizz again,” noah whispered—but not really whispered—like the concept of volume was optional.

adam wacked noah's hat, which was backwards, off. “his italian rizz doesn’t work when he stares through her skull, bro. she’s not, like, telekenesis or whatever that mind-reading power is.”

“do you think it works better in another language?” levi asked.

“ciao bella, you wanna share a canoe?” landon mimicked, throwing on the worst italian accent i’d ever heard in my life. the entire table burst into laughter. i heard kimi mumble something that must have been some curse word.

i pressed my lips together and absolutely did not smile. nope. not even a twitch. i was focused. ketchup-on-eggs level of focused.

“ma che cavolo…” he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose like this was a daily occurrence (it was). “i’m literally not even looking,” he muttered.

“you were literally staring,” noah said, dramatically rolling his eyes.

“no i’m not!” kimi snapped, voice cracking just slightly in a way that did nothing to help his case. “ragazzi! basta! just eat your cereal!”

“bro, he’s blushing!” jake yelled.

“dude, she’s gonna notice, and then you’ll have to move back to italy from embarrassment.”

“ask her out already! you’re so slow!”

kimi groaned again, sliding down in his seat like he wanted to disappear into the floor. “dio mio…”

and then—disaster struck.

one of his campers, matthew, a thirteen-year-old with absolutely no self-preservation instinct, shout across the hall, straight at my table, specifically at the girl directly across from me, “HEY LAYLA! ASK Y/N OUT FOR KIMI, HES SCARE-” he was cut off by kimi covering his mouth with his hand but the damage was already done.

my campers paused. then all hell broke loose. and it wasn’t even just our table. the sheer volume of the commotion had gotten the attention of all the other tables.

“i told you he was staring at her yesterday during canoe check-in!” another girl howled, slapping the table. “you didn’t believe me!”

“guys, guys—ask her if she’ll go on a date with him!”

“should we write it on a napkin?? pass it over like in class?!”

“NO,” I said firmly, but of course, my face betrayed me by turning an absolutely traitorous shade of red. “guys, eat your eggs.”

i refused to look over at kimi. i didn’t have to. i felt the heat coming off of him. the entire dining hall was vibrating, and there was no escape.

“EVERYBODY SHUT UP!” Landon yelled, spinning around and ordering like a tiny general. “SHE’S RIGHT THERE! SHE MIGHT HEAR! HAVE SOME RESPECT!”

i took a deep breath. calm. cool. professional. unbothered.

my campers, the lovely girls they were, quietly whispered, trying to keep it a secret, as if the entire dining hall wasn’t jittering, “so do you like him?”

“i don’t even know what you’re talking about,” i said, taking a very casual sip of my coffee.

then i choked on it.

because from across the room, kimi finally looked up, cheeks red, muttered something in italian that sounded vaguely like a prayer, and grinned at me.

I did not like him. i had rules to keep.

— august 6th —

it was almost 2:45 a.m. when the unmistakable sound of muffled giggles and the creak of cabin floorboards yanked me from my sleep.

at first, i thought one of the girls was sneaking off to the bathroom. but then came the second sound—quick footsteps just outside the door, followed by a suspiciously soft thunk.

i sat up, immediately suspicious.

then came more whispering. another thunk. a laugh—quickly shushed.

groaning, i dragged myself out of bed, still wrapped in my favourite hoodie and matching grey sweatpants, hair a mess and eyes barely open. i shoved my feet into my crocs and stumbled to the door with every intention of scaring off whatever little monsters were giggling outside.

i yanked the door open.

bad move.

WHOOSH.

a full bucket of freezing water dumped straight on my head.

everything stopped. my breath caught in my throat. cold soaked through every layer in an instant.

my hoodie clung to my arms like wet seaweed, and my sweatpants were sagging from the water weight. i stood there, stunned, dripping, homicidal.

slowly, i looked up at the porch roof. a bucket lay upside-down near the edge.

on the path, frozen mid-step, stood alex—kimi’s personal twelve-year-old goblin of a camper—eyes wide with horror.

“oh my—,” he whispered. “it wasn’t supposed to fall—”

i stepped off the porch like a ghost straight from a horror movie.

alex let out a strangled squeak and scrambled backward.

behind him, more campers peeked from behind trees and bushes, giggling—until they saw my face.

“abort mission!” landon hissed from the shadows.

“dude. fix it.”

jake shoved kimi forward like a peace offering. “flirt with her- grovel- i don’t know!”

kimi stumbled a little, catching his balance as he stepped between me and alex. he looked like he was about to say something clever—but then his eyes landed on me.

and lingered.

i peeled off my hoodie with an angry huff, wringing it out with both hands. my t-shirt underneath was soaked too, clinging to my body like a bodysuit.

kimi blinked once. then again. his eyes dropped before he caught himself and immediately snapped his gaze up and to the side, ears going red.

“wow,” he said, clearing his throat, “that shirt is—um—very… absorbent.”

i raised an eyebrow, arms crossing over my chest automatically, which only made his jaw tighten as he visibly forced himself to keep eye contact.

“okay,” he muttered, voice pitching awkwardly. “let me fix this.”

he pulled his hoodie off in one quick motion and stepped closer, holding it out to me like an offering to an angry deity. it was still warm, soft, and smelled like smoke, pine, and whatever stupid cologne he pretended was just “soap.”

“you think a hoodie’s gonna fix this?” i said flatly, still dripping.

“well… it’s one of my favourites,” he replied, trying to smile. “only the prettiest, scariest girl at camp gets to wear it.”

i stared at him.

“that’s you,” he added quickly. “just to be clear.”

i snatched it from him and tugged it over my head, shivering slightly as the warmth sank into my skin. his fingers brushed my arm as he helped untwist the sleeve, and i hated how nice it felt. how easy he was to like when he wasn’t being an agent of chaos.

“better?” he asked with a crooked smile.

“no.” but my voice cracked slightly from the cold.

“you know,” he said, still lingering a step too close, “i could make it up to you. a muffin? maybe your own hoodie? one that hasn’t been part of a war crime?”

i sighed.

“you’re lucky i’m too tired to commit actual murder.”

he grinned. “means i’ve got a shot.”

from the bushes, one of the kids whispered, “he’s winning.”

“GO TO BED,” i barked, and they scattered.

kimi stayed a second longer, shoving his hands into his pockets and looking at me like he wanted to say something else but didn’t know how.

“you gonna be warm enough?” he asked finally.

“i’m fine.”

“you sure? you’re not gonna slip in your crocs and drown in a puddle?”

i shot him a glare over my shoulder and turned back toward my cabin.

but i didn’t give the hoodie back.

and maybe—just maybe—i didn’t totally hate how warm it was.

— august 11th —

the woods were quieter than usual.

darkness was draping itself over the trees, the moonlight shining through certain bare spots in the woods, bugs hummed everywhere and nowhere at the same time, the air heavy summer humidity that made your shirt stick to your back by the time you'd gone five steps. kimi walked beside me, talking about some gossip his mom had updated him on from back home.

we were supposed to be looking for campers, tagging the ones hiding in the woods for the big camp-wide game so they’d have to run back to base and start over. “night watchers.” sounded dramatic. for me,  it was a nice excuse to walk in the dark and pretend i wasn’t entirely aware of every time his hand brushed mine.

“i feel like we’re the villains of this game,” i said, scanning the trees. “just walking around, destroying dreams and catching kids in the act.”

“you say that like it’s not the best part,” kimi replied, his voice casual. he was twirling his flashlight in his hand like it was just an accessory, not something he was actually using. “we’re the final boss. very powerful.”

i rolled my eyes. “you and this power complex again.”

he smirked. “i’m just saying… the kids scream when they see me. that’s impact.”

“that’s trauma,” i corrected. “you’re lucky they’re not in therapy already.”

he laughed, and i glanced over at him—just a quick peek. of course, he was already looking at me. of course. his eyes crinkled a little when he smiled, and i hated that i noticed that. i also hated that i didn’t look away fast enough.

“you like being out here with me,” he said suddenly.

i blinked. “what?”

“you do,” he said, grinning wider now. “you always end up paired with me on these shifts.”

“yeah, well, the directors seem to think we work well together,” i stammered.

“mmm,” he hummed. “i’m sure that's the only reason.”

i kicked a rock off the path, face heating against my will. “don’t flatter yourself, antonelli.”

“too late,” he said with a shrug. “you like me.”

“i like not running,” i corrected. “this is the laziest job and you just happen to show up every time i’m assigned it. that’s all.”

“you’re flustered.”

“i’m not!”

he laughed, smug and just a little too close. i shoved his shoulder.

god, he was so annoying.

“you’re one to talk about flustered,” i said, straightening a little. “remember breakfast?”

that stopped him. “breakfast?”

“Oh, don’t pretend you forgot,” I said, turning to grin at him now, the confidence slowly crawling back into my voice. “You staring at me from across the dining hall like it was the most subtle thing in the world. Your campers screamed at you.”

Kimi groaned. “That was not my fault.”

“Uh-huh. Because you definitely didn’t have the world’s worst staring problem.”

“I did not have a—”

“‘Broooo, stop looking at her!’” I mimicked in my best high-pitched camper voice.

He buried his face in his hands for a second. “They’re demons.”

“‘He’s trying to use his Italian rizz again!’” I added dramatically.

He dropped his hands with a groan. “You’re evil.”

“I’m accurate.”

“You loved it.”

I opened my mouth to argue—but couldn’t. He caught that, too. Of course he did.

“See?” he said, nudging my shoulder with his. “You liked it.”

I scoffed. “Please. I had to explain what the word rizz meant to the directors.”

“I made you blush, didn’t I?”

“You made yourself blush.”

“No way,” he said. “You did first.”

I shook my head, but I could feel the color creeping into my cheeks again. I looked away.

He leaned in a little, not touching but closer now. “You're blushing right now, cara mia.”

I shoved his arm. “Stop calling me things I don’t understand!”

He just grinned. “Would you rather I translate it?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Kimi—”

“It means ‘my dear.’”

Oh.

I blinked at him, my mouth going dry. “That’s—why would you—”

“I told you,” he said, tilting his head with a faux-innocent shrug, “you like me.”

“I—” I choked on the word and shook my head fast. “You’re delusional.”

“You’re in denial.”

I sped up my pace to get away from the smugness radiating off of him, but he easily matched my steps, his grin only getting bigger.

“You so are.”

“I’m literally just here to tag campers,” I muttered. “This is my job.”

“And I’m just here for the game,” he said lightly.

I glanced sideways at him.

We both knew we were lying.

— august 21st —

i don’t know when it shifted.

maybe it was gradual—like water warming under a flame, slow enough that i didn’t notice until it was too hot to touch.

but it hit me all at once.

i was brushing sand off my legs after waterfront, still damp from swimming, and someone said his name—just in passing. a joke. something dumb about how he helped carry a canoe like it was nothing. everyone laughed. i smiled too, automatically. like muscle memory.

and then it hit me.

i like him.

not the heehee haha kind of like i had been telling myself it was. not the kind of like where you tell your friends he's hot and tease each other when he walks by. not a surface-level crush you nurse for fun during the summer and forget by september.

i actually like him.

i felt it like a wave slamming into my chest, all salt and pressure. i sat down on the edge of the dock like my knees gave out.

oh no.

i like the way he notices things. how he always grabs an extra juice box at breakfast because he knows i never get one.

i like the way his voice sounds when he says my name, even if i pretend not to notice.

i like the way he looks at me like i’m someone worth staring at.

and i hate that i like that.

because he’s leaving.

of course he’s leaving.

this is camp. summer. temporary. that’s the whole point.

and he’s not staying in canada.

he said it like it was nothing. just a fact. like saying he didn’t like olives.

i should’ve listened more closely when he said he wasn't staying.

he’s not even trying to stay.

he’s not mine.

he never was.

i pressed my hands to my face and groaned, low and quiet, like if i got the sound out of my chest it might take the feelings with it.

stupid. so stupid.

i don’t want this. i don’t want to care about someone who’s already halfway gone.

i don't want to be the girl who falls for the summer boy with the smile and the accent and the stupid curly hair.

i want to go back.

back to teasing him and pretending like none of it mattered.

back to not looking forward to night watcher shifts.

back to pretending i didn’t feel anything.

i have to kill this feeling. now.

so that’s the new plan.

i’ll avoid him. not in a dramatic, over-the-top way. just… enough. i won’t sit next to him. i won’t stay behind when he lingers after staff meetings. i won’t walk with him after curfew or laugh at his dumb one-liners or let my eyes meet his across the dining hall.

i’ll let it fade.

it has to fade.

because the alternative—

the alternative is letting myself fall harder for someone who’s already made it clear he’s not staying.

and i can’t do that.

not again. the rules were in place for a reason.

so no more late-night dock talks.

no more brush-of-the-shoulder, is-this-flirting or not moments.

no more getting soft because he says cara mia in a voice that makes my name feel different.

i’ll be fine.

i just have to forget i ever liked him in the first place.

Easy.

— August 25th —

camp was quiet in the strangest way.

the kind of quiet that felt wrong. no shouting across the field, no whistles, no splashing at the waterfront, no kids trying to convince me that brushing their teeth “technically” counted as showering.

just leftover tan lines, half-zipped duffel bags, and the smell of the last campfire still hanging in the air.

cleanup week was always a little depressing, but i didn’t mind the work. scrubbing out cabins, hauling lost and found bins, folding half-destroyed t-shirts into boxes for next year, it kept my hands busy.

which was good. because my head was a mess.

i hadn’t talked to kimi in three days.

not really.

sure, there had been a few hellos, a nod here and there. but nothing real. no quiet late-night conversations or casually bumping shoulders on the path.

because i was trying not to. on purpose.

it shouldn’t have mattered anymore. the campers were gone. camp was wrapping up. in a few days, we’d all be scattered—back to cities, universities, real life. he’d be back on a plane. probably already had a suitcase half-packed.

so why did it still ache when i saw him out of the corner of my eye?

why did i still know the exact sound of his laugh from across the dining hall when the staff was eating their leftover pizza and pretending they weren’t about to cry when they left this place?

i was elbow-deep in a plastic bin of sports equipment when i felt someone behind me. not footsteps—just the weight of presence.

i didn’t turn around.

but of course.

“did i do something?”

his voice was soft. careful.

i took my time adjusting the dodgeballs, hoping maybe he’d give up.

he didn’t.

“because if i did, i want to fix it,” he added. “but i feel like you’ve been—”

he paused, searching for the word.

“—distant.”

i forced a laugh, short and hollow. “i’ve been busy.”

“right,” he said, clearly not buying it. “busy avoiding me?”

i finally looked up. he was standing just a few feet away, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, hair a little messy like he’d just taken off his hat. he looked… confused. and a little frustrated.

i shrugged. “it’s the end of the summer. everyone’s doing their own thing.”

“that’s not what this is,” he said, stepping closer. “come on. i know you.”

those words—i know you—they hit me right in the gut.

because he did.

i didn’t say anything. i just turned back to the bin and started aggressively re-rolling a soccer jersey that was never going to fold properly.

“you don’t even look at me anymore,” he said quietly. “did i say something wrong?”

“no.”

“then what is it?” he asked, more desperate now. “you were fine last week. and now you act like i’m… like i don’t even exist.”

i squeezed my eyes shut for a second and inhaled. big mistake. he smelled like lake water and camp laundry detergent. and that stupid cologne.

“i don’t want to do this right now,” i said, trying to keep my voice steady.

kimi stepped closer. “why not?”

“because you’re leaving,” i said sharply, finally turning to look at him, eyes hot. “okay? you’re not staying. and i don’t want to make things more complicated than they already are.”

he blinked, stunned silent for a moment.

i hadn’t meant to say it like that.

“i’m not asking you to make things complicated,” he said softly.

“no, but i made it complicated,” i shot back, trying to shove the lid on the bin. “and now i need to uncomplicate it.”

his eyes searched mine like he wanted to argue, but i didn’t let him. i grabbed the bin, hauled it to the storage closet, and didn’t look back.

i needed space. i needed logic. i needed a time machine to take me back before i let myself fall for the one person who was never going to stay. i needed to go back to when i started breaking rule 3 and slap some sense into her.

and most of all, i needed this summer to end.

before i did something stupid.

like ask him to stay.

— august 26th —

nine weeks. nine weeks of working with him. nine weeks of stupid jokes. nine weeks of our cabins pranking each other. nine weeks of him stealing my bug spray because he didn't bring any from italy. nine weeks of long talks at the fires after our campers had all gone to sleep. nine weeks of lingering touches. nine weeks of flirting. nine weeks of flustered sighs. nine weeks of teasing from campers. nine weeks of ignoring said teasing. nine weeks of the damn feelings not leaving, but not having enough willpower to distance myself from him.

i was back on the end of the dock, my toes dangling in the water, breathing in the fresh air. the lake was beautiful tonight. calm, reflecting the clear night sky. it was quiet, the only sounds coming from crickets in the woods and quiet laughter and voices from a fire across the little bay we were situated on. the other counsellors had all gone to sleep after the late night bonfire party we had to celebrate the end of the summer. i took in a deep breath, letting my hands run gently over the smooth wood of the dock. it was always bittersweet to leave camp, but this time was particularly bad.

i buried my head in my hands. gosh, i was so damn stupid. i had that feeling in my chest, like that tightness you have when you need to sob.

we only had two more days at camp until we went home. It had only been a day since our conversation. I hated ignoring kimi. i knew it bothered him. hell, it probably bothered me more. but i knew i had to detach from him before i went home. i needed to get rid of the feelings which had been bubbling up over the past nine weeks. i shouldn’t have let the feelings develop in the first place, but now, i was in a situation where every time i saw his face, the tips of my ears felt hot, i could feel the butterflies in my stomach and my heart began pounding ridiculously fast.

stolen glances, lingering touches, teasing, subtle flirting. what the hell was i thinking?

it could never work. Maybe if i had known that he was a formula one driver from the very beginning, i could have stopped myself from liking him. Why did he have to be a formula one race-car driver? and why did he have to be a damn good one too? Before him, i didn't know much about formula one, except for charles leclerc from the tiktok edits that popped up on my fyp and hamilton from cars, but he patiently and passionately explained it. I learn about the paddock, the pits, the other drivers. I knew things now. he'd be driving for mercedes this coming march, travelling around the world, probably getting with those drop dead gorgeous models who walked around the paddock.

maybe i let myself like him because at the time, i didn’t realise how impossible the situation was until it was too late.

maybe i let myself like him because i didn’t know he would be travelling for practically the entire year.

maybe i let myself like him because i thought maybe, just maybe, there's a chance this could work. but there wasn’t, and i was stupid for thinking otherwise.

i knew he was behind me before he spoke. kimi was a quiet walker, but you can’t silence the vibrations sent by your feet through a dock. i stayed silent though, not saying anything, not moving, silently praying he'd just leave.

“why are you ignoring me?” kimi’s voice cut through the silence. i breathed in softly and didn’t move, keeping my head forward, watching the moon's reflection in the still waters.

“i told you. i dont want to make things more complicated.” i said simply, trying to keep my voice steady but there was a subtle shake in the last few words. i could hear him huff in frustration before marching over and sitting next to me, letting the tips of his sandals dip in the water.

“y/n.” he said heatedly. angry? maybe. but there was something else there too. “look at me. What did i do?” he was pleading.

i looked at him. goodness, he was beautiful. everything about him made my heart beat quicker and i was forced to calm my breathing. “You did nothing, kimi. i’m fine.”

"no, somethings wrong,” he countered.

“kimi, there's nothin-” i began, but was quickly cut off.

“no, it's not nothing. suddenly you just don’t want to speak to me, look at me, or even be in the same room.” he shot back. he was angry, but i could still hear the pleading in his voice. he was hurt. i didn't want to hurt him, but i knew i couldn’t tell him why i had to.

“i don’t know, i’m just tired-” i mumbled feebly, turning away again, when i felt kimi’s hand grab mine, pulling my attention back to his face.

“no, you’re not. something else is going on. i’ve seen you tired, and you are never like this! you have never acted like this when you’re tired. i’m leaving in two days and you can’t even look at me!” he insisted. his voice had the shake mine did.

i didn’t answer and he pushed again. i could feel the tears welling in my eyes. no. i could not cry. not tonight. not over a stupid boy. even if that boy was the sweetest person in the whole world.

“y/n whats-” i got up at his words and started walking down the dock but he was faster, getting up after me and grabbing my wrist gently. “-wrong?”

“what if i don’t want to get hurt, kimi?” i snapped, and he furrowed his eyebrows.

“what do you mean?! by me? i would never hurt you-” he started, but this time i cut him off.

“you’re leaving me kimi! i mean you’re going off to be a formula one driver, and you won’t have time for me anymore, and i’ll see you with some other girl-” i caught myself. crap. i felt a few of the tears beginning to fall. i pursed my lips, looking down. i tried to pull my wrist away, but he held me firm.

“w-what are you talking ab-”

i couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“i like you, dammit! Not just a little crush! Not just one I can be teased about! I genuinely have feelings for you, and it is physically sickening how far gone i am. and now you’re going off to your mercedes drivers training, then you will g-go to formula one and i’ll never see you again, and i’ll have to watch you succeed from here, with some rich girl on your arm that won’t be me. And I hate it,” I spat, pacing back and forth at the edge of the dock.

he opens his mouth to interject but i raise a finger "I'm not done."

“i hate feeling this way. i hate you making me feel this way. i hate how you stare at me like it means something when you’re just going to leave in a few days. i hate that you’re so damn perfect and i can’t get you out of my head. i hate the way you make me laugh when i’m supposed to be mad at you, and i hate how i’ve started thinking about you at night when i know i’m not supposed to. and i hate this damn pit in my stomach because i know it’s never going to happen. you’re leaving. you’re going back to that stupid, perfect life of yours, and i’m stuck here. and it’s killing me,” i breathed in and he looked like he was about to say something but i continued.

“i’ve been ignoring it for weeks, pretending like this didn’t matter because i knew it was just gonna hurt when you left. but then you kept looking at me—looking at me like i was the only one in the world who mattered, and i started to believe it! and now i’m here, standing in front of you, and i’m trying to convince myself that it’s just some stupid crush, or maybe it’s just this summer heat that’s getting to me, but it’s not. it’s real. and it fucking terrifies me.” i stopped in my tracks, chest heaving, crying.

he opens his mouth to interject but i raise a finger "i'm not done."

i took another breath before starting my rant again. “i don’t want to fall for you. i don’t. you’re leaving, kimi. and i’ve been so stupid because i thought maybe, just maybe, i could make it through the last days of camp without really feeling anything for you. but now i do. and i can’t—i can’t—watch you walk away without feeling like i’m breaking into a million pieces. you’re everything i’ve spent the last few weeks trying not to want.”

i could see his face change, the hurt there, but there was something else too—a softness in his eyes that didn’t match the anger and frustration in my voice.

“you’re so fucking selfish, kimi,” i spat out, the words bitter on my tongue. “you come into my life like it’s just this temporary thing, like i’m some game you can play with for a few weeks, and i’m supposed to act like everything’s fine while you go back to your perfect little life and forget about me! well, i’m not fine, okay? i’m not okay. and i’m not just some passing thing for you to fixate on until the end of the summer and then leave behind.”

“i let myself actually like you,” i said, my voice cracking. “and that was so stupid, because this isn’t real. it’s just camp, and you’re just—this perfect, impossible thing that i can’t have, and i hate that i let you get under my skin. i hate that i care—”

but i didn’t finish the sentence.

because suddenly, kimi’s hands were cupping my face and his mouth was on mine and everything—every word, every fight, every glance across the dining hall—fell away like it had just been waiting for this moment to crash.

i froze for a second, mid-breath, mid-heartbeat, before my body finally caught up with what was happening and i kissed him back. hard.

it wasn’t gentle. it wasn’t soft or slow or sweet. it was weeks of tension, of looking and not touching, of biting our tongues and pretending and denying and wanting. it was angry and messy and real.

when he finally pulled away, i was breathless and stunned, his forehead pressed against mine.

“you talk too much,” he whispered.

my heart was doing backflips. i tried to glare. “you’re one to talk.”

he laughed, just a little, and didn’t move. “you’re wrong, you know.”

“about what?”

“about this being camp. about this not being real.” he pulled back to look at me fully, eyes wide and shining. “i’m not letting you go just because the summer ends.”

“kimi, you have to.”

“no, listen.” his hands dropped to my shoulders like he needed to hold onto something solid. “you said you want to be an onsite medic. come with me.”

“what?”

“formula one teams travel with medics. we need people like you. i need someone like you. i’ll talk to the team doctor, or i’ll talk to toto. or—i don’t know—i’ll fake an injury just so they have to bring you. you’re smart, you’re trained, you’re already halfway there.”

i blinked. “you want me to—what—follow you across the world?”

“if that’s what it takes.” he was rambling now, his voice shaking a little with adrenaline. “or—or we do long distance. i’ll fly you out when you want to come. i’ll come back during the break. i’ll do long-distance. i’ll come back here in the winter. i’ll quit if i have to—”

“kimi—”

“i don’t care how we make it work, i just know i want to. i want you. i’m serious. i’ll give them excuses or fake injuries or learn how to crash a car safely if it means they have to bring you to me. i want you there. or here. or wherever you want to be, as long as you let me be in it with you.”

my brain had officially short-circuited.

“be my girlfriend,” he said, without even hesitating. “please. i’m asking you now before i lose the nerve.”

i stared at him, heart racing. “you’re serious.”

“i’ve never been more serious,” he said, breathless. “and you can still say no, if that’s what you want. but i’m in. i’ve been in. since, like, week two.”

i laughed—stupid, giddy, overwhelmed laughter—and shook my head. “you’re insane.”

“only for you,” he said, grinning. “say yes.”

i didn’t answer.

i just kissed him again.

this time it was slower, my eyes fluttered shut. i felt his hands on my cheeks, his thumbs wiping the tears which had fallen down my cheeks. one of his hands moved to the back of my neck, deepening the kiss with a content sigh. the other slid down to my ass, which made me roll my eyes and move his hand up to my lower back. i could feel him smiling against my lips. my hands moved to his hair, letting my fingers tangle in his curls. i felt his tongue swipe my lower lip, almost begging for an entrance. i would have rolled my eyes again but instead i gave him what he wanted, opening my mouth just enough for him to slip his tongue into my mouth and keep kissing me. my one hand was tangled in his hair, and the other moved to slide down the front of his hoodie. i heard him hum with contentment as i kept kissing him. when we finally broke the kiss, i wrapped my arms around him and hid my face in his chest. he held me tight. i didn't even realise i was still crying, maybe from the rant, maybe the weeks of tension and yearning, but he held me tight, tracing circles on my back, his chin resting on the top of my head, occasionally pressing kisses to it, mumbling stuff in italian which i still couldn’t understand. i felt his chest rising slowly and steadily, his fingers running down the back of my sweatshirt. and we stayed like that for a while, me in his arms, slowly pulling myself together, and kimi holding me as if i would sprint into the lake if he let go.

“so, you didn’t answer my question,” he said into my hair, his voice low and warm. “can i be your boyfriend… please?”

i didn’t look up. i couldn’t. my face was still buried in his hoodie, my emotions barely under control. but i gave a small nod, a soft hum of approval vibrating in my throat.

“use your words, mi vida,” he murmured in my ear, his hand gently finding my chin and tilting it until i was forced to meet his eyes.

“yes, kimi,” i said, breath catching. “i would love that.”

his gaze softened. one hand moved from my chin to my cheek, brushing away a stray tear. and then—he laughed. quiet, breathy, affectionate.

“stop laughing at me!” i protested, though the corner of my mouth was already tugging into a smile.

“i’m not—” he tried to defend, still laughing, “i just didn’t expect you to be crying when i finally asked you out.”

i rolled my eyes but leaned into his touch anyway, my heart doing that fluttery thing it had no business doing.

“you know you made me break my third rule?” i said, voice barely above a whisper.

he smirked. “yeah, i heard about that one. ‘don’t fall for anyone at camp,’ right?” he stepped closer, arms sliding fully around me. “didn’t really go that well for you, huh?”

“oh, shut up,” i muttered, burying my face back into his chest to hide the smile i couldn’t stop.

maybe breaking my rules was a little okay.

© all works belong to tonellivision. please do not copy, translate or reupload to third party websites or feed my work to ai, character bots or recommend on tiktok/ twitter.

[daydreamgoddess14]

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Bucky Barnes Masterlist

Take Out

Well this kinda blew up a bit! Thank you so, so much for all the love, I think I've replied to everyone but if I haven't, feel free to shout at me! I LOVE hearing from you so if you want to scream about Bucky and the others, or just want to say hiii then my inbox is always open. I also accept prompts if there's anything you want to see in the future!

Today though, I think we should order take out?

Thunderbolts* / F!Reader, no warnings, just some domestic sweetness. Bucky x F!Reader brewing.

Word count: 1.8k

You made bread when you were angry. 

It kept your hands busy and gave you something to pummel. Bob sat at one end of the counter, reading, while you tipped the first batch of dough out onto the marble. You folded it together, gathering the clumps, and slammed it down hard.

Bob looked up.

“Is everything -”

“All good, Bob,” you said through gritted teeth. You picked up the dough, slammed it down again, and started pounding your fists into it, stretching and folding until it smoothed under your hands. Flour puffed into the air in little clouds. Bob stared at it, then wisely went back to his book.

Next to your bag, your phone vibrated against the counter. You wiped your hands, snatched it up, and glared at the screen.

“I’ll be right back,” you said softly.

The elevator took forever.

All the way down to the ground floor and out the glass doors. He was already there. His suit looked too crisp, too clean. The fit was still off, somehow, like he hadn’t earned it. You, in contrast, had flour on your shirt, your apron still around your waist, hair pulled up in a messy twist.

“You look… terrible,” he said.

“Thanks. Did you bring them?”

“Can we talk?”

“No. Can I have them?”

“Please?”

Over his shoulder, you spotted Yelena heading your way, and she wasn’t alone.

“I just want my keys,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. “And then I want you to go.”

He stepped closer. “Please. Just let me talk?”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Then just listen -”

“I don’t want to -”

“Girl!” Yelena’s voice rang out like a lifeline. “Didn’t know you even knew where the exit was.” She looped an arm over your shoulder, casually, but you could feel the steel beneath it. Her eyes flicked between you and the man in front of you. “Who’s this guy?”

“This is my ex,” you said tightly.

“Babe -”

“He was just leaving,” you cut in. “Weren’t you?”

Your ex sighed heavily, “yeah. Yeah I guess so. I just… wanted to explain.”

“I’m pretty sure I don’t need an explanation for why you were fucking your assistant in my apartment. Kinda speaks for itself.” You said directly. It was worth it to see his eyes widen with guilt. You felt Bucky’s gaze switch to you but you continued to stare down your ex.

He held up his hands in surrender, your keys hanging from his index finger. Ava reached out and snatched them away, making sure to crush his finger in her grip as she did so.

“C’mon, let’s go and make some coffee,” she said to you quietly, her voice pulling you away from him. She kept her eyes on you, full of a tenderness you’d not seen from her before. “Bucky picked out the Argentinian beans that you like.”

You nodded and let them lead you back into the building and into the elevator.

With the doors safely closed, you all breathed a sigh of relief. You dragged the back of your hand across your cheek to check for tears, leaving a smear of flour behind.

“Well that was… shitty,” Yelena huffed.

“Did he really do that?” Ava asked, incredulously. You nodded, still looking at the floor.

“What a cunt.”

The deadpan delivery and unexpectedly harsh language made you laugh. It bubbled up from nowhere but once you’d started you couldn’t stop. Yelena sniggered. Bucky shook his head and tried to hide his smile.

You got back to your bread.

The dough gave under your fists as you pounded and folded, trying to work the tension out of your shoulders and into the gluten.

None of them went far that afternoon. The kitchen stayed busy with small talk and side glances.

Right on cue, Alexei made his daily voyage.

“What’s for dinner, honey!?” he boomed in a terrible American accent, grinning at his own delivery.

Yelena and Ava exchanged a look. You’d barely said a word since the elevator.

“She’s not cooking tonight,” Yelena said.

“I am cooking,” you muttered, opening the fridge with a sigh. “I just haven’t figured out what yet.”

“We’re going out,” Ava announced, standing.

“We are?” Bucky asked, eyebrows rising.

“We are,” Ava repeated, pointing between you and Yelena. “Girls only.”

“I drive the limo!”

“No limo, Alexei. Girls’ night,” Yelena declared.

You turned, already shaking your head. “No, I don’t - really -”

“No saying no,” Yelena cut in, already halfway to her room. “You need something to wear!”

She reappeared seconds later when you didn’t follow. “Hey! Let’s go!”

You hesitated, then caught the smallest shift in Bucky’s expression. Not pity, not concern. Just… interest. Quiet encouragement. Like maybe he wanted you to go have fun, even if he wasn’t sure he should say it out loud.

That helped, as did Bob’s motivating double thumbs up.

“You should have some fun,” he nodded.

“Ok,” you said softly, wiping your hands on your apron. “Ok, fine.”

When loud Europop started filling the tower, John was the first to complain.

“What the hell is going on? And what’s for dinner?”

“They’re going out,” Bucky explained without looking up from his book.

“Who’s they?” “They're having a girls’ night,” Bob clarified.

You reappeared thirty minutes later, somehow transformed. Yelena had wrangled your hair into soft waves and lent you a black blazer. Your usual jeans had been swapped for a miniskirt and heels you didn’t remember agreeing to but you certainly weren’t going to fight real life superheroes over.

You were too focused on the phone pressed to your ear to notice the hush that fell over the kitchen.

“No, like… at least one of everything. Just - whatever feeds four grown superpowered idiots, plus dessert. Extra rice. And those gorgeous little fried dumplings? Oh and some sweet chilli sauce please.”

You hung up and slipped your phone into your tiny borrowed purse. “It’ll be here in twenty minutes, it’s already paid for -”

“It’s… a lot of food,” Bob observed, clearly impressed.

“I know what you guys can eat,” you said with a smile. 

“You look…” Bucky began, but the words snagged somewhere in his throat.

You didn’t notice. You were already being tugged towards the elevator by Ava.

“Don’t microwave anything in foil, and please don’t let John add ketchup. Bye!”

The elevator doors slid shut with you inside, leaving Bucky staring at the empty space where you’d been.

John raised an eyebrow. “You were saying?”

Bucky just shook his head and went back to the fridge. “Nothing.”

You were right to order so much. Alexei had sampled everything before it touched a plate and despite Bob’s protests, John had wandered off with the ketchup bottle tucked under his arm. Bucky boxed the limited leftovers and stashed them in the fridge.

“For later,” he muttered, when Bob raised an eyebrow.

The apartment quieted down after dinner. Alexei put on an eighties action movie and complained throughout about the portrayal of the Russian bad guy. Bob fell asleep during it. 

When they moved off to their own rooms, Bucky stayed in the kitchen, elbow on the counter, picking at a leftover dumpling. He didn’t notice how long he’d been standing there until the elevator chimed.

Yelena’s voice echoed down the hallway and Ava giggled.

And then he heard your soft laughter, warm and loose from alcohol and friendship. You kicked your shoes off just inside the door and let out a breathy moan. 

“God, my feet!” You complained through giggles.

You tiptoed unsteadily into the kitchen, heels dangling from two fingers. Your cheeks were flushed from the cold and more than a couple of cocktails. 

Yelena went straight for the cold tap, Ava to the fridge.

“Yesss, leftovers!”

You stopped short when you saw him, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, leaning at the counter. Watching the door.

“Hey,” you said quietly.

“Hey.”

“You always wait up like this?”

“Just wanted to make sure you all got back ok.”

Yelena turned from the sink, her eyes narrowing.

“Have you been waiting up all night like someone’s dad?”

Bucky shrugged. “Not all night.”

Ava opened a container and moaned dramatically. “This woman’s talent knows no bounds. I would marry these dumplings.”

“I didn’t make them,” you reminded her.

“But you know where to get all the good stuff!”

Yelena eyed the plate next to Bucky. “You saved her food?”

“Of course he did,” Ava said through a mouthful. “He’s a tragic little gentleman.”

You giggled at her absurd suggestion that Bucky was little.

Bucky rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched. “You hungry?”

“Starving,” you admitted.

He passed you the plate. You took it, and your fingers brushed his.

“You should stay,” Yelena said suddenly, eyes flicking between you both.

You laughed. “What, here?”

“You had a lot of tequila, it’s so late!” Ava added. “You’re not going home.”

“I made up the spare room,” Bucky said softly, eyes not leaving yours. “Just in case.”

Yelena let out a theatrical oooooh. Ava full-body cringed into the fridge.

You smiled, wide and surprised. “Yeah?”

He shrugged again, but there was nothing casual in the way he looked at you. Something in his voice made your stomach flip. “Like to be prepared.”

Yelena threw her arms in the air. “I cannot watch this. I need to sleep.”

Ava grabbed a dumpling and followed. “Use protection!”

You turned back to Bucky, who was very carefully pretending not to react while your cheeks were burning hot enough to fry an egg.

“God, she’s… I don’t think they understand the concept of a ‘spare room,’” you said softly.

“No, guess not,” he said, his voice just a little hoarse. 

You leaned back against the counter, dumpling halfway to your mouth. “Thanks for saving me some food.”

Bucky shrugged. “No big deal.” He hesitated before speaking again. “I heard what you said. When we were outside earlier. He was an idiot.”

You looked down at the plate. “Yeah. Well. Takes one to love one, I guess.”

Bucky’s voice was quiet. “You’re not an idiot, sweetheart.”

A soft silence settled between you.

He gestured vaguely toward the hallway. “Spare room’s all made up. There’s pajamas on the bed. They might be a little big. Drink some water.”

You smiled, your heart catching somewhere behind your ribs.

“Night,” he said, already turning to go, giving you space.

You watched him leave, the gentle sound of his footsteps down the hall, and let out a slow breath.

The dumpling was cold, but it still tasted perfect.

Please note, may contain sugar. Don't forget to tip your hostess with reblogs and ALWAYS ask for second helpings!

Tagging on request: @doilooklikeagiveafrack @althea-tavalas @tellybearryyyy @delfitaylorsversiom131989 @maryevm

[sushirrrry]

TRACED a harry styles x original character one shot word count: 22k (!!!!) cw: m/f intercourse, dirty talk, humiliation kink, talking her through it, marking kink, the slowest burn I've ever written, angst, praise kink,

summary: lily and harry go to a dinner party, harry wants to talk her through it, & harry seemingly loses chess to let her take control.

read part 1 before part 2.

this is one of the longest one shots I've ever written - over 20k WOW - I've also never written a part two so this just solidifies that this was needed & I hope you loooove the continuation of harry and lily <3

enjoy!

_________________

Harry had his feet up on her coffee table like he lived there – that wasn’t a new thing, he had been like that with her since day one.

Lily stirred the simmering pasta sauce and watched him from the corner of her eye—one leg crossed over the other, fingers absently flipping through a book he definitely hadn’t asked to borrow, curls damp from a recent shower before he had left his apartment, leaving little wet patches on the collar of his faded t-shirt. He scrunched his nose, almost in a move to push his glasses up on his face.

“You’re looking very comfortable,” she stated, staring at the sauce as she began lifting the wooden spoon to taste her work. Needed salt, she thought.

Harry looked up, deadpan from the book he had been reading as if he caught only the end of her sentence. But, to Lily’s surprise, Harry always listened to every little word.

“You say that like it's a bad thing.”

“It’s just… you know. You didn’t even knock.” Lily bit her lip; she didn’t want him to feel like it was a bad thing, but she always had never… experienced this kind of relationship before.

Harry not only didn’t knock, he left his jacket on the ground next to his shoes and grabbed himself a can of Diet Coke from her fridge.

She didn’t just love that he was making himself comfortable – she reveled in the way that he truly was just himself around her.

“I brought the wine for dinner,” he said, holding up the bottle beside him so that they could enjoy it with their dinner. “That’s basically knocking.”

Lily rolled her eyes but smiled, which only seemed to encourage him and all of his antics. She knew that he lived off of the energy that she fed him, which only made him want to push further.

“Also,” he continued, placing the book face-down on his chest as he let his head rest on the back of the sofa, “your neighbor already thinks I live here. He asked me to move my car. Called me ‘buddy.’ I didn’t correct him – said, ‘Hey buddy, can’t usually get out in the mornings, mind parking a bit closer on that side?’”

She flushed a little and turned back to the stove, hiding the way her cheeks from him or she knew that he would react to it. Harry had this effect of slipping past defenses without trying, of filling a room without forcing it; of being comfortable in a space she still sometimes tiptoed through.

She poured the pasta into a strainer and hesitated as she thought of her next question. She knew that there was another question on the tip of her tongue, and she wasn’t sure how to entirely bring it up to him.

It was something that she was a bit self-conscious on, considering she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to partake, but she knew that Harry would be all in the moment she asked.

“There’s, um… a thing on Saturday,” she said, nonchalantly, not wanting to make it a big deal.

Behind her, the couch creaked as Harry sat up, setting his book down again.

“A thing,” he echoed, amused. “That sounds incredibly specific, please don’t tell me anything more – I’m overwhelmed with information.”

She rolled her eyes at his wittiness, “It’s just…  it’s friends, a dinner party,” she said quickly. “We do it every few months. Potluck style. It’s – I mean, it’s nothing fancy. You don’t have to come. I just thought maybe—”

He was already walking toward her when she went to pour the noodles back into the pot.

“Lily,” he said, soft but certain; standing next to her now, he looked down at her. The way that this hand caressed the side of her wrist, he bit his lip at the hot touch. “I’d love to come.”

She met his eyes, those maddeningly open, green-flecked eyes that sat behind those glasses, and tried not to let her breath catch.

“I, uh… I get weird. Around a lot of people. You know that – I mean, even friends. It’s just… that’s actually overwhelming to me. And then having to tell them about you,” Her eyes widened at the way it sounded, “Not that I don’t want to introduce you! I do! It’s –“

“I know.” He reached past her to grab two plates, brushing her shoulder just enough to make her heart race. “But I also know you’re not weird, and that you’re just a bit socially aware to a higher degree than most. I live to be the life of the party, ergo, why we work together.”

“That’s because you’re… not normal,” she muttered with a slightly sly tongue.

Harry grinned at her response. “Normal is deeply overrated. You’re charmingly mysterious. I’m outrageously good-looking and have very talented hands in one way or another. We make a balanced pair.”

Lily scoffed, dishing pasta onto both plates, grateful for something to do with her hands.

“Besides,” he added, tone light but sincere, “I would enjoy seeing you in your world. I’ve already conquered the tattoo shop. Your apartment. That bakery you pretend not to like but always take me to.”

“I don’t always—”

“And now,” he said, stealing a forkful of pasta from her plate before she could stop him, “it’s time to infiltrate the friend group. Win hearts. Win stomachs. Probably win you all over again, but that’s a given.”

She looked at him then, really looked—at the ease in his smile, the affection under all the teasing. He wasn’t just saying yes to a dinner party. He was saying yes to her – he was saying yes to being seen with her, which was the most encouraging part of the entire thing.

Once both of them had their plates, Lily making sure that Harry got his own garlic bread, since he always liked to steal bites of hers, they took a seat at the small table that sat in the nook in Lily’s tiny apartment.

Only two seats; practically on top of one another. But, Harry wouldn’t have had it any other way.

A tiny candle flickered between them—not lit for ambience, really, just left over from the power outage two weeks ago, but it cast enough glow to soften the shadows and make everything feel vaguely more intimate than Lily had intended.

She twirled her fork through the pasta, hyper-aware of every clink of metal against ceramic. Harry ate like he always did—unapologetically, making sounds of appreciation like it was the best thing he’d tasted all week.

“You know,” he said between bites, “if I’d known you were capable of this level of culinary magic, I’d have made you cook for me on day one. Now I know why everyone always wants to kiss the chef.”

“You would’ve scared me off on day one if you told me you wanted to kiss me,” Lily muttered, biting at her lip before looking up with large eyes. The large doe-like eyes that drew Harry in so quickly and effortlessly that day in the shop.

He paused, then smiled like he knew exactly how right she was.

“Probably,” he agreed. “But you’d have come back, obviously. I have that effect on people.”

She glanced up at him, cautious as she took a bite of her pasta. “You’re very confident.”

“I’m also very observant,” he said, nudging her plate slightly closer when she paused too long without eating. “You’re still here, aren’t you? Haven’t left yet?”

She blushed and dropped her gaze, taking another small bite. Harry leaned back in his chair, watching her over the rim of his freshly poured wine glass.

“You ever just want to flirt back?” he asked casually, like he just wanted to rile her up.

Lily cleared her throat, eyes going anywhere but up to the man in front of her. She could feel his grin; could feel his cockiness radiating from across the table.

“I-,” she managed after wiping the side of her mouth with her napkin. “I- I don’t know - ”

“Don’t what?” He coaxed, leaning forward a bit on the table; his lopsided grin was just teasing her now. It was such a small table she felt that he was practically in her lap. “Say it.”

She shook her head, lips twitching, but she couldn’t look at him directly. There was something disarming about the way he looked at her—like he saw every flinch, every half-formed thought behind her eyes, and still wanted in.

“I’m not good at that stuff,” she said quietly. “Flirting. Saying the right thing. I always second-guess it. Myself, all the time.”

Harry’s grin softened, just slightly. Enough to let the joking drop into something real.

“That’s the thing, though,” he told her. “You don’t have to be good at it. You just have to mean it.” He stopped for a moment, letting the façade drop before he shrugged. “You already have me; you don’t have to work that hard to keep me.”

She hesitated, toying with the edge of her napkin. “What if I don’t know how to mean it the right way? Or you take it the wrong way?”

“You don’t need a script, Lily,” he said gently. “You just need to stop trying to edit yourself so much.”

The silence between them hummed. Not heavy—just charged, like air right before lightning struck down. It felt like they were waiting for the ball to dorp.

She finally looked at him, and when she did, he wasn’t smiling anymore. Just watching her with a quiet, impossible patience.

So she said the first honest thing that came to her mind: “I like when you’re over here,” She tilted her head, finally letting her eyes lay on his, “You fill the space, and it’s nice.”

Harry’s mouth twitched – he couldn’t help how, in her own way, that was one of the nicest things she could have said.

“See?” he said, taking another sip of his wine. “You’re a natural.”

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table, his fork dangling from his fingers as he studied her for a moment. The way that her hair sat on her shoulders, her make-up was soft but in a dewy way. It made her look alive; made her look like she was glowing from the inside out.

“I like when I come over, too,” he said, quieter this time, trying to match her energy even though he could scream it from the rooftops, if he was asked. “Kind of feels like I’m being let into this secret little world of yours. Even if you pretend it’s nothing.”

Lily blinked at him, unsure what to do with the way his voice lowered like that—gentle, teasing, but edged with something honest. She could barely hold eye contact without her pulse jumping out of her chest.

“I don’t pretend it’s nothing,” she said, almost defensively, shaking her head a little bit.

“No?” His eyes softened. “Then what is it? The bit of nonchalance.”

She floundered, not because she didn’t have an answer, but because all the ones she did have felt too vulnerable. Too true. She swallowed and looked down at her plate. They ate with such purpose, letting their meal be an invited guest in their conversations.

“It’s... it just feels safe,” she said finally, voice barely above a whisper as she pushed her pasta around on the plate. “You being here. It’s … different than my quiet. I like quiet, don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to make a big deal of it, because then maybe it’ll start being a big deal. It just feels new, and I like the energy that you bring.”

Harry was silent for a beat. Then, with a quiet response that made her feel bad for even allowing his glow to dim: “You know I can be quiet, right?”

She let out a soft laugh. “You’re never quiet.”

“Sure I am. When you’re reading. Or cooking. Or when I’m trying not to scare you away by saying dumb things like I really like the way your voice drops when you’re unsure of something.”

Her breath caught.

“I—what?”

“Exactly like that,” he said, tilting his head as if examining her, gentle and warm and utterly infuriating.

Lily’s fingers tightened around her fork, licking the edge of her lip before feeling the heat of her cheeks rising rapidly. “You do this to me on purpose.”

“What, tell you the truth?” he asked. “Yeah, I do. Relationships are based on truth, aren’t they?”

She shook her head, looking away, cheeks burning at that. “You’re too much sometimes.”

“And yet,” he said, reaching for his wine again, “you still invite me over.”

He didn’t say it like a challenge. He said it like a fact. And maybe that was the thing about Harry—he didn’t demand anything from her. He just let her react, unravel, exist. And somehow, that made her want to give him more.

She reached for her own wine, took a long sip, and when she set the glass down, her hand brushed against his on the table. It wasn’t an accident, though, even though she made it seem that way. Harry stilled, just for a second, as if giving her the choice to move away.

She didn’t.

Instead, she stared at their hands, fingers only barely touching, and said, “I don’t really do this.”

He didn’t move. “Do what?”

“This," She gestured between then, "People. Letting them in.”

His thumb ghosted over the edge of her pinky, the smallest touch. “I know.”

Her chest felt like it might cave in as she took in his words, knowing that he meant them. But not in a bad way. Not in the way she used to associate with being seen.

“I’m trying,” she whispered; and she had been.

She had been trying so hard to compartmentalize this feeling – it was so new. Dating, this whole thing. Harry was so forward, so ready to give affection at any given moment. And then there was Lily, so shy, so meek. So unsure of herself at times.

Harry’s voice was steady, warm. “You don’t have to rush it. I’m not going anywhere.” After another moment, he shrugged, “I don’t have to go with you on Saturday, if you feel that’s rushing it.”

She looked up then, answering quicker than she could have imagined herself, “No, I want you there.”

And maybe it was something about the candlelight, or the way he was still watching her like she was worth waiting for—but she leaned forward, slowly, unsure, until he met her halfway. There was hesitance on his end, knowing it was so unlike her to initiate something that could have possibly lead to rejection.

The kiss was soft. Barely there. Not because of hesitation, but because it didn’t need to prove anything. The taste of red wine on his lips, the taste of the creamy tomato sauce on hers.

When she pulled back, she felt like she’d exhaled something she’d been holding in for years.

Harry smiled, lazy and lopsided like he had been completed overwhelmed with affection. “You’re absolutely ruining me, you know that?”

The way that his voice lowered told her everything she needed to know but would be too afraid to admit. He was absolutely wrecked with her. It was a feeling that could not be described, a feeling that was heavily influenced by the pure attraction and cadence that Lily showed him. Every ounce of her was shifting; her ideas, her thoughts, her wants and needs.

All she could think about was him. It felt too good to be true, it always felt that way no matter what she was thinking. But, sitting here with him in her small apartment on the east side had been more than enough to swell her heart a few sizes larger.

It was enough to calm her; to allow her the dignity to hold her shoulders back and feel that her confidence was there, that she couldn’t have dream this life if she slept for a hundred years.

And she hoped that same confidence would push her through introducing him to her friends – she hoped that her friends found the same intrigue in him that she had. It was all she could do; hope.

***

Saturday.

Lily had a thing for being extremely early, and Harry had a thing for showing up when he was told, but usually fifteen minutes late. So, by the time Harry had arrived at Lily’s apartment like they had agreed, the dinner party was already in full swing.

When Lily and Harry arrived—warm laughter spilling out through the slightly cracked apartment door, the hum of music and clinking glasses weaving a comforting kind of chaos.

Lily shifted the lemon bars in her hands and looked up at him. “We can still turn around.”

Harry, carrying the wine under one arm like a casual afterthought, gave her a look that was both amused and gentle as he looked at the front door. “We’re already here.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I brought wine – again,” he said, like that solved everything. “You made lemon bars. That means we’re the best guests here by default.”

She gave him a look, nerves fluttering in her chest. “Just… don’t be too charming, okay?”

Harry’s grin went wide, delighted but also a bit slated by the way that she said it. “You say that like I have control over it.”

Before she could roll her eyes, the door swung open with surprise even though they had knocked—Ava, already barefoot, hair up in a messy bun, holding a wine glass and looking thrilled at seeing the two of them. Her eyes went from Lily to Harry, a bit shocked that there were two of them standing there.

“Finally,” Ava said, stepping back, allowing the two to come in the foyer. “I was starting to think you two were imaginary.”

Lily smiled shyly, gesturing towards the lemon bars that sat in her arms. “These are lemon bars. They’re still a little warm—”

“She made them,” Harry added quickly, shrugging.

Ava took the lemon bars in her arms, smirking at the two of them, “Of course you did, Lily – I’m sure they’re divine, like always,” Her eyes trailed back to Harry as he gave her a warm smile, “You must be Harry, then. We’ve all heard so much about you. I’m Ava.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Ava – hope they were good things.” Harry greeted, nodding her head at her. He held a bottle of wine, showing it to her, “Table for this?”

Ava turned to bring them into the room where everyone had been sitting, “Yes, we can put everything over here."

The two of them followed her into the living room and dining space; it looked like mostly everyone was there, which gave Lily already a burst of annoyance that they were semi-late, but it seemed that everyone still hadn’t eaten yet, so that made her feel better.

“Sorry we were late,” Lily offered, feeling Harry’s hand on her back.

“It’s my fault,” Harry shook his head, “Lily would never be late.”

Ava set the lemon bars on the table, taking a sip of her wine before smiling, “Oh, we were worried about her! She’s never late to anything, so I was worried something happened.”

“Gotta’ keep her on her toes a bit.” Harry charmed, “Take her out of her comfort zone once in a while. Not every day you meet a girl who’s just perfect in everything.”

The look on Ava’s face was one of surprise as she noticed Lily’s blush creeping on her face, she gave Lily a small look before she said, “She is quite perfect, I agree,” Ava cleared her throat, “Uh, please help yourselves to something to drink – we have wine, liquor, beer,” She looked at the table, “Stuff in the fridge, whatever you want. I think we are still waiting on a few other people.”

Ava placed her hand on Lily’s shoulder as she moved around her, whispering in her ear, “You said cute, not a fucking art-house stud.”

Lily turned her head as she watched Ava walk away with a devilish smirk on her face, wine being brought to her lips.

Harry turned to Lily with a triumphant look. “See? Easy. I’ll get you something to drink to wash away those nerves.”

Inside, the apartment buzzed with easy energy: twinkling string lights, a mismatched table set with dishes people had clearly brought from home, the comforting smell of baked brie and roasted vegetables wafting from the kitchen where Ava and her partner, Landon, had been standing as they tried to get everything together. It wasn’t fancy, but it was theirs—and Lily was suddenly very aware of how much it meant to bring Harry into it.

Her friends greeted her with grins, hugs, and raised eyebrows as they noticed Harry standing beside her. Most of them had heard something about Harry, but seeing him there—tall, casually dressed in a dark button-down with his sleeves pushed up and his tattoos peeking out from the unbuttoned collar, curls slightly unruly, charm dialed all the way up to a level past one-hundred—made it real.

“So,” said Danika, one of Ava’s friends who Lily had met a few other times, “You must be the tattoo guy.”

“That might be me,” Harry said, sliding into a seat on the couch with a bottle of beer, like he’d always belonged there. That was the thing about Harry – he didn’t need to be babysat by Lily, he just moved around and talked to whomever. It didn’t take effort, so Lily just watched from afar. “But I answer to many titles. Lemon bar connoisseur. Bad influence. Harry, mostly.”

“Professional bullshitter, Lily added under her breath, settling beside him. Harry moved to make room for her, even pulling her into his lap a bit.

He bumped her shoulder, playful. “She likes it, though, so I have to keep that image up.”

Danika bit her lip as she stared between them, “You are so not what expected for Lily,” She gave Lily a look, and then back to Harry, “But I think that’s what makes dating fun, isn’t it?”

Harry turned his head to see Lily blink over at him, “Chance is a funny game, but it’s cool when it works out in your favor.”

The small black skirt, the flowing white top with bell-bottom sleeves, her hair pulled back into a half-up with a clip. The way that her lips were pink and flushed, her eyes mesmerizing with long lashes and a flurry of freckles that danced along her skin.

Every part of Lily reminded Harry of what he saw in her the very first day, and how lucky he had been to have her walk in the tattoo shop that day. 

They fell into an easy rhythm as the evening unfolded. Lily didn’t talk much, but when she did, it was with that soft, deliberate thoughtfulness her friends had always loved—and Harry made space for it, never talking over her, but always giving her room to speak if she wanted to. It was subtle, but she noticed.

She also noticed how quickly he won everyone over. The jokes, the way he remembered names immediately and would say them back as if to engrain them, the way he complimented Ava’s vintage glassware and meant it. He teased, but kindly. Told stories with the kind of easy confidence she envied.

When the group started sharing their worst first-date stories, Harry leaned in like he’d been waiting for this exact opportunity.

“I once took a girl out who told me—mid-bite of my club sandwich, mind you—that she thought tattoos were a cry for attention and that insecure people got them as a shout for help.”

“Oh no,” Ava gasped, covering her mouth. “That’s so crazy.”

“She said marking your skin was a sin of God as he had made you the way he wanted to,” he added. “I told her my parole officer was calling to schedule my court date so I could leave.”

Laughter broke around the table, and even Lily couldn’t hold back her smile at his ridiculous way of trying to make people laugh.

But what made her heart ache—just a little—wasn’t the way everyone liked him. It was the way he kept glancing at her, like she was the one he was trying to impress. Like she was the reason he was being funny. Like none of it mattered without her eyes on him.

“So, how’d you two meet?” Cynthia asked, one of her other friends, chin propped in her hand, eyes bright with curiosity as she stared at the two of them. “And please say it was some cool, grungy bar or a chance encounter at a bookstore where Lily was probably holding way too many books, so you offered to help her carry them home.”

“Not exactly,” Lily’s stomach fluttered, but before she could open her mouth to say any else, Harry leaned forward with an exaggeratedly serious expression; he’d had a few drinks that that point, so his usual chattiness had just upped.

“She walked into the shop like she was going to pass out,” he said, grinning, from the memory and the alcohol mixed together. “Wanted a tattoo but looked like she’d rather die.”

Lily groaned, covering her face with her hands. “Harry—”

“She was really adorable,” he continued, undeterred by her groans. “Kept second-guessing everything. I offered her water like three times. Thought she’d bolt when I turned my back or something.”

“I almost did,” Lily mumbled into her hands.

“But she didn’t,” Harry said, glancing sideways at her. “She sat there and took it like a champ.”

“And the rest is history?” Ava asked, grinning, leaning into Landon.

Harry’s voice softened, just slightly, his hand finding her thigh under the table as they sat next to one another. He looked over at her, a small bait of confidence hopefully.

“I- uh,” Harry, without much to say for the first time ever, found himself trying to hold back the large smile that was trying to break on his face, “Yeah. Something like that.”

Lily peeked at him through her fingers, heart thudding.

It wasn’t the story, really. It was how he told it with the sense warmth, like he had been waiting for her to step into that tattoo shop forever. With just enough truth to make it funny, and just enough fondness to make it feel like a memory worth keeping, even if his version was dramatized a bit.

“And then I asked her to get coffee with me, and I just – I don’t know, I didn’t want to live a life that didn’t have her in it anymore. Really weird how life can do that sometimes.”

At that, Lily turned to look at him – really look at him. His usually goofy, overwhelming self made her shy and want to let him shine. But the comment sat with her for a moment as she felt her radiance for just a small moment; he wanted to live in a world where she shone. He wanted to uplift her, show her off, show her how much she meant to him, and that made her feel as high as she could get.

Danika took a large sip of wine, shaking her head, “We’ve been waiting for Lily to find someone that understood her sparkle.”

Ava added, “She’s quiet, but she’s got unbelievable layers.”

“Guys,” Lily shook her head, letting her hand travel over Harry’s larger one that held on her thigh. “You’re too much.”

Later, while people passed around homemade brownies and Lily’s lemon bars and refilled their drinks with more laughter and drunken smiles involved as the night had gone on, Ava leaned in as they sat on the sofa together and whispered, “He’s a keeper.”

Lily nodded, cheeks warm as she took her own sip of wine. “I know.”

And she did. For the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel like she was playing catch-up in her own life. She had someone who moved at her pace—someone who never asked her to be louder, or bolder, or someone she wasn’t.

Harry caught her looking at him just then, across the table from where he was sitting, listening to a story. He gave her the smallest wink of an acknowledgement. He didn’t need to be sitting near her to let her know he was thinking of her.

The last of the wine had gone warm. Someone queued a playlist that drifted into soft jazz, and the light hum of conversation settled into the quiet, comfortable lull that came when the night had peaked and begun its slow descent. People were sitting around, enjoying conversations with one another.

Lily sat on the sofa, legs crossed as she took in the conversations around her, her glass empty in her hands, watching the soft chaos of her friends—legs tucked under them on couches, laughter now more breath than sound, plates empty except for brownie crumbs and lemon bar sugar dust.

Harry was leaned back in a mismatched dining chair, his arms crossed, ankles kicked out, the kind of relaxed posture that didn’t try to impress but still managed to. He was in the middle of a story—one of the tamer ones—and she watched as her friends fell into his rhythm easily, drawn in by his dry humor, the wry twist of his mouth when he delivered a punchline without raising his voice.

She watched with intent, watching the way that people were drawn to him in a way that made her jealous, proud, and rigorously enticed in so many ways.

She had noticed that Ava wasn’t around, and moved towards the kitchen to help with some clean-up.

The kitchen was a mess in the way all good parties left it—crumb-speckled plates stacked in the sink, wine-stained glasses balanced precariously on the counter, and serving spoons abandoned in half-empty casserole dishes. Lily stood barefoot in front of the sink, sleeves rolled to her elbows, warm water running over her hands as she scrubbed a baking dish that had once held mac and cheese.

Ava dried a wine glass beside her, hip bumped against the counter, her bun unraveling slowly over the course of the night.

“I really like him,” she said, not bothering to pretend it was a casual remark.

Lily didn’t look up, focusing on getting the dried cheese off the pan instead. “You’ve said that three times.”

Ava shook her head, trying to read Lily as best as she could. “I know, I know. I just keep saying it in case you forget.”

Lily smiled faintly with the thought of her friends loving Harry, rinsing suds from the dish before handing them to her friend who held the drying towel, “He was good tonight.”

“He was,” Ava agreed. “And not in a ‘look at me, I’m impressive’ way. Just... easy. Like, charismatic and fun and… what you need.”

“Yeah,” Lily said softly, acknowledging her friend with a few nods and biting her lip as she continued to focus her hands in the sink, “He makes things feel easy.”

There was a pause as Ava handed her a towel and leaned back against the counter, watching her with the quiet knowing that only came from years of friendship, and for Ava to actually see Lily the way that Harry did. Lily had tried so hard in friendship, wanting to be seen and wanting to be heard. It was something she needed to work at, but she knew that Ava had been that person for her.

Ava had met Landon, they had been together for years and Lily had seen how easy it could be. She knew it was possible – but Ava was beautiful, and charming, and had everything working in her favor.

Lily, on the other hand, worked hard to make all of those things true.

“You’ve never brought someone into this part of your life before,” Ava acknowledges, “Around us, around your friends.”

Lily paused, drying her hands as she nodded, with a knowingness, “I know.”

Ava bumped her shoulder, smiling at her friend. “I’m glad it’s him.”

Just then, the sound of someone walking into the kitchen archway took them out of their conversation to stare at the individuals, already shedding the faint chill of the night air, a leftover lemon bar in hand, half-wrapped in foil like he’d just raided the fridge.

“Thought I lost you,” Harry said, voice low and playful. “I was gonna have to just leave with the lemon bars and never speak to anyone again.”

Lily turned, drying her hands on a dishtowel. “I’m just helping clean up.”

“I figured that’s what you would be doing,” he said, stepping further into the kitchen. He glanced toward Ava and lifted the foil like a peace offering. “Permission to steal her?”

Ava raised her hands, throwing the towel she had on the counter. “By all means. She’s yours.”

Lily gave her a quick look—soft, grateful—and then followed Harry to the door, the two of them slipping on their coats in the hallway. After a quick goodbye, some hugs and thanks given, Harry held the door open for her with a crooked grin.

The air outside was cooler than Lily expected when they made their way out of the apartment building, brushing over her skin in little bursts as she stepped out onto the front stoop. The last remnants of laughter and music echoed faintly behind them like a memory—dull through the walls, yet still lingering in her chest like a hum. The warmth of the wine, the soft buzzing of the evening’s attention still wrapped around her like an oversized sweater.

They walked through the quiet city streets under a pale wash of streetlights, close enough that their arms brushed now and then. The air was cool, the kind that snuck under your jacket and made your skin remember how to feel.

Harry was quiet for once—not in a moody way, but in the way that people get when they’re letting something settle. Lily felt it too, his usually bubbly-self had become quite dim. The party had been loud in the best way, but she was glad for the quiet now, for the sound of his sneakers on the pavement and the occasional soft laugh when he brought up something Ava had said.

Harry walked beside her, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket, the other carrying the half-eaten tray of lemon bars. His strides were loose, unhurried, like he had nowhere to be but next to her.

“You know,” he said as they passed under the golden haze of a streetlight, “I think I won.”

Lily blinked up at him, pulling her jacket closed around her. “Won what?”

“Dinner party MVP. Best guest. Most charming presence. Take your pick.”

She huffed out a laugh, cheeks feeling the hurt from smiling all night. “You made one joke about parole and complimented someone’s playlist because they were playing the Pixies. That’s a low bar.”

“Flawlessly executed, ten out of ten,” he said. “I rest my case.”

The streets were quiet at this hour, the occasional hum of a distant car passing, but not too many people past them. Lily pulled her jacket tighter around herself and fell into step just a little closer to him. He made it known that he wanted her close, letting his arm hug over her shoulder to pull her into him as they walked.

Lily heard Harry take a deep breath before he cleared his throat, slowing their walk as they approached an intersection.

“Uh, so,” he started, turning to face the opposite way from her apartment, “My place is actually closer to here than yours is.”

The way he said it wasn’t an invitation, really, but more of an observation that he wanted to introduce to her. It was clear that he may have wanted to give some hints, but didn’t want her to feel that he was pressuring her to do anything she didn’t want to.

It had only been four months – three months of this. It felt that every move they made could be new if they allowed it to be, but the feeling of nerves was there occasionally when they wanted it to be. Harry felt nervous thinking of what she would say, how she would react.

“Five blocks that way, actually,” he said. “You wanna come over? If you’re too tired, you don’t have to, but yours is thirty minutes and two trains. I was just thinking – “

“I’ve never been,” she said before she could stop herself. It came out smaller than she intended, but the intrigue was there.

He glanced over at her, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then: “I know.”

The way he said it wasn’t loaded. It was just true.

“Okay,” she said, nodding against his arm, her voice steadier now, with decisiveness. “Let’s go to yours.”

Harry didn’t say anything at first. He just smiled. The kind of smile that said thank you and finally and I won’t mess this up all at once.

So, they turned towards Harry’s apartment instead. Lily moved first, taking a few steps in the direction Harry had initiated and he felt a ping in his heart as he felt her want, her draw for something new. It took a lot out of her to do something like that, so he appreciated the enthusiasm for the invite.

Harry’s building was one of those old, converted warehouse spaces—tall windows, exposed brick, creaky floors. The kind of place that felt a little like a movie set if the movie was about someone who collected too many books and didn’t own matching chairs.

Ivy was curling along its edges like the veins of something alive. Inside, the stairwell creaked beneath their feet, wooden banisters worn smooth by time. He unlocked the door on the third floor and pushed it open with a sweep of his hand.

The apartment smelled faintly of cedar and ink and paper. The walls were cluttered with framed sketches—some in color, some in pencil. Books stacked in towers against the wall. A vintage record player. A dying plant he kept insisting was “in recovery.” A collection of mismatched mugs on open shelves in the kitchen caught her attention, too.

As soon as Lily stepped inside behind him, she felt her breath catch—not in awe exactly, but in recognition. The space was... him. Every inch of it radiated intention in a messy, artful kind of way. The floors were hardwood and scuffed, a rug with curling edges stretched beneath a low coffee table cluttered with sketchbooks, candles, and what looked like a half-assembled model of a ship that she wasn’t sure he had started, or if he had bought it like that. She wouldn’t have put it past him.

The walls were gallery-like—framed ink drawings, messy charcoal sketches pinned directly to the plaster, a few Polaroids tacked up among them with friends and memories he undoubtedly wanted to keep. There were books stacked in teetering piles by the windows, next to old records and mismatched furniture that somehow didn’t clash but harmonized, like an accidental symphony.

It was a mess, but in the kind of way that told a story. Like everything had been touched, chosen, kept.

“Sorry it’s not minimalist and beige,” he said, throwing his keys into a bowl shaped like a skull. “I was going for eccentric artist with emotional depth.”

“I don’t know what I expected,” Lily murmured, turning in place, arms crossed over her body.

“Boring? Empty?” Harry offered, shedding his jacket and tossing it on a hook by the door. He offered his hand for hers, “Wrong place.”

She shed her jacket, handing it to him with a thanks, “No. It’s... layered.”

He grinned. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

She wandered to the windowsill, where a cracked clay dish held a mess of rings, paperclips, and what looked like a tiny glass vial of gold flakes. A small, battered lamp cast a pool of warm amber over the couch, worn in the cushions and draped in a navy throw that had clearly seen better days.

“This just feels like someone lives here,” she said, staring out the view of his apartment, down onto the street that they were just walking on.

Harry raised a brow, maneuvering into the kitchen. “Good. I do. Every day.”

She looked over her shoulder, catching the way he was watching her—not impatient, not expectant. Just there, fully present, as he always seemed to be. He stood in the kitchen, pouring them each a glass of water, and returned to hand her one.

"You’re nervous,” he said softly, observing her as they stood awkwardly in the corner of his living room.

“I’m not—” She stopped, exhaled as she looked at the glass he handed her. “Okay, maybe a little.”

Harry didn’t press her, of course. He simply sat on the edge of the couch and let her move at her own pace. No rush. No demand.

“You know,” he said, swirling his glass a little, “for someone who gets nervous, you’re surprisingly bold.”

She glanced over at him, confused, she moved to sit next to him but just kept still for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“You walked into a tattoo shop alone. You let me talk you through your first ink, even though I could see you were ready to bolt.”

“I didn’t bolt. I usually do."

“Exactly.” He smiled at her over the rim of his glass. “Takes guts.”

She rolled her eyes, but her heart fluttered. “I get overwhelmed easily. You know that.”

“I do,” he said. “And I like it.”

Lily turned slowly toward him, cautious. “You like that I get overwhelmed?”

“I like watching you work through it,” he said, voice low and warm like honey moving over. “I like the way you get quiet, like your whole world shrinks to one thought. I like how deliberate you are—how you don’t give anything away until you mean it.”

She swallowed, feeling that the way he said it meant something more as if it had a double meaning as they sat there next to one another. “That’s not how most people feel about me.”

“I’m not most people.”

He set his glass down and leaned back, one arm draped across the back of the couch, like he’d carved out a space for her without needing to ask.

Lily took a step closer, biting her lip as she felt that boldness he had talked about.

“Do you," She swallowed thickly, feeling her skin tingle at the thought of looking up to see him staring at her. When she did, it was all she saw.

"Do you bring girls here often?” she asked quietly, feeling embarrassed for asking the question at all, or prying enough.

“Nope.”

“Not even for—” She gestured vaguely, face flushing as she crossed her arms. “You know.”

He chuckled, deep and low, but feeling entirely too warm from watching her stand in front of him - the fact that she would even insinuate that made him feel a laugh in his throat.

“Nope. Not for that, either.”

She shifted on her feet, flustered. “I guess – I mean, we haven’t even…”

“No,” he said, lips quirking at her suggestion, but finishing her thought for her so she wouldn't have to. “We haven’t.”

The pause hung between them. Not tense. Just thick with awareness. She started to notice the more noticeable things about him; the way his nose ring fit snug, the way his mustache was perfectly groomed, the glasses on the bridge of his nose eventuated the sparkle in his eye, the mess of curls that fell onto his forehead that were a bit windswept as you walked back to his place.

“You never tried,” she said, almost barely making it past her lips.

“I could tell you weren’t ready. And it’s more fun this way.”

Her brow lifted at his choice of words. “Fun?”

He sat forward slightly, his voice dipping as he reached for her hand.

“Yeah. You’re like this beautiful, intricate lock, and I like figuring you out piece by piece. What makes you laugh. What makes you blush. What makes you look at me like you’re doing right now,” He made himself comfortable on the couch, leaning back a bit as he looked back at her, “I like when you look at me like that.”

She hadn’t realized she was looking at him like that—like she wanted to kiss him and also hide from him at the same time.

Harry stood slowly, hand still holding hers, and closed the space between them until she could feel the heat of him, the slow, steady rhythm of his breath. Such a different side, such a welcoming side.

“If you put the wrong key in the lock, you can break it real easy. I don’t need all of you tonight,” he said gently, his fingers running along the side of her face, pushing hair off her shoulder. “Not until you want to."

She didn’t pull away, all she could do was lean in.

And when he kissed her, it was slow, and patient, and made her forget every careful thing she’d rehearsed in her head. She didn’t think - it was all by feeling.

Harry bent his head and touched his mouth to hers like he was learning something—pressing in, pulling back, giving her a beat to catch up. His lips were soft but firm, coaxing her open little by little, his thumb brushing her jaw as if grounding her there.

She responded this time. Surer of herself than she had been before. She knew that Harry liked kissing her; it was something she felt confident on by the way that he held her tightly like he wanted more, more, more. Her hand slid up to his chest, fingers resting lightly against the beat of his heart, and she kissed him back with a quiet kind of hunger that surprised even her.

He made a sound in the back of his throat that was low and revenant and deepened the kiss.

His hand slipped from her jaw to the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair, tilting her just enough to draw another sigh from her lips. She stepped into him, the front of her body brushing his, and he instinctively pulled her closer. His other hand splayed along her lower back—guiding, not pushing.

The tension shifted quickly—gentle heat started turning into something sharp, more urgent.

Lily’s breath hitched when his teeth grazed her bottom lip, and that tiny sound, which was barely more than a gasp, nearly undid him.

Harry’s fingers flexed at her waist in an attempt to keep himself sane. He wanted her. God, he wanted her.

Every part of her—shy and fierce and uncertain—was undoing him, piece by piece. The softness of her mouth, the way she clung to his shirt like she didn’t know what else to hold onto, the slight tremble of her breath. He could feel the heat building in his body, the ache of wanting to press her against the nearest wall and kiss her until she forgot her own name.

But he didn’t. He pulled his hips back when she went to press herself against him even more. Just slightly, so she wouldn’t make a huge deal of it.

But, then her eyes opened with a lidded daze and her lips were swollen with a maroon color so obnoxiously addictive, her breath uneven. Harry practically screwed his eyes shut to try and not think about how she looked right now.

Instead, he kissed the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, then her jaw. Slower now, softer. Trying to calm the fire roaring beneath his skin. She fell into his touch, a small giggle escaping her breath as he tickled his way down her neck.

“Harry,” she breathed, her hand fisting in the front of his shirt.

“Shh,” he murmured, kissing the hollow just beneath her ear. “I just… I just need a second.”

She pulled back, blinking at him at him as if something was off. “Did I do something—?”

“No.” He was firm, steady with his response. “No. You didn’t do anything wrong. You did everything right.”

Her brows drew together.

“I mean, I’m not exactly thinking gentleman-esque thoughts at the moment,” he admitted with a hint of humor, his voice raw now as he drew back. “But I want to make sure you know how much I want you. Not just when it’s hot and dizzy and hard to think. I don’t want you thinking that’s why I brought you here, or what I’m trying to get."

She stared at him for a long moment. Then, with a trembling exhale, she nodded as if to understand. And in that nod was something he hadn’t truly seen from her since on that table at the shop— undoubtably trust.

He kissed her again, just once. Slow. Thoughtless. Instinctively.

Then, without letting her go, he pulled her toward the couch, collapsing gently into it and guiding her down with him, cradling her against his side. She curled into him like she’d done it a hundred times, her body pressed to his, her hand resting on his shoulder as he held her close.

His chest rose and fell beneath her, slow and steady, but Lily could feel the tension in him still—just below the surface. That aching restraint felt so coiled up. The way his hand moved slowly along her back in comforting strokes, even though his jaw was clenched and his thighs were still coiled tight beneath her.

The apartment had gone still, the kind of stillness that came only after hours of slow conversation and soft touches, not the heated moment that settled between them.

The lamp was still glowing nearby, casting gold along the edges of the bookshelf and outlining Harry’s profile in warm light. They were curled together on the couch, Lily tucked into his side, her cheek resting against his shoulder, one of his hands stroking gently along her spine in slow, absent motions.

She hadn’t spoken for a while. Harry didn’t push either way. But then her voice broke the silence—barely above a whisper.

“I used to move too fast.”

His fingers paused, then continued—no rush, no shift in weight. Just presence, like he was acknowledging he heard her but didn’t need to say anything and break her thought.

Lily swallowed before she continued, finding her footing. “With guys. I’d just… go along with things. Let things happen. And I don’t think they meant to take advantage of that – I-I mean, not all of them. But it was like… once things started, I didn’t feel like I could say no. Or stop. Or even slow down.”

Harry didn’t speak but he bit the inside of his cheek as he listened, his hand moved to the back of her head, gently threading through her hair, grounding her there with him.

“They liked me more when I didn’t object,” she said, her voice shaking now, almost in disbelief she was continuing down this path. “When I didn’t ask for space. Or softness. Or… time.”

She felt her words catch as she kept speaking, so she stopped for a moment. His comfort didn’t stop, only intensified as they sat.

“I think for a while I thought I had to be that version of myself. Or no one would stay.”

She felt the shift in his breathing before he even spoke.

“You're in good hands here,” Harry said quietly, he kissed the top of her head as he let his fingers dive through her hair.

“I know.” She looked up at him, eyes shining, lashes damp. “That’s why this scares me more.”

Harry’s jaw tensed, like it physically hurt him to hear her say that and to watch her get teary over memories that she felt were difficult. He cupped the side of her face, his thumb brushing gently along her under eyes to the tears she felt ashamed of.

“I’m not here because I’m waiting for you to give me something,” he said to her directly, sitting up a bit. He had to tell her so she knew his truth. “I’m here because I see you. And I like you exactly as you are. Not in spite of how careful you are. Because of it.”

She blinked, and he leaned forward to press a kiss to her forehead—light, like a promise rather than a confirmation.

Lily let out a shaky breath and let her hand rest over his heart again, feeling its steady rhythm beneath her fingertips. “I’m not used to being allowed to take my time.”

“I'm sorry they weren't patient with you, and I’m sorry you didn’t feel you could be patient.” Harry said, eyes on her like she was the only thing in the world. “I don't want you to sit here and feel like I'm pressuring you, because I'm not."

Harry smirked for a moment as he shifted his legs, "It's just biology, really – you should feel good to know you turn me on, but I don’t need you to accommodate me."

Lily sat with her head on his chest, letting the silence fill the air as she listened to the sounds below them on the streets. Like it was the soundtrack that narrated their moment here on the small sofa in the unfamiliar apartment that had started to feel like her favorite book. Something she would revisit, something that would bring comfort every time she opened it.

They were still curled together on the couch, a blanket soft and bunched around their legs. The vulnerability in the room lingered like the last notes of a song—quiet, resonant, humming beneath their skin.

Harry let out a breath, long and low. “You know, I wasn’t expecting tonight to feel like this.”

“Like what?” Lily asked, voice muffled against the fabric of his shirt as she pulled at one of the buttons.

He tilted his head, eyes drifting toward the ceiling as he pushed his feet up on the coffee table, out in front of him. “Like I’m… not even thinking about what I can’t do with you right now. Just… what I get to do someday. Which, at this point, right now, is lie on this couch and stare at your cute little nose while you breathe on my collarbone.”

Lily huffed a small laugh and turned her face further into his chest, trying to hide the heat that rushed to her cheeks. “That’s romantic.”

“It is. Very romantic,” he said, mock-serious. “It’s taking everything in me not to climb on top of you and wreck you, but really all I can think about is your damn button nose.”

Lily blinked, caught completely off-guard—and then she laughed. Really laughed. That kind of soft, surprised laugh that left her glowing.

“You can’t say things like that when I’m emotionally vulnerable.”

Harry looked down at her, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Why not? You’re very cute when you blush, which is why I keep trying to make it happen.”

She tried to hide her smile but failed as she dug her face into his neck. “You’re such a menace.”

“I’m a patient menace,” he said, his voice dipping just enough to make her pulse quicken, looking at him this closely had made her think differently of him. The way that his skin was perfect; small moles and dimples and the scent of cedar and ash had coated her memory. “Which is far more dangerous, if you really think about it.”

Lily shifted beside him, trying to ignore the way his words settled low in her stomach. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Course I am.” His hand moved idly along the side of her thigh, fingertips trailing to help pull over the blanket. “You’re curled up against me, making these tiny sounds when I talk too close to your ear. I live for this.”

“I don’t make—”

“You do, trust me,” he interrupted, his mouth now just inches from her ear, his breath warm against her sensitive skin. “Especially when I say certain things.”

She stilled, feeling her heart beat faster. He didn’t move, either.

“Like what?” she asked, quieter now, pushing for an answer. She was playing a dangerous game, but Harry was down to push her further; make her squirm, make her blush so bad she would have to take a cold shower later.

He smiled back at her, thinking about what he could say to do just that. He almost didn’t know how to reply, opening his mouth before he shut it to rethink his answer. “You want me to prove it?”

“I want to know what you’d say,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

His hand moved again—slow, gentle, deliberate on top of her thigh. Her skirt was moving up her thighs, and he tried not to think about that. “I’d tell you how long I’ve been thinking about your mouth. Everywhere. How every time you bite your lip when you’re nervous, it makes me want to push you up a wall you just a little.”

Lily’s breath hitched at the boldness of his words; she could tell he had a filthy mouth when he wanted to. The cockiness oozed from him; she fluttered her eyes shut at the thought.

“I’d tell you I notice the way your thighs press together when I say something filthy, even if you pretend not to hear me.”

She swallowed, trying to be discreet at how her thighs pressed together just then. Of course he noticed.

“I’d tell you I think about you riding me, slow at first, real quiet like you can’t even manage a word,” he murmured, “until you get brave. And I think you're real brave, you know – I think you get in your own world."

Her eyes fluttered closed knowing he had completely won.

“And I’d tell you exactly what I’d do when you start to fall apart on top of me. How I’d hold you through it. How I’d talk you through it. How I'd–" He bit his tongue to keep from going.

Lily’s chest was rising and falling faster now, a slight tremor in her fingers where they rested near his ribs. But her voice—when she finally spoke—was steady. He flinched at the way that her fingertips felt hot against him, almost burning through the material of his shirt.

“And you wouldn’t push me?”

Harry’s hand stilled, then retreated, settling gently against her waist.

“Never,” he said. “This doesn’t work if it’s not yours too.”

She opened her eyes and looked up at him, her gaze unreadable. “You’d talk me through it?”

His mouth twitched into a smile as he stared at the ceiling then, huffing out a breath of laugh as he couldn’t believe she was teasing him like that. “Every word, baby. Every breath. Every goddamn second.”

A long pause stretched between them, thick with tension but not pressure. He waited—still, steady, letting her decide what came next. Lily’s lips parted. Her voice was soft, but certain.

“Okay.”

Harry didn’t know how to react, lifting his head to see where her thought process was.

“Not yet, though,” she said quickly when she realized that he had some concern written on his face. “But when I’m ready… I want that.”

He exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding that breath for hours. Then he smiled—soft and full of something deeper than hunger.

“Then that’s what you’ll have,” he said, almost simply, as if they hadn’t just been talking about something dirty but about something that he knew she needed, “Exactly how you want."

Harry didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just looked at her—really looked at her as if studying every freckle on her face—as if he could memorize the exact shape of her words, the way she said when I’m ready like it meant something sacred. And to him, it did. It was written in scripture.

She was still curled against him, her cheek against his shoulder, and his arm was resting lightly around her waist now. Not pulling her closer. Just there—like an anchor. Steady in the dark water to help make sure she didn’t float away.

His voice was low when it returned. Not playful this time, but with an earnest nature that fluttered the depths of his heart as he thought about his admissions.

“I think about you all the time,” he said, nodding into the universe. “Not just in the way you’re probably imagining. Though… those thoughts aren’t exactly rare. But,” He swallowed, “I just think you’re… really special.”

She smiled faintly, her eyes cast downward, heart beating faster now. The way he said it was unfiltered—blunt, but a hint of hesitancy that she barely saw from him. Like he liked wanting her but knew that he was human– he knew that she was just as capable as producing heartbreak as he was.

“I think about how you’d taste when you’re breathless,” he continued, voice sliding over her skin like velvet. “How your body would feel under me – not even just in a sexual way, but a personal way. How you’d look when you finally stop holding yourself back.”

A sharp inhale escaped her lips as she thought of the moments that Harry could have of her. Harry heard it. Felt it, but he didn’t pounce. Didn’t lean into it like a challenge. He waited, watching her closely.

“You can tell me to stop, and I will.” His voice was practically a breath – he wanted to give her the opportunity, the one that hadn’t been given to her prior. He wanted her to make the rules.

She didn’t – no, of course she didn’t. After a few more beats, he kept going, voice a little lower now, as if daring her to stay in the moment with him.

“I think about what your voice would sound like—messy and raw—saying my name when you’re close. Or when you want something but can’t say it out loud.”

Lily’s thighs pressed together. She didn’t even realize she’d done it until Harry’s eyes dropped—just briefly—to where her legs shifted beneath the blanket. His breath caught at the acknowledgement.

“And I think,” he said, pausing to brush her hair gently off her cheek, “about how good it’s going to feel when I finally get to have you. Not just your body, Lils. The way you trust. The way you unravel.”

She turned her face into his neck then, unable to hold his gaze, hiding in the space where his pulse beat steady just beneath his skin. Harry didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease her for getting shy in the middle of their own heat. He just smiled—something soft and wrecked and tilted his head so his lips brushed the crown of her head.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured into her, almost like to engrain it into her.

“I think I do,” she whispered, her breath trembling as she tried her best to maintain a steady voice.

His hand moved again, slow and lazy over her waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of her shirt—but only just. The pad of his thumb brushed bare skin there, and it was electrifying, practically shocking him.

“You want to tell me what you want?” The way that his voice asked made her tremble, so softly it was almost a plea.

Lily hesitated at the way that he asked her. Her throat was tight. Not from fear—but from the weight of the want. The newness of it being okay to speak it, almost like she felt drawn in.

“I want to stay here,” she said finally, after a few moments. Even though she loved the way he spoke out to her, she wanted the opportunity to think of it. “Just like this. For a while.”

Harry nodded, eyes heavy-lidded but calm as he let the thoughts swirl around them like a cloud of alchemy. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple like it was a ritual.

“Then we’ll stay here,” he said, simplicity hanging between them. “Exactly like this.”

His fingers didn’t wander further, because he didn’t feel invited. His mouth didn’t ask for more. But his body stayed close—warm and steady—and his desire never left the room. It simply curled around them, like a quiet storm waiting to break when she was ready to call the thunder down.

And she would. God, she would.

But tonight, she breathed him in, curled tighter against his chest, and let herself rest in the heat of what they hadn’t done yet. And the sweetness of knowing that when they did—it would be everything. It was almost addicting, the thoughts, rather than the action.

They hadn’t moved in minutes, but everything about the space between them felt alive. Lily was nestled into the curve of Harry’s chest, his fingers grazing lazy circles over the sliver of skin just above her waistband. It was nothing, but it made her skin hum, made her breath stutter every time he touched that one spot again, again, again.

He hadn’t said anything since she told him she wanted to stay like this. And he hadn’t asked for more.

But her body told the truth. The way his thumb paused when she shifted her hips, not knowing if she wanted more or was asking for space. The way his voice had grown quieter, rougher, when he said her name just moments before.

“Still okay?” he murmured now, his lips brushing against her temple.

She nodded but gave him a quiet yes to confirm.

“Good.” He kissed her hair again, breathing in the sweetness of the vanilla of her shampoo. “But I’ll have you know that if you keep squirming like that, I’m going to start taking it personally.”

Lily’s cheeks flushed in embarrassment, and she buried her face against his collarbone. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he teased gently, his voice a little heavier now. “And it’s kind of killing me.”

She smiled shyly, but didn’t deny it. He shifted just enough to look at her, his eyes scanning her face carefully. “Talk to me, I’m ready to hear your voice.”

Her lips parted, then closed again. Her pulse was wild beneath her skin; she bit her lip as she let their eyes investigate each other’s again. She didn’t know how this felt so right. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to get it perfect,” he said, brushing his knuckles along her jaw as if to coax her. “Just tell me what’s in your head. Anything.”

She hesitated for the slightest moment; her gaze flicking down to his lips and then back up to his eyes that held so much curiosity and a ferocity of intrigue. Her fingers gripped the hem of his shirt, like grounding herself to him would make the words come easier.

“I want…” She stopped, swallowing. “I want you to touch me more.”

Something flickered in his expression—something sharp, almost like he wasn’t expecting her to be vocal about her needs. He just wanted to hear her, to listen to her, to do as she asked.

“You want me to touch you,” he repeated softly, his hand still on her waist, waiting.

She nodded again, so sure of what she wanted, but so unsure of how it felt to be listened to. “Just… slow. I get overwhelmed.”

“I know.” His thumb traced the slope of her hip, the way that his thumb brushed against her skin tickled her softly, making her bristle at the touch. Harry stopped for a moment, letting them settle. “But you want it.”

Lily breathed outwards, nodded again, “Yes.”

“Where?” Harry’s voice was direct, wanting full consent of the direction.

She exhaled shakily, trembling under his gaze, and whispered, “Anywhere you want. As long as you don’t stop talking to me.”

That broke something in him—in the quietest, most sacred way.

Harry leaned in and kissed her jaw, slow and careful. “I’ll tell you everything, sweetheart,” he murmured. “What I want. What I’ll do. How good you make me feel.”

Her breath hitched. She was already shaking under his hand, not from fear, but from anticipation so deep it made her bones ache. There was an adrenaline that was building up in her; the same kind of adrenaline that she had felt the day she got the tattoo from him. A shaking feeling that gave her a wound-up energy.

“I want to feel you,” she said, voice almost breaking. “But I need you to help me go slow.”

His hand came up to cradle her face, his thumb brushing just beneath her eye.

“I’ve got you,” he said, firm and low. “You say stop, I stop. You say slower, I’ll move like fucking honey. And if all you want is my hands and my mouth and my words? Then that’s all you’ll get. For as long as you want.”

Her body relaxed against his then, something in her melting completely, and the way she looked at him—hopeful, wanting, a little scared—was the most devastating thing he’d ever seen. She leaned in first this time.

And when he kissed her, it was deeper than before, hungrier—but careful.

Every breath they shared from then on felt like a promise. Every word he whispered into her skin was one more brick laid in the foundation of trust. And every inch he touched was earned like a medal of honor. Harry kissed her like the whole world had gone quiet except for her breathing; it was the soundtrack that played in his brain.

Lily’s hands had slipped up beneath his shirt—tentative at first, resting against the warm, lean curve of his ribs—but as he kissed her deeper, her fingers curled, wanting to feel more. She could feel the way that his muscles contracted, the way that he held himself back from moving further. It was a slow, deep want. He groaned softly into her mouth at the contact, like even the lightest touch from her could undo him.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he breathed, lips brushing against hers as he spoke.

She looked at him then, wide-eyed and flushed, her chest rising fast beneath the soft cotton of her shirt. “I think I do.”

Harry’s eyes darkened just slightly, but his hands stayed gentle—one braced behind her back, the other slipping beneath the hem of her shirt to trace slow, reverent lines along her waist. He watched her carefully as he did, his gaze asking permission even when his body begged for more. Lily didn’t stop him.

Instead, she leaned into him, shifting closer until she was straddling his lap, her knees tucked on either side of his hips. The move surprised them both.

Her breath stuttered. “Is this okay?”

Harry’s fingers tightened just slightly where they rested against her bare skin.

“Fuck, Lily,” he murmured, his voice low and thick as he felt her hands against his chest, moving down to his hips so that she could stabilize herself. The question hanging on his breath was pushed back to her, to solidify that her actions were matching her words. “Is it okay?”

His hands slid up her back, dragging her closer, but he still held back. His whole body was tensed in restraint, like every nerve was screaming to move faster but he wouldn’t. Not until she asked.

“You can touch me more,” she said, voice breathless but certain now; her shyness was masked by the spark of electricity that hung in the air between them. “Please.”

He groaned at that, tilting his head back slightly so he could look at her—his hands now cradling her waist like she was something rare and opportunistic; like being with her was a prize.

“I’ll show you anything,” he said. “Everything, if you let me. Just tell me what you want and it’s yours.”

He kissed her again—this time with more heat, more hunger. And this time, when his tongue swept against hers, she met him halfway. Her hands moved to the base of his neck; she felt his head tilt up to meet hers in a fit of need and angst. With each pull of his hair, an elicited groan escaped from between his lips into hers, the vibration creating a sense of need.

Her hands moved to roam beneath his shirt, and he helped her pull it over his head without breaking the kiss, letting her touch him freely now—her palms mapping his chest, his stomach, the ink that curled down his ribs like secrets.

He exhaled hard, forehead pressed to hers. “Lily…”

“Please,” she whispered, and that one word—so soft, so open—was everything.

His hands skimmed beneath her shirt next, lifting the fabric inch by inch, waiting for her to stop him. She didn’t.

When he pulled it over her head and tossed it to the side, his breath caught—his hands hovering, his eyes reverent, like she was art. Like he wanted to memorize every inch.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, barely able to breathe it.

She shivered, nerves fluttering in her belly, but when he touched her again—his hands trailing slowly along the curve of her waist, up her sides, then gently over her ribs. He kissed down her neck, down to the space just above her heart, always slow, always waiting for her to say no. Instead, she leaned into him, leaned into his touch to let her mind wander at the true feeling of want.

Not only did he want her – he wanted to treasure her. His hands were warm where they skimmed her bare sides, fingers brushing along the gentle curve of her ribcage. And then he paused—just under the swell of her breast, where a faint shadow of ink curved along her skin.

Harry pulled back slightly, catching the breaths that he felt he only had a few left, his fingers hovering.

The small, delicate linework he’d drawn months ago sitting beneath the pads of his fingers as he rubbed over it gently. Her first tattoo.

“God,” he murmured against the heat of her skin, brushing the pad of his thumb over it. “This is mine.”

Lily’s breath hitched—not from possession, but from the way he said it. Like it meant something more than ink. Like it was sacred.

“I almost didn’t go through with it,” she said, her voice barely audible.

“I know,” he whispered, his eyes never leaving the spot. “But you did. You let me mark you.”

His hand stayed there, palm warm and flat against her ribcage, feeling the rise and fall of her breath as if it was his only lifeline now. Lily reached for the hem of his shirt, fingers trembling slightly. He didn’t stop her; he just lifted his arms so she could pull it over his head, baring his chest to her, skin golden in the low light, scattered with ink and soft shadows.

Her hands rested against him—curious, slow—exploring the tattoos she’d only glimpsed before. One on his shoulder, a pair of birds settling on his collarbone, a large butterfly under his ribs. A name near his heart in small, typewriter lettering.

“Do they all mean something?” she asked, tracing the edge of one with her finger.

A huffed out laugh came from his lips as he shook his head, “No, not at all.”

She looked up at him, face flushed, eyes wide and unguarded. And then she kissed him. This time, it wasn’t careful. It wasn’t tentative. She kissed him with want, with memory, with the understanding that this had always been building to something. Her hands slid over his shoulders, his chest, fingers flexing like she wanted to know him by feel. She pulled him in, and he felt like a sailor in a sea filled with siren songs.

Harry groaned softly, low in his throat, and gathered her closer, one hand slipping to the small of her back, the other threading into her hair as her mouth moved over his. His restraint frayed—she could feel it in the way his grip tightened, in the way his hips shifted beneath her.

But he still held the line. Every kiss, every touch was for her—measured by what she asked for, what she invited. When she rolled her hips gently against him—just once—his breath stuttered, and he pulled back, resting his forehead against hers.

“Lily,” he whispered, his voice tight. “I need to slow down. Or I’m going to forget how.”

She nodded, humming softly as if to protest, but knowing that she respected his boundaries as she should her own. She knew that she should stop – she didn’t want to move faster but she found it very hard to remember that when she could feel the way that he protected her, she could feel the way that he drew her in so heavenly.

“I want you so badly,” he admitted, his hands shaking slightly now as they cupped her hips to stop her from moving. “But I don’t want to take advantage of just… this moment.”

Lily’s lips brushed his jaw. “You make it hard to want to wait.”

He smiled—wrecked, tender, and completely enthralled with the way that her voice dripped with anticipation and need. “I think that’s the point.”

His hands moved back to her tattoo; his mark. And the only thing he wanted to leave on her that night.

They stayed tangled like that for a while—breathing each other in, heartbeat to heartbeat, the space between them simmering with unspoken want. Lily was still straddled in his lap, her chest against his, their skin pressed so close it felt like her nerves were tuned to his every breath.

Harry’s lips were at her jaw, then her temple, then the corner of her mouth again. Slow, dragging kisses that made her stomach twist with need and something more dangerous—safety. Her hips moved once more—subconsciously, involuntarily—and she felt the way his body tensed beneath her, how he froze mid-kiss, like his control was snapping at the seams.

Then, he pulled away. Not far. Just enough to look at her, chest rising and falling faster now.

“Lils,” he said, breathless and rough and with enough clarity in his head to know that he had to stop, “I’m going to stop thinking straight.”

He could tell that there was an internal struggle as he looked up at her. It was such a different portrait; she was so shy and flushed and reserved when he met her – this was such a different version of her. The darkness in her eyes, the want and need of satisfaction was controlling her now, but he wanted to respect her and understand that this was not the time and place.

“Come here,” he murmured, and kissed her again—slow and deep, like a promise instead of a goodbye.

When he pulled back again, he stroked her cheek with the back of his hand.

“I’m gonna get you something to change into, yeah? Then, I’m going to take the coldest shower of my entire life and try not to punch a hole through my own wall.”

Lily laughed softly at his comment, still breathless, her cheeks glowing with affection and embarrassment. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Oh, I do,” he muttered, moving to stand and gently lifting her off his lap, setting her on the couch with a tenderness that made her heart ache. “Because if I look at you like that for one more minute, this blanket’s not going to be the only thing I rip in half.”

She blushed a red that he hadn’t seen yet. He disappeared into the bedroom, leaving her sitting in the golden spill of lamplight, her body thrumming with sensation, her lips swollen and tingling from his kiss. She let her fingers play with them for a moment, knowing how they tingled. A minute later, he came back with a soft, oversized t-shirt and a pair of boxers.

“Boxers are clean,” he said, tossing them gently into her lap. “Shirt is… eh, probably fine.”

“Probably?” she teased, a ghost of a smile on her lips.

“Might have worn it without washing, hard to tell,” he replied, grabbing a towel from a hook by the door. “You can sleep in the bed. I’ll take the couch.”

Lily sat up straighter as she held the clothes between her fingers. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said, already heading toward the bathroom. “I, uh, probably need to just be alone.” He bit his lip thinking of what would happen if they fell asleep next to each other in the warmth of his bed after what he knew she was capable of.

He shook his head as he leaned against the bathroom doorframe. “Just leave a pillow out here for me?”

She watched him grab his own stuff, clothes and items in his hands before he turned back to her one last time, her heart tangled somewhere between longing and gratitude. Just before the bathroom door closed, he leaned back out, hair tousled, his eyes warm despite the fire still simmering just beneath the surface.

“Lily?”

She turned her head up, “Yeah?”

He smiled at the large eyes that stared back at him, “Tonight was perfect. Even if we didn’t finish what we started.”

She held his gaze for a long, humming beat. Then nodded, the shyness in her coming back, “Yeah. It was.”

Harry gave her one last smile before shutting the door softly, falling back into it as he let out the largest breath. His eyes shut as he tried to unravel every small feeling that he had ever felt for someone and tried to make sense of the way that he felt now.

He was doomed.

***

One Month Later

Rain pelted the tall windows in uneven rhythms, wind pressing against the glass in slow, heaving breaths with the scent of apples and blossoms from the wax candle that burned on top of the stack of books. The city outside was blurred—soft gold street lights smudged by the storm, like the whole world had decided to lean in, hush up, and listen.

Inside Harry’s apartment, the candle flickered in the corner, casting long shadows across the hardwood. The floor creaked faintly beneath them, the storm beyond the glass a steady hum beneath the stillness of the space.

They sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the low coffee table, a worn chessboard between them, the pieces already in mid-battle.

Lily was bundled in one of Harry’s hoodies, sleeves pushed up as if she had been getting serious about the game, bare legs tucked under her. Harry sat across from her in gray sweats and a loose black t-shirt, sleeves hugging the curve of his arms just right. His hair was still damp from the rain he’d run through earlier to grab the takeout from the corner store, curling around his temples in soft spirals.

“I hope you know you’re going to lose,” Lily said, flicking her rook across the board with precision; the way that her voice was soft and gentle was that much more enticing, as it didn’t have the edge of someone vicious.

Harry narrowed his eyes, thumb rubbing over the edge of his mouth in concentration. “You’ve gotten cocky.”

“I’ve been studying.” Lily answered with a bit of pride, taking a sip of her tea.

“Studying?” he repeated, eyes flickering up to her. “Oh, so that’s why you ignored me for half an hour the other night.”

With a bitten smile, Lily shrugged at him with nonchalance. “I wasn’t ignoring you. I was… strategizing.”

“You were watching tutorials on how to crush me at chess.”

“Same thing,” she said, smiling sweetly, innocently.

Harry leaned back on his hands, his legs stretched out long across the worn rug, spine curved just enough to show off the way his shirt clung across his chest. He was watching Lily the way he always did when he wanted to rattle her - calm, unreadable, mouth ticking up like he knew something she didn’t.

His eyes moved slowly across her face, cataloguing her as he studied the curve of her cheekbone, the soft flutter of lashes as she focused too hard on the board, the slight smirk she kept trying to swallow. His gaze lingered, like he was filing it all away for later.

“You know,” he said, pursing his lips with a low, teasing voice, “we never agreed on stakes.”

Lily looked up, raising an eyebrow, her bare thigh brushing against the edge of the table. “Stakes?”

“For the game.” Harry gestured lazily at the board, his fingers toying with a captured knight that sat on the edge nearest to him. “There should be consequences. And a clear winner.”

Her mouth twitched as she tilted her head, wondering how he could turn everything into a romantic gesture. “And what, exactly, do you have in mind?”

He grinned, devilish and slow. “If I win,” He threw his head back in thought before he turned it back up to look at her, “I get to choose exactly how I kiss you tonight.”

Lily blinked at him, and he didn’t miss the way her spine stiffened, the way her fingers fidgeted for half a second before stilling. Her throat bobbed as she moved her piece – a pawn this time.

He tilted his head, his voice dipping to a low murmur. “That includes where… how long… how soft—or how not soft.”

“You’re already kissing me whenever you want,” she managed, trying to sound bored but falling a bit short.

“True,” Harry said, shifting forward, his elbows resting on his knees now, gaze warm and steady. “But tonight, I want permission to be creative.”

Lily stared at him, her pulse starting to pick up speed. There was a curl of heat in her stomach that hadn’t been there a minute ago. She swallowed. “And if I win?”

Harry leaned in, closing some of the space between them. The warm glow from the nearby lamp threw soft shadows over his cheekbones. His voice came slower now, thicker. He moved another piece, a knight.

“Then you get to tell me how you want me.”

Thunder rumbled outside low and heavy, rolling through the walls like an echo of what was already building in her chest.

Lily nudged a pawn forward, fingers steady even if her breath wasn’t. “I think I’ll be keeping you on a leash.”

Harry’s smirk sharpened as he glanced at her legs, then up to her eyes. “God, that’s hot. Say more things like that.”

“Harry.” Eyes like darts hit him before she moved her own knight, to which he bit his lip. He hadn’t been pay attention, and that was clear before he needed to make a more strategic move.

He moved without hesitation, sliding his queen across the board until it landed with a soft click far too close for comfort.

“Check,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Lily stilled, her eyes flicking to the board, then back to him. “You're kidding. Shit.”

Harry’s fingers trailed around the rim of his water glass, slow and deliberate as she turned her eyes from the game to him then.

“Am I? Because if I win… I think I’ll start by kissing your thighs. Just above the hem of these little shorts you’re sporting.”

Her breath hitched at his words, almost like they were a kiss of breath. She glanced down at her lap as though realizing for the first time how much skin she’d shown.

When she looked back up, his gaze was already there.

“And then I’ll ask,” he continued, leaning in just a little closer – he was trying to get into her head so he could win, “if you want me to keep going. Or if you’d rather just watch me lose my mind because you’re being such a tease.”

“You’re cheating,” she said, breath catching as she shook her head to get into the game again. She had to win now; she couldn’t have him getting away with this.

He raised his brows, shaking his head. “Nope. Just thinking ahead. Like any good strategist would.”

Lily flushed but kept her composure. Her hand hovered over a knight, then moved it swiftly, landing with a firm, clean snap.

“Check,” she said, daring him with her eyes.

Harry blinked, leaned in like he didn’t quite believe it, then exhaled through his nose. “Well, well. You’ve got me in quite a pickle here, love.”

Inching forward on her knees, holding herself up on her elbows above the game, closing the distance between them. The tips of their noses were just inches apart now. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You just didn’t notice because you were too busy staring at my mouth.”

He stared at her lips for one second too long.

“Oh, I noticed,” he said, his voice rawer now. “I’m just trying to think ahead for when I win, what I’ll get for it, that’s all.”

She froze. Her cheeks turned crimson, her hands going still in her lap.

Then, she whispered, “But, what if I do?”

Harry stopped breathing for a moment. His eyes locked on hers, the air between them tight and electric. His hand reached out slowly, placing a piece before his eyes darted back to her.

Lightning flashed outside, illuminating her profile in pale silver as if in response to his daring move. The crack of thunder followed with a low, distant roar that shook the apartment windows.

Lily stared at the board like it could give her answers, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

“You’re stalling,” Harry said, his voice soft and amused.

“I’m thinking,” she replied, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her as she tried to give him the best poker face.

He leaned forward again, dragging his gaze across her throat, her collarbone, down to where her hoodie hung loose over one shoulder. “It’s part of my charm. Verbal misdirection. Seduction tactics. I have layers.”

“You’re insufferable.”

He shrugged, the shirt pulling on his biceps. “And yet you’re half a second from climbing over this board and proving me right.”

“I’m half a second from destroying you,” she said, moving another piece deliberately.

He looked. Then smiled slowly. “God, that’s also hot. You’re ruthless when you play dirty.”

Harry shifted again, slow and catlike, stretching his legs out with deliberate ease as he leaned back on his palms. His shirt clung across his chest, the motion flexing the line of muscle in his arms, veins visible beneath the skin. It was effortless and sharp at once, and Lily caught herself watching the way his fingers flexed against the rug like he was resisting the urge to move toward her.

His voice was low and teasing, but there was a new weight in it now—something thick, laced with want. “What happens if I win the next game?”

Lily’s eyes narrowed, but her pulse betrayed her, jumping hard in her throat. She tried to hold onto a thread of composure. “We haven’t finished this one.”

He didn’t blink. Just tilted his head and gave her a look that could’ve set the entire board between them on fire—steady, heated, and too-intimate. His gaze dropped, slowly, down to her bare knees folded beneath her and back up to her mouth. The air between them buzzed.

“Just planning ahead,” he murmured, tongue licking over his lips. “You’re the slow burn type.”

Her breath caught. She rolled her eyes, but the pink blooming beneath her cheeks gave her away instantly. She was glowing from the inside out. “Is that a compliment?”

Harry didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he shifted forward on his elbows, the dim lamp casting his jawline into shadow. He watched her like he was about to devour every inch of her quiet—then said, voice dropping to something barely above a rasp: “It’s the highest one I’ve got to give.”

“You’re all soft gasps,” he continued, each word dragging heat across her skin, “and coiled tension and the tiniest sounds when I touch you just right. You act like you’re not asking for it, but your body language says it all.”

Lily’s hands trembled. Her knees dug into the rug beneath her, but she barely noticed. Her breath came unevenly now, and she couldn’t bring herself to look away from him. His stare held her there like a magnet. Still trying to pretend at composure, she pushed a piece forward. The sound of it on the board felt too loud, too final.

“Your turn,” she managed out, wondering how the game of chess had turned into a game of cat and mouse.

Harry didn’t move right away. His eyes had shifted now—less teasing, more reverent. Something unguarded flickered in his expression, like he was fighting between the game and what was happening underneath it. He looked at the board, then at her.

His fingers twitched at his side, but he kept them still. Instead, he leaned closer, eyes scanning her like he was reading every sharp edge and soft corner. Then, with slow precision, he made his move. Lily didn’t speak; she didn’t have to.

She reached for her queen, the pads of her fingers brushing the carved edge like it was glass. She lifted it and placed it down with the quietest, most lethal sound she could make.

Tap.

“Checkmate.”

Harry didn’t move. He sat perfectly still as if her voice had frozen something inside him. The rain outside had softened to a hush, like even the sky was stunned into silence. His eyes flicked to the queen, then to her face—lips parted, breath shallow, gaze full of something unreadable.

“No,” he said, breathless and barely laughing. “That’s illegal. I’ve been seduced into defeat.”

Lily beamed, her smile slow and wicked as it overtook her flushed features. “Nope,” she said. “Just outplayed.”

Harry exhaled like he couldn’t take it. “You cheated,” he muttered, voice hoarse, eyes still locked on hers. “With your mouth. And your thighs.”

She leaned forward slowly, closing the final inches between them until their noses almost brushed. Her voice dropped to a whisper, “Someone’s a sore loser.”

“Christ, Lily,” he groaned. Harry let out a sharp, strangled laugh—half disbelief, half desperation—and dragged a hand through his curls, tipping his head back.

She crawled around the board slowly, carefully—not like she was teasing him, but like she was still figuring out whether her body could be that bold. Her knees nudged gently against his thighs before she eased herself into his lap, featherlight, like she didn’t quite believe she had permission to be there until his hands came to rest on her hips.

His thumbs traced absent, grounding circles over the fabric of her shorts as she settled, still and quiet, hands pressed gently to his chest. He was so solid beneath her, muscles coiled under skin, breath just a bit too slow like he was trying to keep himself from reacting too quickly.

Her heart thudded against her ribs, but she tilted her chin and looked at him, nervous, but not backing down.

“I believe…” The way that she murmured was barely above a whisper, “I won the right to tell you how I want you tonight.”

His hands gripped just a little tighter at her hips, like he was holding onto restraint by the thinnest thread. His eyes searched hers, begging her to volley with his wittiness and eagerness.

“And how’s that?”

Lily swallowed, her lashes fluttering as she dropped her gaze to his collarbone, her fingers tracing a slow, trembling line along the edge of his shirt.

“I don’t know exactly,” She was so sure but so unsure of how to ask. “But I want to… try. I want it to be slower this time. But not soft. Just… different.”

His chest rose sharply beneath her hands, and she dared a glance at his face again. Harry’s eyes were wide and burning, like her words had reached straight into his chest and cracked something open.

“M'kay,” He breathed out, biting his lip. “I can work with that.”

She smiled—small and shy and impossibly lovely—and leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth. It was careful, unsure, but full of intent. When he didn’t move—just sat perfectly still beneath her—she kissed him again. Fuller this time. Her mouth brushing over his like she was testing how close she could get before she melted into him entirely. Her hands flattened over his chest, not searching this time, just feeling.

Heat pooled in her stomach as she adjusted in his lap, her hips shifting without thinking, slow and unsteady like they had before. This time, he didn’t stop her, he let her.

Harry let out a breath like he’d been holding it in all night.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he grumbled, voice ragged against her lips.

She hesitated for only a second before whispering, and narrowing her brows at him with blame, “You started it.”

That broke something loose in him—he laughed, soft and wrecked, and kissed her again, this time with just enough hunger to make her gasp. Her fingers slipped into his hair, tentative but needing. She rocked once more accidental, but very much not, and Harry pulled back with a low, guttural groan, his hands flying to her waist like a lifeline.

Instead of answering, she bent down and kissed his neck—slow, warm, her mouth brushing the sensitive skin beneath his ear. She nipped, then soothed the spot with her tongue, and he shuddered beneath her.

“I need to hear you say it,” he said, his voice wrecked now. “Tell me you want it.”

She leaned back, her lips swollen, her cheeks flushed, and looked him in the eye with her forehead pressed to his.

“I want this,” she said. “I want you.”

His exhale was audible—part disbelief, part reverence. But he still didn’t move.

“You’re sure?” he asked again, his hands frozen on her hips, like if he let them roam, he might lose all control. He flexed his fingers in almost an aching way. “Because I swear to God, the second I let go, I’m not going to be able to pretend I don’t want to keep you like this forever.”

Lily smiled softly, and then—without speaking—she lifted the hem of her hoodie and tugged it over her head, tossing it somewhere behind her to reveal that there had been nothing underneath. Harry’s breath punched out of him, his hands gripping her thighs now like he was trying not to fall apart right there on the rug.

“Jesus Christ, Lily.”

She just leaned in again, kissing him deeper, more insistent on what she really wanted. And when his mouth opened under hers, his restraint snapped—but only just. He kissed her like he meant to unravel her. Like she was the answer to every sharp edge he’d ever carried. His hands finally moved, up her sides, over the curve of her back, palms broad and reverent, holding her like she was both precious and powerful.

“You’re everything,” His breath was hot as he breathed into her mouth, nipping lightly at her lips as he did so, making her giggle, “You know that?”

She kissed him harder in response, pressing her chest to his as his hands slid beneath the waistband of her shorts, slow, testing the boundary line that neither of them had crossed before. She shifted in his lap again, letting out a quiet moan when she felt how hard he was beneath her.

“Fuck,” he breathed, head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut. “We need to slow down. I have to—”

She rocked against him again, firmer now, grounding herself there, and grabbed his face between her hands. He still didn’t move for a second as if feeling the internal struggle that she continued to test of him. Like he needed to feel her say it again with her body. And she did—reaching between them, helping him out of his shirt, kissing the ink over his heart, then his throat, then his mouth again like she couldn’t get enough of him.

“Please,” she whispered, mouth hot against his jaw. “No stopping this time.”

And with that, the game was over.

Harry held onto her tightly before throwing her around, her back hitting the rug as he turned them over. Her breath escaping her at his sudden roughness that made her back arch into softness of the rug.  The rug beneath them was rough but grounding, a scrape of texture against the softness of her thighs as she lay back, her body still buzzing from the way he’d kissed her.

Thunder grumbled outside, low and distant, like the sky was holding its breath.

Harry hovered over her, braced on one elbow, eyes raking slowly down her body like he didn’t know where to touch first – he felt like this was his first time and everything was new and exciting again. His free hand was spread across her stomach, warm and steady, thumb tracing over the faint line of her ribs. It was such a relief to have someone who wanted to listen to him; to keep it slow and to allow there to be such intimacy in a moment.

“You're so fucking beautiful,” His eyes drifted down her long torso that had practically opened for him; watching as her chest fill and emptied with every breath, “Lying here like this for me.”

Lily swallowed, cheeks flushed, her fingers curling into the fabric of the rug before she moved her right hand to pull at the hair on the nape of his neck.

“I’ve thought about this,” he went on, dragging his hand, dancing his fingers between her breasts, over her collarbone, to cradle her jaw. “Every night since you walked into my shop. I used to wonder what you'd sound like underneath me,” he whispered almost like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to speak out loud, “How you'd taste when you stop trying to be polite.”

She made a quiet, involuntary sound that she wasn’t even sure if she recognized, and Harry smiled—slow with the devilish feeling of sin, like he was unwrapping something delicate and unearthly.

“You like that?” Harry asked, his voice low and gravel-smooth, each word dragging along her skin like a slow flame that burned each inch of her. He nodded slightly, coaxing, his eyes locked on her face. “You like when I talk to you like this?”

Lily turned her head, her cheeks flushed so brightly it spread down her throat. She tried to hide in the crook of her arm, but he followed, chasing her retreat with his mouth—kissing her cheek, her jaw, the delicate spot just beneath her ear where her pulse thudded.

“You get so shy,” his voice was so soft, but set an electricity that made her ache.

“But you don’t stop me.” He kissed lower, the words barely a breath against her skin. “You don’t want me to stop.”

“No,” she whispered, the word barely a thread of sound. “No, no, no.”

He groaned into her neck, like her voice alone unraveled him. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Then his lips found hers again—hotter this time, deeper, slower. His hand slipped lower, between her thighs, fingers sliding deliberately beneath the waistband of her underwear, exploring with pressure instead of permission. Her breath caught, her body opening for him instinctively, hips tilting in invitation as she pushed herself into him. She was already soaked for him, dripping in anticipation, but he loved the long game.

Harry broke the kiss with a sharp exhale, dropping his head to her shoulder like he needed a second to breathe her in.

“Fuck, Lily,” he nipped at her neck, knowing he left a mark – God, he loved leaving her marked.

His fingers moved again—gentler now, more curious than greedy. He found her rhythm, learned it in seconds, and when he brushed right where she needed it, she gasped, her hips jolting in a need she had forgotten about. Her hands flew to the rug beside her, grasping for something solid.

“Look at me,” he said, and his voice was commanding now, but not harsh in any means.

Her eyes fluttered open. His face hovered just above hers so wrecked and beautiful, jaw tight, lips parted, but his eyes—his eyes were steady, dark with focus and want.

“I want to hear you when I do this,” His fingers circled her clit now, slow, devastating. “I want to know exactly how good I make you feel.”

She moaned—soft and sweet at first, her hand flying up to stifle it. Harry caught her wrist, gently but firm enough that made her gasp – almost choking a sob.

“No,” he said, tugging her hand away and pressing it above her head, stretching her out. “I want you loud for me, baby. So fucking loud when I touch you.”

She shuddered at the command, the praise, the sheer gravity of his attention. He wasn’t just touching her—he was watching her unravel, mouth parted like he was memorizing every sound, every twitch of her body beneath his hands.

“I’m gonna take my time with you,” he whispered, kissing down her shoulder, her collarbone as he watched the way that her nipples hardened as his mouth breathed cooly over them, “Gonna play with you until you’re begging for it. Gonna keep you on this floor until you forget how to say anything but my name, you understand?”

“Harry,” she gasped, hips rolling into his hand now, voice high and broken.

“I’ve got you,” he said, kissing her again, the heat of his voice was radiating through her, practically pumping the blood flow of her heart, “You just stay open for me. That’s it. Just like that. So fucking good.”

Her thighs trembled, the muscles in her stomach tightening as he slid her underwear down her thighs so slowly, kissing his way down her legs as he went. He pressed a soft kiss to the inside of her knee until she was breathless and shaking beneath him. His eyes tried to memorize the way that she laid along his floor, fully on display for him.

“Fuck,” he breathed out in a haze, pushing his hair on his forehead; the hunger in his made him feel ravished, practically growling as he pushed her knees apart. He could tell that she was tensing, waiting for him to come back to her.

His fingers found their way back to her, spreading her with two as he stared at the way that her head pushed to arch her back, gasping in a fit of need.

Harry moved down, his mouth attaching to hip as his eyes flew to her reaction. Shaking hands wrapped around his curls, almost like she was scared of his reaction to being touched as he let his fingers push inside of her – warm and tight. So tight.

When his mouth finally replaced his fingers, his tongue dragging slow, deliberate strokes against her, she cried out—a raw, desperate sound—and he groaned against her in response. His hands gripped her thighs like he needed to ground himself, to feel her coming apart in his arms. And still—he didn’t rush. Every time she got close, every time her breath caught, and her body tightened, he eased back just enough to draw it out.

It was never to tease or to play games. To worship her. To show her what it meant to be wanted with patience.

“You’re already falling apart for me,” he said against her skin, spitting directly on her as she gasped. Smearing his spit and her wetness together against his fingers, he practically came right then and there.

His eyes flew up to her, “You want more?”

“Yes,” she gasped, her voice trembling, shaking as she could feel herself starting to lose control but every time she started, he stopped and it only made her want to cry – she wanted it so bad.

Harry demanded more, “Say it.”

“I want more—please, Harry.”

“Mm,” He wanted to tease her – to embarrass her just a bit. “You don’t want my fingers, do you? You want more?” He nodded, trying to get her to push herself, “Tell me what you really want.”

Lily fidgeted on the rug, practically mewling at his words. Her face was flushed as she tried to cover herself, but his hands moved her arms again as he came face to face with her again.

“You want to be fucked, don’t you, angel?” He swallowed as he blinked a few times, wondering if he was pushing a boundary too hard, “I’ll give you my cock, but only if you say please.”

Lily gasped, her breath making the skin against her ribs tighten, “Please – God, Harry, please.”

The storm outside had quieted to a gentle patter against the windows, but inside, the air was thick with something louder than thunder—want, built slow and careful over weeks, finally breaking open between them like a held breath let go.

He kissed her deeply then, tasting every part of her mouth like he needed it to breathe. His body fit perfectly between her thighs, warm and heavy, the press of him against her core enough to draw a soft gasp from her lips. It made him groan—a quiet, wrecked sound, and he pressed his forehead to hers.

Lily arched into him, her hands skimming down his back, nails dragging lightly over skin, and he shivered from the contact. She’d never seen him like this—undone, desperate, but still so careful. Like holding himself back was the price of having her.

“You’re shaking,” she whispered.

“I’ve never wanted someone like this,” he shook his head. “It’s driving me out of my fucking mind, like I may need to be sent away after this.”

He worshiped her with his mouth and hands, slow and reverent, every sigh and gasp she gave him another thread snapping in his chest. Her thighs around his waist, her breath on his neck, the way she moaned his name like a secret—it nearly broke him.

Harry pushed his own sweats down, letting himself free of the practical torture. Lily’s thighs practically captured him, pulling him towards her as they fit together, Harry hovered above her, breath shallow, eyes dark and tender as he brushed a loose strand of hair from her forehead. His thumb lingered at her temple, like she was something delicate and precious—not because she was fragile, but because she was giving him something no one else had earned.

“What do you need?” He asked against her, “Condom?”

Shaking her head, she blinked at the ceiling, wondering if she was really on earth any longer.

“N-No,” She swallowed, “We don’t – we don’t need one, if you don’t – I mean.”

The stuttering made him smirk, shaking his head as he pulled his lips into his mouth.

“No,” he shook his head, “I mean, I’m clean – I just meant - ”

“IUD,” Lily breathed out, feeling the weight of the small conversation that hadn’t been had. Not that it killed the heat of the moment, but Harry just nodded with confirmation to ensure that she was taken care of.

“Oh, sick,” his lopsided smile made her heart flutter, “So, I mean, theoretically,” He licked his lips, holding himself over her, one arm bent and the other pushed up, “Should I pull out? Like… I mean, do you…”

Lily blinked at him, shaking her head as she thought of it, “I… I don’t think I mind. I’ve never had someone… like, inside.” She bit her lip, knowing that it was trembling as she used her shaking hand to move some hair from her face.

“Really?” Harry asked, biting the inside of his cheek, “I mean, I don’t know… if you realized, but I do have a thing. About like,” Lily noticed the faint hint of color that may have been spreading on his cheeks now, “Marking.”

Lily swallowed, breathing heavy before she cleared her throat, “Um, like, I’m yours?”

“You’re so fucking mine,” Harry stifled a breath of a laugh before he shook his head, letting his mouth fall back down onto hers, “Fucking love marking you, baby. Mine, all mine.”

His body aligned with hers, skin with skin, the space between them shrinking until there was nothing left untouched. Everything moved slowly, deliberately—like they were memorizing the moment, not just physically, but in every breath, every shared glance, every heartbeat echoing between their ribs.

When he began to move, there was no rush. Just a gentle give and take, a rhythm born from trust and quiet longing. Lily gasped, a sound caught between surprise and surrender, and Harry stilled as he pressed himself in, letting his cock take every inch of her.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his forehead resting against hers. “Just feel me. That’s all I want.”

Her hands clutched at his back, and she nodded, her body adjusting to him, inviting him in piece by piece. Every movement from him was careful, attentive, like he was listening to her body as closely as her words. And when her hips moved to meet his, when her breath hitched in time with his, something unspoken passed between them—an understanding, a vow made in silence.

It had been a while for both of them - since either of them had been intimate like this. Lily couldn't remember a time that she had felt so worshipped, so looked at. Harry couldn't remember a time when he cared so much about the person underneath him; it made his heart spiral in a frenzy of haze.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, barely able to form the words. “So fucking soft, baby. Fuck.”

She pulled him back to her mouth with trembling fingers, her eyes wide and heavy with want.

Their bodies moved together in rhythm, matched breath for breath, sigh for sigh. And when she started to tremble beneath him, clutching at his shoulders, he talked her through it—whispering her name, telling her how beautiful she looked, how perfect she felt, how much he needed her.

The room had heat and breath and the sound of skin meeting skin in a fervent, terrifying need. Every inch of them slick with sweat and want, tangled in each other like they didn’t remember where he ended, and she began.

Harry was moving deeper now, slower, but harder—like every thrust was significant and laced with a drug so addicting that he couldn’t stop if the room was on fire, like he wanted to make her feel it days from now. His voice was wrecked in her ear, low and constant, a stream of words that curled around her spine like smoke.

“God, Lily—fuck, you feel like heaven,” He struggled to practically breath as he felt her hips meet his,; he sat up for a moment, pulling himself out of her where he heard a bit of a reaction from her. “This pussy could make me religious."

Her fingers clutched at his shoulders, nails dragging over his back in jagged little lines that only made him groan louder. She couldn’t speak, it was like someone had taken her sound and replaced it with breath.

"You... feel so good," Lily murmured out, practically no voice left in her. The small vocals made Harry's ear perk up, like it was enough to keep him going.

“You’re so—tight, baby, so fucking good—taking me so well. So sweet. So fucking sweet.”

She whimpered beneath him, body shaking in an adrenaline high, breath catching with every roll of his hips. And still, he kept talking, kept praising her like he couldn’t get enough.

“You were made for this. For me. You hear me? This perfect little body—fuck.”

Her thighs tightened around him, and her breath stuttered, the pressure building like a crescendo she couldn’t quite name. Harry saw it—felt it. His hands cradled her face, eyes locked on hers like he needed her to look at him when she broke.

“That’s it,” he whispered, lips brushing hers. “Let me see it. Let me hear it. Don’t hold back now, baby—give it to me.”

She gasped, high and desperate like she was about to cry, but Harry knew that it was just pushing her to the limit. “Harry—”

Her voice shattered into a cry as the wave crashed over her, her back arching, hips locking around him, her entire body burning and trembling and opening. It was an all-encompassing need that her body clung to him to stabilize her high to the tallest degree.

And he lost it. Harry groaned, deep and broken, his forehead pressed to hers, his rhythm stuttering as he chased the feeling of her falling apart beneath him.

“Jesus—Lily, I’m—fuck, I’m right there, baby—don’t stop looking at me—don’t stop—”

He came with a ragged moan, his entire body felt like he was flat-lining, chest heaving against hers like something sacred had broken loose inside him. His hands shook where they gripped her hips. His mouth found hers again, wild and uncoordinated, but desperate—hungry for her even now. Her hands wrapped around him tightly to keep him as close to her as physically possible.

They stilled together, bodies wrecked and breathing each other in like air. Lily blinked up at him through heavy lashes, her chest still rising and falling in shallow waves. Harry was staring at her like he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life, and the angels from heaven had come down to get him.

“God fucking damnit,” He breathed out without realization that his entire bodily pressure was laying and pressing Lily completely. She felt the safeness and the gratitude, wanting to be buried like this forever. “Are you okay?”

She nodded. Smiled—slow and dazed with a stare so lost in space that she could barely understand what was happening around her. “I’ve never been better.”

He exhaled, lifting up just a bit to get a better look at her underneath him. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Me either.”

Harry brushed his thumb along her cheek, watching her as if he still couldn’t believe she was real. Lily felt the urge to smile, but her candor was sleepy and wrecked and glowing.

“I feel like the rug might be embedded in my spine now.” She muttered out, laughing just a bit as she tucked some of Harry’s curls behind his ear.

Harry laughed, pulling her closer. “I’ll buy you a new spine, if that’s what you need.”

She closed her eyes and tucked her head under his chin, and for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel scared. She felt chosen.

Maneuvering themselves, Harry finally felt the need to reposition them, laying on his own back as he stared at the ceiling with her. Lily moved instantly to lay next to him, cuddling up to rest her head on his chest as he pulled her close.

They lay tangled on the rug, breaths slowing, bodies slick with the warm aftermath of what felt like a lifetime compressed into a few hours. Lily’s head rested against Harry’s chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat a quiet comfort against the storm still murmuring outside. Harry’s fingers traced lazy circles along her spine, his touch featherlight now, as if afraid to break the fragile bubble they’d built around themselves.

Eventually, he murmured out, “You know, I think I’m going to have rug burn.”

Lily lifted her head, blinking up at him with a tired smile. “Rug burn?”

He grinned, a crooked, breathless smile. “Yeah. This little rug? It’s seen more of us than any piece of furniture should.”

She laughed quietly, the sound light and warm in the hush. “You’re ridiculous.”

The room was dim and golden, all corners softened by the warm spill of the lamp and candle that had started to flicker with the burnt down wick. Rain still kissed the windows, quieter now, more like a lullaby than a storm. Their clothes were scattered in lazy pieces across the floor as Harry and Lily tried their best to redress themselves.

Lily started to stir first, her skin flushed, her hair damp with sweat and curling at her temples. He started to feel her shift a bit in the quietness, and as he looked over at her, she started to lift her head.

“I should go to clean up,” her voice hoarse and quiet, her fingertips brushing at his collarbone as she lifted on her arm.

Harry groaned softly, pressing a kiss to the hollow of her elbow. “Can’t believe you want to move. I was hoping we’d just fuse to the carpet.”

She laughed—sleep starting to become more of a need than just a want, still breathless. “I don’t think your back would survive it.”

“You’re not wrong,” he muttered, rolling onto his side with a sigh, carefully untangling their legs.

Lily sat up slowly, her body aching in that good, golden way. She reached for the shirt he’d discarded earlier and tugged it over her head before padding barefoot down towards the small bathroom, her silhouette briefly lit by the hallway light as she disappeared into the bathroom without another glance.

Harry watched her go, arms folded under his head, eyes soft and dazed. There was something in the way she moved—still a little shy, a little unsure, but comfortable now. Like she wasn’t afraid to take up space in his home anymore. He sat up with a groan, grabbed a blanket off the nearby chair, and tossed it over the rumpled rug before pushing himself up and stretching. His muscles ached in all the right ways, but his mind had already drifted to his bedroom.

He had put his sweatpants back on, starting to get ready for bed by making sure the door was locked, the windows were shut, the lights were off. He flicked off the last lamp on his way down the hall, the apartment falling into quiet shadows behind him.

By the time he reached the bedroom with two cups of tea, Lily was already there.

She stood near the window, back to him, gazing out at the rain-slicked city. She wore only his shirt—long on her frame, hem brushing the tops of her thighs—and a pair of pale cotton panties. Her damp hair clung to the back of her neck, and the faint curve of her bare legs were decently on display.

Harry stopped in the doorway. His breath caught as he just stared and admired.

It wasn’t because she was half-naked, but because she looked like she belonged there. In his shirt. In his space. Like a painting he wasn’t supposed to touch but he had somehow been invited into. Lily turned slightly, noticing him. Her lips curved, soft and self-conscious.

“What?” Was all she could muster to say as she bit on her lip in a way that made Harry’s eyes glow with significant admiration.

Harry blinked and shook his head, he could barely look anywhere but forward like he was afraid she’d disappear if he even looked to the side.

“Nothing,” He answered, “Nothing at all.”

She flushed, tugging at the hem of his shirt, suddenly bashful again. Harry crossed the room in a few slow steps and reached her to set her tea down on the bedside table then. She laughed as he tugged her gently onto the mattress, both of them sinking into the sheets in a tangle of tired limbs and lingering heat.

Wrapped in his shirt, tucked against his chest, Lily felt something settle inside her—a hum, a knowing, like she’d finally found where she was meant to land. Harry pressed a kiss to her temple, his fingers sliding into hers beneath the blanket.

“I was scared of this,” she whispered, her voice low and vulnerable in the hush.

“Of what?” Harry asked, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“This kind of closeness. Letting someone see everything. It’s... it used to feel dangerous.”

He was quiet for a moment, one hand stroking the soft skin at the small of her back.

Then, he opened up, a completely different thought coming acrossed him, “You ever read The Little Prince?”

Lily tried to think, shrugging a little bit as she thought, “Not since I was a kid, I don’t think.”

“Well, there’s a line in it that stayed with me,” he told her. “‘One sees clearly only with the heart. What is essential is invisible to the eye.’”

He went on, voice softer now. “I didn’t really understand it when I first read it. But now, I think it means that the things that matter most aren’t what people show you. It’s what they try to hide. And when someone lets you see that... it means everything,” He turned his head, eyes laying on her as she looked back at him. “Reminded me of you, I guess.”

She looked up at him then, eyes shining.

“That’s what you did,” he said. “You let me see you. And I’ll never take that lightly.”

She didn’t respond with words. She just kissed him—slow, deep, and filled with everything she didn’t know how to say, showing him that not only did she see him, she felt him – every inch of him with a certainty that made her scared to death and hopeful all at once.

***

A Few Weeks Later.

It was a Friday afternoon when Lily decided to walk back into the shop. The bell over the tattoo shop door gave a soft jingle as Lily stepped inside, her hands tucked into her jacket pockets, heart thudding despite the knowledge of who was inside and who she was there to see.

Harry looked up from behind the counter, caught mid-sketch of another project he had been asked to create, his curls tied up messily in a clip that he had been sporting for the longer hair, and another pencil tucked behind one ear. His glasses had started to slide down his nose before he lifted his eyes to look up at who had come in.

“Well, well, well,” he said, that lopsided grin, the one that always started in his eyes before it reached his mouth was on full display. “If it isn’t my favorite distraction.”

Lily shrugged, trying to play it cool, though her pulse betrayed her. “Thought I’d come in for something permanent.”

His brow arched at the confidence she wore; so different than she had looked when she previously stood there. “What – you here for another tattoo?”

She reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out a small, carefully folded piece of paper, shaking it in front of him. It looked fragile somehow creased but smoothed out, like she'd been carrying it with intention. She held it out with quiet fingers.

Harry took it from her without a word, unfolding it slowly. His thumb traced the edge of the paper unconsciously as his eyes scanned the familiar handwriting. And then he felt himself start to chuckle, start to shake his head before he looked back up at her and then down at the paper.

The quote sat in the center of the page like something sacred.

One sees clearly only with the heart.

The room went quiet, except for the low hum of the shop lights and the rain sliding down the windows. Harry didn’t speak right away. His expression softened, all of his usual wit and casual confidence falling away, stripped bare in the span of a heartbeat.

He looked up at her, blinking like he was seeing her in a new light. “Lily…”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, shifting slightly under the weight of his gaze. “I want it here,” she said softly, reaching to touch the inside of her left arm—just below the bend of her elbow. “Just small. Simple. Just for me.”

She paused, then added, “But I want it to come from you, of course.”

Something flickered across his face—something deep and quiet and unspoken. He glanced down at the quote again, then back at her, as if trying to be sure he’d really heard her right.

“You know what this means, right?” he asked, voice hoarse with more than just surprise. She nodded, eyes steady despite the way her fingers curled in her coat pocket.

“Well, to me, it means I see you too.”

And just like that, all the air seemed to shift between them; thicker now, heavier with meaning. The kind of meaning that didn’t need to be spoken to be understood. Harry stepped around the counter, sleeves pushed up, falling into a space of pure obsession and completely on a different planet. There had always been a part of him that knew that he would find this, but when he looked at her, he realized how much of him had been waiting for someone like her all along.

No teasing. No smirk. Just his fingers sliding into hers—timid but foundational, warm but alive, and there.

“Let’s make it permanent, then.” he told her, nodding. Without another word, Harry gripped her hand into his, pulling her back to his work station – back to where it all began.

Back to where he knew he was in love. And to be loved, is to be seen.

[rista-senpai]

Love you in the shadows

pairing: Sung Jinwoo x f!reader

summary: You are Antares’ beloved daughter. His biggest treasure, despite him being the CEO of the second biggest company in South Korea. He would give up everything within minutes just to see your smile. Even so, you failed to keep your father just as delightful, since you ended up as the secretary of his biggest rival, the number one CEO in your home country, Sung Jinwoo.

            Being stuck with a so-called ruthless man, feared by many for his authoritarian presence and cold, dark eyes, didn’t sit well with your father. Yet, you found them mesmerizing, something magnetic in those royal purple irises. Little did you know that the exact same eyes would see you beyond professional matters, forcing you to keep your feelings under a key, given the fact that you didn’t want to betray Antares.

            However, how could someone resist him, when it’s just you two in the middle of the night, lights low, soundless rain hitting the wide windows in his office, the air out of your lungs in seconds, when he looks so ravishing, words not being enough to describe him?

tags & warnings -> office au, forbidden love, secret relationship, reader falls in love with the only man she shouldn’t have been near, she fell first, but he fell harder, age-gap (reader is 24, Sung is 32), smut with plot

previous part & next part

CHAPTER THREE

He changed.

You felt it first thing Monday morning, when the usual call for his coffee never came. Not a word, not a glance. Just silence echoing from behind the thick glass walls of his office.

At first, you brushed it off. Maybe he was just in early meetings. Maybe the weekend had drained him too. But by noon, the silence had calcified into something heavier.

He didn’t ask for the economic trend reports. His schedule sat untouched on the edge of your desk, his inbox flooded with unread messages you weren’t sure you were allowed to sort anymore.

Evening came, and that’s when you finally saw him.

Not the man you knew — not CEO Sung Jinwoo in his tailored confidence and razor-edged focus — but someone worn around the edges. Someone... else. His tie was loose, the top buttons of his shirt undone. Dark circles carved shadows beneath his eyes, and his usually polished hair was an afterthought.

Sleepless.

That’s the word that fits him now.

He didn’t acknowledge you when he passed by. Just a faint nod, as if you were another piece of furniture in the sleek office halls. You stared at your screen long after he disappeared, your fingers motionless on the keyboard. You couldn’t understand what went wrong — Saturday night kept replaying in your mind, forcing you to analyze every word, every look. But there was nothing you had done to deserve this silence. Still, you shoved that feeling deep down, like it would somehow dissolve on its own.

One of your worst ideas ever.

He didn’t ask for you in the following days either.

The clock was ticking. The meeting was just two days away. And he still wasn’t speaking to you.

With the weight of the entire office suddenly resting on your shoulders, you knew you couldn’t let this continue—not like this. Something had to give.

It was late at night, well past midnight, and as usual, you were the only two left in the building.

You found him in his office, the lights dimmed low, city lights casting fractured reflections across the glass walls. He didn’t look up when you knocked. Just muttered, “Come in,” like he already knew it was you.

You stepped in quietly, fingers curling around the file in your hand — a pathetic excuse to be there.

“You didn’t ask for today’s review,” you said softly. “Or yesterday’s. I just thought you might… need it.”

“I didn’t ask,” he replied without looking at you.

“I know.” You placed it gently on the corner of his desk anyway.

The silence dragged. Your hands fidgeted in front of you, unsure what to do, unsure if you should speak again. But the weight in the room was suffocating, and you were tired of walking on broken glass.

“Jinwoo,” you said — quiet, careful.

His gaze finally moved to you. Not sharp. Not cold. Just… guarded.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said, voice steady despite the sting it cost you.

He leaned back in his chair, slow and silent. “I’ve been busy.”

“You’re always busy. That’s never stopped you from talking to me before.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand across his brow. “It’s complicated.”

You nodded, even though your chest tightened at the words. “I figured.”

Another silence. This one is less sharp, more resigned.

“I didn’t know what to say,” he said finally. “Something changed after... Saturday”

You felt it too. The way things shifted. Not in the moment, but in the aftermath. How quiet he got. How careful.

“I know,” you said. “But we didn’t do anything wrong.”

His eyes flicked to yours again, this time longer.

“Didn’t we?”

You took a seat across from him, hands folded in your lap. “You don’t get to push me away just because things got real. I work with you. I care about this job. About what we built here. But I also care about…” you hesitated, “clarity.”

He looked like he wanted to say something, then didn’t. His gaze dropped to the file again.

“You’ve been quiet. We can’t go into that meeting on Friday like this.”

“No,” he agreed, voice low. “We can’t.”

“I’m not asking you to make anything easy. I just… don’t want us pretending nothing’s happened. Even if all we do is decide to keep it professional.”

He nodded slowly. “I respect you too much to pretend.”

That surprised you. The raw honesty of it. No games. No shields.

“Then maybe that’s a start,” you said gently.

The tension didn’t leave the room — not entirely — but it softened. Like air finally moving after a long stillness.

“I’ll see you in the boardroom,” you added, rising to your feet.

He didn’t stop you. But just before you reached the door, he called your name.

You turned back.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like you weren’t needed.”

You nodded. “You did.”

A small pause.

“But I’m still here,” you said softly.

Then you left.

And behind you, for the first time in days, he let himself breathe.

Of course, you didn’t let yourself think until the elevator doors slid shut behind you.

Only then, as the hum of the descending car wrapped around you, did your shoulders sag, and your lungs finally remember how to work again.

God.

You leaned back against the mirror-lined wall, eyes fixed on the overhead floor numbers ticking down, each one dragging the weight of that conversation further into your chest.

You’d done it. You’d gone in there, looked Sung Jinwoo in the eye — the man who hadn’t spoken to you in days, who could break your career with a single word — and told him the truth. Not just as his assistant. As you.

It felt terrifying. It felt like a victory.

Your hands were trembling.

It wasn’t even that anything between you had been resolved—not really. But something had cracked open. The silence had been broken. The air felt clearer, even if only by a fraction.

When the elevator doors finally opened onto the lobby, you stepped out with the kind of quiet defiance that came after a storm. The night was still, the city outside bathed in streetlight and glass. Your phone buzzed in your bag, but you ignored it. Not tonight.

You needed to process.

Not the work things. Not the reports or the meeting or the way the office had started to feel like a frozen battlefield this week.

You needed to process him.

The look in his eyes. The guilt. The guardedness. The fact that, despite everything, he hadn’t asked you to leave.

And more than anything, the way your heart still twisted when he said your name.

You pressed a hand to your chest.

"Get a grip," you whispered to yourself with a dry, humorless laugh.

But deep down, you already knew the truth. You could pretend all you wanted that it was just tension, just confusion, just proximity…

But tonight had proved it. You weren’t walking on eggshells anymore.

You were standing at the edge of something.

And for better or worse, you weren’t alone on that ledge.

Taglist: @mitsurisupporter @milabyxz @shadyyouthcloud @cjafjatkstke @fianur @sky-casino @lemonninq @raspberrizzz @lavishlyjayda @blackqueen2k17 @livlikelove @uobasu @sylviatherosairy @jammycheese @reth66 @storacy @pikusururu @bubera974 @stormnightingale @emmathecouchpotato4583 @alebrasil0101 @amayakurusu13

[tinaascended]

⎯⎯ UNSCRIPTED (JENSEN ACKLES)

summary an age gap. rewrites and long days on set. a kiss that wasn’t supposed to happen.

this is also going to be a multi-chapter. been working on it for a week 💔 for my bbg @iris-w1nchester

the quiet hum of the writers’ room buzzed beneath the soft glow of the overhead lamps. you sat at the long, cluttered table, fingers restless as they toyed with the edges of your script. the room smelled faintly of coffee and old paper, a familiar comfort now making your chest tighten.

eric, the director, lingered nearby, his voice low and warm as he leaned toward you, just enough so no one else could hear. “you got this,” he murmured, a brief, reassuring smile flickering across his face.

you gave him a quick, tense nod. you appreciated the vote of confidence, but it was hard to breathe through the anxiety clinging to your ribcage, through the flicker of self-doubt gnawing quietly in your mind.

jensen, who had been walking past, caught the whispered exchange and paused. his eyes settled on you with quiet curiosity. then he pulled out the chair beside you and sat down.

“nervous?” he asked, voice low enough, head turned just slightly toward you.

you glanced at him, surprised he’d stopped at all, then gave a small shrug, lips pressing together before you spoke. “not really about the table read,” you admitted. “it’s more… everything else.”

he didn’t rush you. just waited.

“I keep thinking the fans are going to say I didn’t earn this. that i’m just here because eric’s my uncle.”

jensen’s expression didn’t shift right away, he just watched you. and when he spoke, it was with a kind of quiet certainty that caught you off guard.

“they might say that,” he said. “but that doesn’t mean they’ll be right.”

your heartbeat increased. just a bit.

he continued, softer now. “i've seen people coast through jobs in this business. you’re not one of them. I watched the way you were rewriting scenes yesterday when no one asked you to. the way you listened during that meeting like every note mattered.”

you blinked, his words settling into you like warmth after a long chill. jensen ackles had been paying attention. not just to the work, but to you.

his gaze flicked down to your script, then back up to you.

“you care. that shows. doesn't matter how you got here.”

you didn’t know what to say. for a moment, all you could do was stare at him, caught somewhere between grateful and disarmed.

no one had ever cut straight through your nerves like that. through the noise, the pressure, the self-imposed need to prove yourself. it felt… rare. like he saw something you didn’t think anyone had noticed.

“you think they’ll connect with the episode?” you asked quietly.

“if it’s honest,” he said. “yeah. fans don’t care who you’re related to. they care if you give them something real.”

and then, with a quiet smirk, he added, “besides… I read your draft. that monologue in scene six? the one where dean says he’s tired of pretending nothing ever got to him?”

your eyes widened slightly.

“that hit,” jensen said, his voice almost a whisper now. “it’s like you were listening in on things no one was saying.”

a pause, and then his voice dipped even lower. “kind of scary, actually.”

you laughed, soft and nervous. but there was something electric running through you now. not fear, not pressure. just… awareness.

of him. of the way his words curled around something inside you. the way his presence steadied your hands, even when he didn’t touch you.

you weren’t sure what to make of it yet, but you knew you weren’t imagining it.

before you could respond, jared and misha strolled in from the side, breaking the moment with their usual easy camaraderie.

“hey, how’s our new writer holding up?” jared grinned, nudging misha, who smirked knowingly.

jensen offered a small, almost protective smile toward you. “better now.”

-

the scent of grilled vegetables and something cheesy hangs in the air. folding tables are arranged in rows, cast and crew scattered across them with half-unwrapped sandwiches and styrofoam cups of coffee, you still buzzing from the morning’s shoot.

the scene you wrote, your scene, had been filmed just an hour ago. you watched it unfold on the monitor with a strange duality. pride blooming warm in your chest and nerves chewing at the edges of your confidence. everyone seemed pleased, especially eric, who clapped your shoulder afterward and called it “sharp,” but you’re still stuck somewhere between delight and doubt. would the fans love it? would they think it was earned? or would the comments fill with- nepotism hire strikes again?

you take a seat near the middle of the table cluster, plucking at your salad, still distracted. jared appears across from you with his tray in hand, mid-sentence about something, probably a joke, but jensen cuts in before he can sit.

“hey, mind if I-?” jensen gestures to the spot beside you, and it’s not a question. his eyes flick once to jared, quick and smooth, and jared lifts a brow in faint surprise, then grins.

“oh, I see how it is,” jared teases, nudging jensen with his tray before dropping into the seat across from you instead.

you laugh, a little flustered, trying not to read too far into the warmth of jensen’s shoulder brushing yours as he settles beside you.

“how are you feeling?” jensen asks quietly, leaning just enough that his voice is a low hum in your ear. “about the scene?”

you glance at him, heart skipping. his eyes are gentle but curious, like he’s trying to see the truth beneath your expression.

“I think… proud?” you admit. “and terrified.”

jensen smiles faintly. “that’s the sweet spot.”

you glance down at your tray, fiddling with the edge of your napkin. “I keep thinking the fandom’s going to eat me alive. that they’ll think I only got the gig because of eric.”

“you didn’t,” he says without missing a beat.

you look at him again.

“I’ve been on this set for almost fifteen years,” he continues, quiet but sincere. “I’ve seen scripts that felt rushed, or flat, or just off. yours? it’s got rhythm. you didn’t just throw something in, you know these characters.”

you blink. the words settle deep. you weren’t expecting that. not from him, not like that.

your throat tightens just a little. “thanks,” you say, voice softer than you meant.

jensen shrugs, but there’s something else under the gesture. Something a little more personal.

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he says. then he adds, with a glance sideways, “you were watching them film, right? that last take? I saw you smiling.”

you nod. “It was unreal. hearing the lines out loud. I think I forgot to breathe.”

he chuckles at that. “yeah, I saw the monitor guy trying to get your attention and you were just-” he mimics your expression, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, and you softly hit his arm with the back of your hand, laughing.

but his smile lingers. not just from the joke, something quieter. softer.

“I like that you care so much,” he says after a moment, and the way he says it makes you stop, just for a second. “it shows.”

you look down again, smile twitching at the corner of your mouth, trying to hide how flustered you feel. you can feel the tension, low and warm, somewhere between your stomach and your spine.

he reaches for his cup of coffee, and as he does, his fingers graze yours by accident. you both pause, briefly, but neither of you pulls away.

from across the table, jared is suddenly very focused on peeling the lid off his yogurt.

-

the hallway outside is quiet, long since abandoned. the low hum of the vending machine and the distant clattering of some forgotten equipment are the only signs the building isn’t entirely asleep. the glow of a small desk lamp spills a soft amber haze across the walls. papers are scattered everywhere, annotated script pages, half-full coffee cups, a forgotten cardigan tossed over the chair.

you sit cross-legged on the couch, the laptop dimmed beside you. the same paragraph has stared back at you for twenty minutes.

you barely notice when the door opens, just a faint creak, followed by a familiar voice.

“didn’t think anyone would still be here,” jensen says, stepping in quietly.

you glance up, surprised, but not unwelcome. “I could say the same about you."

he smiles, gentle, like he doesn’t want to break the stillness. “figured i’d find you in here. you missed wrap drinks. jared called you a ‘mysterious little mole.’ his words.”

you laugh under your breath. “a mole?”

“you know, holed up somewhere in the dark, scribbling secrets.”

you tilt your head. “honestly? not wrong.”

he lowers himself onto the couch next to you, not across, not angled. next to you. too close to be casual. the cushions shift beneath his weight. something in him has softened. the way he looks at you. it’s quiet. intentional.

you glance sideways at him, curious. “everything okay?”

he exhales through his nose, long and quiet. “yeah. I just… needed to not talk about takes for a minute.”

you nod gently. “that I understand.”

he pauses, then glances at the script pages near your leg. “I read your rewrite, by the way. the motel scene.”

your eyes flick to him, unsure of what you’ll hear.

he meets your gaze. “it knocked the wind out of me.”

you blink. “in a good way?”

“in a real way.” his voice is quiet now, honest. “I don’t know how you wrote that. the way that character lies through his teeth, but you can feel what he’s not saying. that’s not just writing. that’s… seeing through people.”

you sit back a little, caught off guard by how genuinely he says it. “thank you,” you say softly. “that means a lot.”

he watches you for a moment. his voice lowers. “it’s rare, you know. writing like that. that kind of honesty.”

something shifts in the silence. you watch him as he rubs his palms together, fingers twitching slightly.

“i’ve been doing this job so long,” he starts, voice a little tighter now, “sometimes I don’t know if I’m showing up as me or the version everyone expects. they’ve blurred together.”

you stay quiet, listening.

“I joke my way through interviews. smile through all the chaos. but some days, I feel like i’m not actually in the room. like someone else is playing as me.”

he doesn’t look at you, not right away. but when he does, there’s something raw in it.

your voice is gentle, confident. “I don’t think you have to perform when you’re here.”

a beat.

he breathes out like he didn’t even know he was holding it. “you make it feel easy. talking. being… this.”

you smile, a bit shy, but steady. “I don’t do anything special. i’m just… me.”

he laughs softly, more to himself than to you. “exactly.”

you don’t move. neither does he. but the air between you suddenly feels dense, like it’s holding something unsaid.

“I don’t really talk like this,” he murmurs. “not to most people.”

“good thing i’m not most people,” you say, voice quiet but sure.

his eyes linger on yours. soft. searching.

“you’re not,” he says. “that’s the problem.”

you raise an eyebrow. “problem?”

he huffs a laugh. “yeah. because now I can’t stop thinking about you.”

your heart skips. once. then steadies. you feel the shift, the ache of something inevitable.

“I think about you too,” you say, no hesitation.

he stares at you for a long moment. then, quietly, “that’s gonna get complicated, isn’t it?”

you tilt your head. “only if we do something about it.”

the silence stretches again. warm. fragile. sacred.

the low light wraps around you both like a quiet secret. the world feels distant, muted, except for the soft sound of your breaths mingling.

jensen’s eyes lock onto yours, searching, flickering with something unsteady. like he’s caught somewhere between wanting to pull away and not wanting to let go.

he leans in slowly, lips barely brushing yours, soft, as if asking, is this okay? 

you don’t pull back.

his hand rises, hesitating before resting lightly on your cheek, thumb tracing the line of your jaw carefully.

your breath catches, heart thudding unevenly.

the kiss deepens, but still slow, unsure, not urgent.

when he pulls away just slightly, his forehead rests against yours, breath warm and shaky.

“this shouldn’t be happening,” he murmurs, voice low and rough.

you meet his gaze, feeling the weight of his confusion. and your own.

“yeah,” you whisper back, voice barely more than a breath. “but it did.”

he doesn’t answer right away. instead, his hand slips from your cheek down to your shoulder, then hesitates, like he’s trying to decide if he should stay or run.

“you don’t regret it?” you ask, heart twisting.

he swallows hard, fingers tightening slightly. “I don’t know what I feel right now.”

your lips twitch into a small, nervous smile. “neither do I.”

the silence that follows isn’t awkward. it’s real. messy. honest.

his hand lingers on your skin, grounding him, grounding you.

you close your eyes for a moment, letting the quiet settle between you. but when you flutter them open, his are still there. soft, searching, a little scared.

the room feels impossibly small, holding the two of you in a bubble.

and as your lips meet again, slower this time, deeper, the connection between you both feels undeniable.

real.

raw.

unforgettable.

and even though everything feels uncertain, the warmth from his touch tells you this moment won’t be forgotten anytime soon.

I fear I might have made jensen a bit more depressed than I wanted to...

part 2 coming very very soon. love u guys 🫶

[n0rmal-cat]

May I humbly request a yandere harpy X reader? Premise being the user is visiting a home in country they do every so often, and late at night when they are walking around the house they notice… something…. Around outside, legs visible through a low curtain, something large flung past a large window at a staircase when they are going up, meanwhile it’s trying to find them, going on about “they have to be here, I saw the light! (The readers phone as a light to see) They are always here every 2 weeks!”. Just pure horror for the reader but the harpy is desperate to find them. Thank you.

Harpy x tariffed reader

[gonna be honest it was really late when I wrote this and I only remembered the bare bones of it, if you want I can rewrite it to fit more of what you asked because I feel bad 😢]

Reader needed a break and what better way to destress from being a CEO of a major retailer company than going to their lake house?

“Ghaa, finally” they stretch getting out of the car.

They get settled in leaving most of their bags unpacked deciding to spend the remainder of the sunlight at the lakefront.

“God yes, I should do this so much more often” they bask in the sun just listening to the gentle sound of the water.

The rustling of bushes coughs their attention through, it sounded way too heavy for it to just be the wind.

“Hello?” They sat up in their chair trying to get a better look, there wasn’t anyone else on the property to their knowledge but then again there were people known to camp in the area.

They got up to investigate “hey if you’re camping here you can’t, it’s private property. The campgrounds are farther down” the pushed aside the bushes.

“What the hell?!” They were so surprised they almost fell over, a dead rabbit lay on the floor. They didn’t want to look at it for too long but from what they did see it looked fresh.

“Why…just why…” They went back to their area to pack up their stuff. “Just leave it alone reader this is your vacation, it was probably just. Bird or something”

They brought all of their stuff inside, they made dinner for themselves and had a lovely rest of the evening. Popping open a bottle of wine as they got comfortable watching tv.

“I really needed this” they snuggled inside their blanket, closing their eyes. Before they could pass out though they heard the handle to their front door jitter.

Anxiety washed over them, they grabbed their phone snuck up to the door, looking out the peephole they saw nothing? just the pick black of the outside, that in itself was a strange as they did have porch lights.

Maybe they had drunk too much and the scare from before was messing with their head.

They let out a sigh of relief and made their way back to the living room, walking past the glass window that led to the backyard where they saw it.

It moved fast, its body blending in with the outside. It was hard to tell what was it and what wasn’t, the only thing reader did know was that it had deep yellow eyes. they were shifting around almost looking for something, their body pressed up against the glass.

In a situation like this one might go into fight or flight, what did reader do? They froze in place as they watched it.

Slowly but surely they back track making sure not to make a sound. They shut the light off to the living room leaving them in total darkness.

It was now almost impossible to tell where ‘it’ was unless you were looking at its eyes. The thing jumped back in surprise at the sudden change in light, reader thought this might deter it but it only strengthened its resolve to get in.

Reader lowered themselves to the floor. What were they supposed to do now?! Calling the police was obvious but they needed a place to hide in the meantime.

They spotted the dining table, the table cloth reached the floor so it was the perfect place to hide at least for now.

Slowly they crawled fearing that they were being watched by whatever was outside, their breath getting shakier the closer they got to the table, as much as it wasn’t it felt like a safe zone.

buzz-buzz….buzz-buzz

They were so close, only a few more steps and they would have been home free. The sound of their bed time alarm started them so much they dropped it on the floor.

Its eyes locked straight on it, its pupils Dilated wide. “Light, light!” It started looking for a way to get in.

They had to make a decision fast, leave the phone and run to safety, or take it and call someone and risk being found.

“Fuck this” they said under their breath, they picked up the phone and ran all the way upstairs.

What was the point in finding safety if they couldn’t even call for help? They locked themselves in the master bedroom. If it finds a way to get in they’ll just have to climb down the window or something.

They got into the closet and huddled into the corner. They finally got a chance to call for help, “come on come on come on” it rang four times then silence. “H-hello?” They looked at the screen only to find it dead.

All that and dove what? The damn thing probably knows where they are now. They couldn’t help but start to tear up at the thought.

They heard a gust of wind blow in through their balcony, the heavy footsteps on the floor almost sounded like claws. They didn’t even hear the door open so how it got inside was a mystery.

Reader couldn’t help but start to cry, was this really the end? The one god damn week they chose to take vacation, they should have seen the warning signs no animal would just leave their food behind.

The shadow of the thing stood in front of the closest, they knew their time was up. They choked on their tears as the door opened.

Their tear filled face looked up at a feathered happy one, its sharp teeth almost as bright as its eyes.

“You’re here finally here” it flapped its wings happily, it looked down at the blanket reader had been sitting on. “Nest? I can help make you a better one” it tilted its head.

Reader was frozen, they couldn’t believe this…bird thing was speaking to them so casually.

It crawled into the closet with them almost as if they were sitting in their lap. It rubbed the side of its face against readers wiping off all their tears.

“Sleep?” It asked leaning up against them, and eventually it did fall asleep on them snoring very loudly on top of it all.

Reader just stayed as still as possible, they were still in the shock of it all. To scared if they moved it might wake up and attack them like they thought it would.

They didn’t get any sleep that night.

[davrinsleftpectoral]

A Word with Friends: Davrin week edition 

*taps mic*

Hello! I’m your host for the week, DLP. I spent way too long looking at ridiculous words. I was angry at the English language for not having words for the specific thing I wanted. My sister @blackwall-my-tiny-husband said I annoyed her about it. I looked for a word for one afternoon and discussed it with her when she got home. But she ended up finding this one and I enjoy the way this one sounds when spoken out loud. I think it feels good in the mouth. Thank you @hedwigoprah for starting such a fun game and trusting me to pick a word this week lol.

Rules: Use the challenge word to write a sentence or scene and then tag a few friends. Happy writing! 

I included definitions from multiple sources. Anytime I see the word for the week, that is something I do, to really get a feel for the word, so I thought I’d share my research with the class.

This week's word is susurration 

Noun

the indistinct sound of people whispering

whispering, murmuring, or rustling. “The susurration of the river.”

In modern usage, we use the word to name a gentle sound characterised by a soft murmuring, persistent whispering, rustling, or even a barely audible buzzing.

I chose this word to be able to be paired with Davrin week, if you wanted. No pressure to use it that way of course, but Davrin is a pretty cool guy. Just saying.

Today’s Davrin prompts are 

Shepard/hunter, nature/nurture 

 

==

Davrin crested the hill ahead of Glandival and Cagan. They were coming along more slowly. At 10 and 4, their stamina naturally didn’t match his. He smiled at them fondly, thinking he should find a place for them to camp for the night. They’d been tracking the halla heard since shortly after sunrise and it was well into the afternoon. The children had kept true to their word, neither had complained about the journey. But he could see their fatigue showing.

Huffing and puffing they came to stand beside him. Cagan came in close and hugged his leg. Davrin reached down and patted his son’s pink haired little head affectionately. Glandival was looking out over the woods before them. She was a very observant child, even at just 10 years old. She wasn’t wild and restless like her mother. Instead, she sat back and took everything in, always watching and noticing things that even Davrin sometimes didn’t see. She did have her mother’s bright pink curly hair, something all their children had inherited, but that was just about the only trait they shared. 

Where Esha loved to explore the ruins and find artifacts, Glandival had no interest in them. She was drawn to the forest for entirely different reasons. Glandival was drawn to the animals. She shared a bond with Assan that was entirely different than his own. She also was exceptionally good with the halla, and loved learning how to track them and watch over them. Her natural shepherding instincts were something Davrin and Esha were happy to foster in her.

The susurration of the wind through the leaves was all he heard until Assan let out two cries. His signal that he’d spotted a herd. Davrin searched the skies again and spotted Assan in the air, circling an area not too far off. 

“I see Assan has found us a herd. I know you guys must be getting tired. Should we stop here for the evening? I’m sure we can catch up to them in the morning.” Davrin was curious what the pair would say.

“I can keep going,” Glandival said, lifting her chin, daring him to say she couldn’t. Davrin looked over to Cagan. He was younger, smaller than his sister. He wasn’t particularly interested in the halla, he just loved going with Davrin any chance he got, and had begged to come along. Cagan looked up at him with distress. Davrin could see that he was tired, but he didn’t want to say it. 

“Okay, if you say you can keep going, we will. Cagan, would you like to ride on my shoulders? That way you can help me spot the heard as we get close?” Davrin asked.

Cagan immediately perked up at the offer of a ride and the chance to be useful in their trek. Davrin lifted the boy up easily, and he squealed in delight at being up so high and close to Davrin. Davrin looked over at Glandival, smiling. He enjoyed the warmth blooming in his chest, something he seemed to feel near constantly when he was with his children. He had never expected to have them, but now with 4 and one more on the way, he was living a dream he didn’t know he’d wanted. 

“Let’s go see some halla.”

==

Tagging to start: @strugglinggranola @serensama @tkwritesdumbassassins @thedissonantverses @tacoteddy22 @thecraftybaroness @himluv @notyourmamasdeerbat @bubblecat-co @mythals-whore @operative-arrow @blackwall-my-tiny-husband @seaglassmelody @sidneysussex @biowaredisasterbisexual @woundedsoul12 @genjyoandgojyoandhakkai @jenn2d2 but anyone can jump in if they'd like! If you do it, tag me! I’d love to see what you do with this word.

@datvcompanionweeks thanks for a great prompt list!

And a bonus meme featuring my rook Esha and Davrin.

[b1eedthefreak]

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. Blue Hair pt. 2 (pt. 1)

⌇daryl dixon x reader

⌇summary: three months after the breakup, the pain never dulled. you tried to move on. he never did. when alexandria breaks open with grief, and daryl is taken by negan, your world collapses.

⌇warnings: angst and spoilers for twd season 7!!

⌇word count: 1.9k

a/n thank you everyone who liked the first one!! for everyone who requested a second part, this is for you! i think this can be read as a stand alone fic, but it’d make more sense to read part 1 first!━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

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The sun always rose over your little corner of Alexandria. The bakery sat quietly at the edge of the neighborhood, tucked beside a low brick wall, ivy curling up the side, flower boxes that had long since stopped blooming. The sign above the door had faded from red to almost pink in the late summer sun. You left it hanging anyway. You didn’t have the heart to take it down. You had started this place with your own hands, painted the walls, scrubbed the floors, turned it into a home for the part of yourself that still believed sweetness could survive in a world like this.

He used to stop by sometimes. Not to talk. Not to linger. Just to pass.

Daryl always came by early. Before the streets filled, before the day demanded too much of either of you. His boots would scrape softly across the pavement and pause in front of your window. He never looked for long. Just a quick glance, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want more. And then he’d move on, eyes down, back tense like the morning wind had told him something he didn’t want to hear.

You always looked up. Even when you promised yourself you wouldn’t.

Sometimes your hands would be deep in dough, wrists covered in flour, hair tied up and out of your face with the same faded bandana he once stole and gave back to you tied around a wildflower. You told yourself he didn’t matter anymore. That the chapter had closed.

But when he walked by?

You’d always glance toward the glass.

Even if it cracked something deep in your chest every time.

You baked like you were still waiting for him. You filled trays with cinnamon biscuits and braided loaves, honey sweet cornbread and little apple tarts shaped like hearts. You pretended it was for Alexandria. For the children. For hope. But some nights you’d catch yourself icing a cake and realize you didn’t know who it was for. Just that the act of making something beautiful kept your hands from shaking.

You hadn’t spoken since the fight.

Three months ago.

He’d stood in your kitchen with his fists clenched, voice rough with pain and fear he didn’t know how to name. You asked him to open up. To let you in. To stop shutting you out like love was a war he didn’t think he deserved to survive.

He’d walked out that night without turning back. Without saying he loved you. Even though you knew he did.

He just didn’t know how to say it without bleeding.

And now… he passed by like a ghost most mornings. Quiet. Always early. Always before your heart was ready.

But he never came inside again.

And you never stopped looking.

—

You remembered the morning they left like it was etched into the bone.

Rick had called a run. Not a supply run, something else. Medical. Maggie wasn’t doing well, and they needed to get her help. Glenn was at her side. So was Rosita. Carl. Michonne. Even Daryl.

You weren’t on the list. But you brought them water anyway, offered Maggie a biscuit for the road, one she accepted with a tired but grateful smile.

You didn’t speak to Daryl. You stood off to the side as he packed a duffel into the truck bed. Your eyes met for a second.

It didn’t linger.

And then they were gone.

You stayed up most of that night, wiping down countertops that were already clean, sweeping corners that hadn’t seen dirt in weeks. You kept the bakery lights on longer than usual. Told yourself they’d be back by morning.

They always came back.

Except this time, they didn’t.

The next morning, Alexandria screamed.

You had just lit the oven, apron slung over one shoulder, when you heard the shouting. A low rumble of voices, a shout from the guard tower, the sound of boots running. A noise that didn’t belong in the quiet hush of sunrise.

You dropped the bowl in your hands and ran.

Your heart was in your throat by the time you reached the gates. A crowd had gathered. People were crying. Rick’s clothes were soaked in sweat and blood, his hands covered in dirt. Carl looked pale. Michonne was silent. Rosita’s face was unreadable.

Something was wrong.

Your stomach twisted.

“Rick?!”

He turned toward you slowly, like it took effort just to lift his head. His face was ghost white, his eyes rimmed red, his lips slightly parted like he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

You moved closer. “Rick—what happened? Where’s Glenn?”

His face didn’t change.

“Where’s Abraham?”

Still nothing.

“Rick.” Your voice cracked. “Where’s Daryl?”

That got a flicker.

You took a step closer, chest heaving. “Where is he? Rick—where’s Daryl?!”

He swallowed. His jaw clenched.

And then, finally, in a voice that was so soft and so broken you almost didn’t hear it,

“Negan… he took him.”

Your body stopped working.

You collapsed where you stood. Knees hitting gravel. Hands braced on the ground to keep from falling further.

The crowd blurred. Your vision swam. All you could hear was your own heartbeat and the distant ringing of the name you hated more than anything now:

Negan.

He was gone. Taken. And you didn’t even get to say goodbye.

Not after everything. Not after the fight. Not after the way you still loved him even when you hated how much it hurt.

You pressed your hands to your face and sobbed until the sky went black.

—

You didn’t open the bakery for weeks after that.

The ivy over the door grew unchecked. The flower boxes wilted. Your neighbors left bread on your porch in quiet thanks for the months you had fed them, even if you didn’t remember how to eat anymore.

You slept on the couch most nights. Curled in his old vest. The one he used to wear when the weather turned, soft from age, still faintly scented with ash and smoke and the warmth of him. You clung to it like a memory you weren’t ready to lose.

You whispered to the dark sometimes. Told him you were sorry. Told him you loved him.

But no one answered.

Time passed. It always did.

The sun rose. People smiled. The world kept spinning even if yours had stopped.

You lit the ovens again eventually. Slowly. Quietly.

No grand reopening.

Just a tray of biscuits placed on the windowsill one morning. A loaf of bread on your doorstep the next.

Life was trying. You were trying.

But nothing filled the space he left behind.

And then, just like that, everything changed.

It was loud.

The sound of the gates creaking open. Shouting. Commotion. The kind of noise that only came with news, and usually, it wasn’t good.

You were in your kitchen, elbow deep in batter, when the first yell pierced the air. You froze. Your whisk clattered into the bowl.

Then came Rick’s voice. A few names. The sound of running. Footsteps. Boots. People spilling into the streets.

Something was happening.

You ripped off your apron and bolted outside.

You pushed past three people at the corner, breath caught in your chest.

You saw Rick first, staggering slightly, arms held out like he was directing someone. Then Carl. Tara. Jesus. Michonne.

And—

You froze.

Daryl.

He was there.

Standing behind Rick. Clothes torn, face pale, hair longer, darker under the dirt. His eyes looked sunken. Haunted.

But he was there.

Your heart stopped.

He was standing. Breathing.

Alive.

You didn’t even feel your feet move. You just ran.

And then suddenly you were in front of him.

And his eyes found yours.

He didn’t blink.

You didn’t breathe.

The world dropped away.

It was just him. Just you.

Just the space between two people who hadn’t stopped aching for each other.

He stepped forward.

One step. Then another.

Then he pushed someone out of the way, then another, until he was in front of you.

And before you could speak, before you could ask if this was real, his arms were around you.

Tight. Desperate. Like he never wanted to let go again.

Your breath caught. You clung to him instantly, sobbing into his shoulder, your hands fisting the back of his shirt.

“Daryl—” your voice cracked, “—you’re here, you’re okay, I thought—”

“I’m here,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I’m here, darlin’. I got back.”

He held you tighter. His whole body shook. His hands trembled where they gripped your waist.

You pulled back just enough to cup his face, your thumbs brushing the dirt from his cheeks. “What did they do to you?”

His eyes closed. He shook his head once. “It’s over. I’m here now. That’s all that matters.”

Tears slid down your cheeks.

He leaned in, rested his forehead against yours. His breath was shaky.

“I never stopped thinkin’ ‘bout ya,” he said, his voice cracking on the words. “Not once. Every damn second I was gone, all I wanted was this. Just… you.”

You let out a soft sob. “I never stopped loving you.”

His eyes opened. He stared at you like you were the only real thing left.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For everythin’. I thought pushin’ you away would protect ya. But I was wrong. And then I thought I’d never get to say that out loud.”

“You just did.”

You leaned into his chest again, and he held you so tightly it almost hurt.

But you didn’t care.

You’d waited months for this.

And you would’ve waited longer.

Because nothing else mattered.

He was home.

And so were you.

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[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @dixonsbridexx @yikes-myguy @blackwidownat2814 @euqsia @lliteratii @imadisneyprincessiswear @satata @smashleywow @misspendragonsworld @captain-shannon-becker @i-doutt-it @bookies16 @brianna-merlim @staley83 @insaneintheemembranev2 @dummylovewp

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TW: cussing, early seasons Daryl, angst, descriptions of walkers (Zombies), firearms, kidnapping, canon level racism, Merle

Part 13

Dead Weight - Part 14

The hum of low conversation bounced between the concrete walls. A tension hung in the air thicker than the smell of cooked beans and bread.

The group had gathered—Rick, Glenn, Maggie, Carol, Hershel, Beth, and now you—clustered at the tables.

Merle Dixon sat on the far end, posture loose like he owned the place. His prosthetic clinked against the metal seat as he leaned back, grinning like a cat in a doghouse.

Daryl sat beside him, arms crossed, eyes trained on the floor. He hadn’t said a word since they'd walked in.

You moved quietly, two mismatched plates in your hands. A spoonful of canned beans, a slice of the latest bread you'd made, and the smallest sliver of tomato each. It wasn’t much, but it was what you had.

You placed one in front of Merle without looking at him. The second you slid toward Daryl, pausing just long enough to glance up at him. You didn’t smile.

But you did care.

Daryl glanced down at the plate, his brow furrowed. He didn’t speak, but his jaw clenched—just slightly—as if it hurt to accept kindness right now.

You turned away before he could say anything.

The room was quiet, save for the clinking of cutlery and low murmurs.

“He shouldn’t be here,” Glen said first, his voice tight, his arm still wrapped in a blood-stained bandage. “He took us. Held us. Let that Governor bastard hurt Maggie—”

“Didn’t lay a hand on her,” Merle drawled, mouth half-full. “’Sides, I ain’t exactly in the habit of torture. Just holdin’ folks for bad men who do like it.” He gave a wink toward Maggie. “No hard feelin’s, sweetheart?”

Maggie visibly tensed. Glen’s hand went for his knife.

Daryl stood, just a fraction. “Merle,” he warned.

Merle raised both hands—one flesh, one steel stump.

Rick stepped forward. “We can’t have him here. We can’t trust him. Hell, we didn’t even know he was coming back.”

You stood near the edge of the table, hands twisting together, head down. You weren’t looking for a spotlight. You weren’t even sure if you should say anything.

But your voice cut through the room anyway.

Soft. Quiet. But not uncertain.

"He saved my life.”

The table stilled.

You looked up, eyes not defiant but earnest. Honest. Your gaze drifted from Rick to Carol to Glen.

“I was outside. Clearing walkers. I got caught.” You looked down for a moment, swallowing your nerves. “I—I thought I was going to die. And then he showed up. Killed every one of them. Pulled me to my feet.”

Merle gave a theatrical bow from his seat.

You didn’t look at him.

“I know he’s done awful things,” you said softly. “I’m not saying we forget that. But he’s Daryl’s family.”

You glanced at Daryl, just once. His head was still down, but his eyes were on you—burning beneath the shadows of his bangs.

“You gave me a chance,” you added gently. “When I had nothing. No one. We could give him a chance too.”

Silence.

“Look im not saying we go play baseball with the man,” you tired again. “But one opportunity, one strike and he's out.”

Rick looked at you for a long beat, his jaw ticking.

“I know you all have reasons not to trust him. I get it. But if it were anyone else’s brother, we’d at least… try.” Your voice dropped a note.

“Daryl has someone. That should count for something.”

No one moved.

You could feel your own pulse in your throat. Your hands were clasped in front of you, a nervous habit.

You weren’t defending Merle.

You were defending Daryl.

He turned his head—just slightly. Looked at you from beneath the shadow of his messy hair, one eye catching the light.

You didn’t look away.

Rick’s expression was hard, but measured.

“You trust him?” he asked you directly.

You hesitated.

Then.

"I trust that he didn’t have to save me. But he did.”

A long, thick pause followed. You sat down again quietly, folding into yourself.

You hadn’t raised your voice, but it felt like you’d shouted.

Daryl shifted. His boots scraped against the floor as he stepped forward just enough to make himself visible again.

“She’s right,” he muttered. “He ain’t perfect. Hell, he’s the biggest damn headache I ever had. But he’s my blood.”

Merle barked out a laugh. “Aww, you gettin’ misty-eyed on me, baby brother?”

Daryl shot him a look. “Shut up, Merle.”

And there it was.

For the first time since he’d come back, Daryl looked at you, really looked.

His brow furrowed, with confusion. Like he didn’t understand why you’d do that—for him. Not when he’d left.

Rick didn’t say yes.

But he didn’t say no either.

The prison courtyard is quiet in the early morning light. The fog hangs low over the gravel, creating an ethereal barrier between your group and the walkers pressing against the outer fence.

Glen paces along the inner perimeter, his face still bruised and swollen from what Merle and the Governor's men did to him in Woodbury.

It's been three days since the rescue mission. Three days since they'd made it back.

Three days of uncomfortable silence as everyone processes what happened there.

One day of Merle Dixon living within these walls, kept separate in the entry room but still too close for comfort.

Glen stops his pacing when Daryl emerges from the cell block, crossbow slung across his back as always.

Tension rolls off Glen's shoulders, the way his hands curl into fists at his sides.

He's never felt so angry, so broken.

Not even after Atlanta, not even after the farm fell.

This confrontation has been brewing since they returned.

"Need to talk," Daryl says, approaching Glen with caution, the way he might a wounded animal.

The bruises on Glenn's face have deepened to a sickly purple-yellow, one eye still partially swollen.

The sight makes something twist in Daryl's chest—guilt, anger, shame.

Glen stops pacing but doesn't look at him directly. "About what?"

"Y'know what," Daryl replies, his voice low. No one else is in the courtyard this early, but the prison has a way of carrying sounds. "About Merle."

Glen's jaw tightens visibly. "Nothing to talk about."

"Bullshit," Daryl counters, stepping closer. "You ain't said two words since we got back. To anyone but Maggie."

"What am I supposed to say?" Glen finally turns to face him, eyes burning with a mixture of pain and rage.

"That it's fine? That I understand? That I forgive him?"

Daryl winces slightly at the raw emotion in Glen's voice. "ain't askin' for that."

"Then what are you asking for?" Glen's voice rises slightly. "Because he's here now, inside our home, behind the same walls where my girlfriend sleeps. Where Carl sleeps. Where Rick's baby sleeps."

"He's m'brother," Daryl says simply, as if those three words explain everything.

Because in his world, they do.

"And what are we?" Glen challenges, gesturing to the prison around them. "What is this group to you ?"

Daryl shifts uncomfortably, his eyes dropping to the ground. "It ain't that simple."

"It is that simple," Glenn insists. "He beat me. He brought a walker into the room while I was tied to a chair. He was going to let the Governor—"

His voice breaks, and he takes a moment to compose himself.

"He let the Governor put his hands on Maggie while I listened from the next room."

Daryl flinches as if struck.

He'd heard bits and pieces of what happened, but hearing it laid out so starkly makes the bile rise in his throat.

"He didn't know what the Governor was gonna do."

"Don't," Glen warns. "Don't make excuses for him. He knew exactly what was happening. He just didn't care."

Silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken words. A walker snarls at the fence, drawn by their voices.

The sun continues its slow climb above the horizon, burning off the morning fog.

"He's changing," Daryl finally says, though the words sound hollow even to his own ears. "Trying too."

"We changed too, but we didnt start as monsters," Glen replies, his voice steadier now.

"He's blood," Daryl insists, an edge of desperation creeping into his tone. "M'family."

Glenn shakes his head slowly. "No. We're your family, Daryl. Me, Rick, Carol, Carl... all of us." He pauses watching Daryl's reaction carefully.

"We've had your back. We've risked our lives for you, and you for us. That's family."

Daryl's thumb worries at a loose thread on his crossbow strap, a nervous habit he's never quite shaken, he can't meet Glen's gaze.

"I know that. I ain't sayin'..."

"What are you saying then?" Glen presses. "That we should just forgive and forget? Pretend it never happened?"

"M'saying he deserves a chance," Daryl says, finally meeting Glen's gaze. "Just like everyone else got."

Glen laughs, a bitter sound that doesn't suit him at all.

"A chance. Right."

He gestures to his battered face.

"Is this what getting a chance looks like to you?"

"He was following orders," Daryl argues weakly. "The Governor—"

"Would you be making these same excuses if it had been her instead of Maggie in that room with the Governor?" Glen cuts him off, his voice deadly quiet now.

The question hits Daryl like a physical blow. He takes a step back, his face draining of color.

"Would you?" Glen pushes. "If she'd been stripped half-naked and threatened while your brother stood by and did nothing, would you forgive him?"

Daryl's breathing quickens, as he begins to pace, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

The mere thought of you in that situation, terrified and at the mercy of the Governor while Merle watched, makes something violent rise within him.

"That's different," he mutters, but there's no conviction behind the words.

"Why?" Glenn demands. "Because it's her? Because of whatever is happening between you two?"

Daryl's head snaps up, eyes narrowed. "Ain't nothing happening."

"Right," Glenn scoffs.

"Answer the question,"Glen presses when Daryl remains silent. "If the Governor had threatened her while Merle stood by, would you forgive him?"

The silence stretches thin between them as Daryl wrestles with the truth he doesn't want to acknowledge.

Finally, he exhales heavily, the fight seeming to drain from his body.

"No," he admits, the word barely audible. "I wouldn't."

Glen nods once, a small, sad validation. "Then don't ask me to do what you couldn't."

Daryl paces the empty watchtower, fingers twitching with the need to punch something, to release the storm churning inside him.

Glen's words echo in his head like a bad song he can't shake.

"If it had been her in that room..."

The mere thought sends a wave of nausea through him, followed by a surge of protective rage that terrifies him with its intensity.

He'd always known Merle was damaged—hell, both of them were.

Their old man had seen to that with his belt and his fists and his whiskey-soaked hatred. But Daryl had clung to the belief that somewhere beneath the racism, the violence, and the drugs was the brother who'd taught him to hunt, who'd occasionally, in rare moments of sobriety, shown him something resembling love.

Now that illusion is crumbling, forcing Daryl to face a truth he's been running from his whole life, Merle might be blood, but he might be poison too.

"Ain't nothin' happening," he'd told Glen about you, the lie bitter on his tongue.

Truth is, something's been happening since that morning when he'd seen you brake down over a walker and he awkwardly stood guard while you cried.

Something grew when you recognized the signs of abuse on him that no one else bothered to see.

Something shifted when he hallucinated Merle taunting him about his feelings for you in the forest.

But acknowledging that something means accepting vulnerability, and vulnerability has always equaled pain.

He leans against the railing, eyes scanning the tree line but not really seeing it.

What kind of man chooses strangers over his own brother?

What kind of man puts a woman he ain't even touched above family?

His father's voice, thick with contempt, surfaces from the darkest corners of his mind.

"Weak. Always were. Ain't no wonder Merle left you behind all them times."

Daryl's knuckles whiten as he grips the railing.

Maybe the old man was right.

But there's another voice now, quieter but persistent, that sounds suspiciously like yours. It whispers that maybe strength isn't about doing everything alone.

The thought is as terrifying as it is liberating.

Because if he admits how much this group matters, how much you matter, then he has to face how much he stands to lose. And loss has been the one constant in Daryl's life—the one thing he knows for certain will always comes.

Daryl makes a decision. He'll watch Merle, keep him in line, protect the group—protect you—even from his own blood if necessary.

He doesn't know what that makes him—traitor, survivor, or something else entirely—but for the first time in his life, he's starting to believe that being a Dixon doesn't have to define who he is or who he might become.

The day had faded into blue-grey shadows, the kind that made the world feel quieter than it really was. Outside the fencing, walkers still stirred—low groans and the occasional rattle of chain-link. Inside the prison walls, it was calmer, but no one truly relaxed anymore.

You leaned against the railing overlooking the yard, arms folded loosely. The concrete was cool beneath your elbows, the metal guard smooth against your palms.

You weren’t really watching anything. Not the trees. Not the watchtower. Just… letting the silence press into your chest.

The sound of boots scraping against concrete caught your ear, but you didn’t turn. You knew it was him.

Daryl came to stand beside you, not too close, but not far either. A shoulder’s length. His crossbow was slung across his back, dirt streaked across his arms.

His hair was still damp at the ends from having splashed water on his face before dinner.

He didn’t say anything at first.

The two of you just stood there for a few long moments, looking out at nothing, like the world was balancing on the space between you.

Finally, he spoke—gruff and low.

“Earlier, in the common room... what you said...”

You turned your head slightly. He wasn’t looking at you. His hands rested on the railing, knuckles scarred, fingers twitching like he wasn’t used to staying still.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he muttered. “They don’t trust Merle. I get it. Hell, I don’t even know if I do sometimes.”

You tilted your head. “You’re his brother.”

That made his lips press into a thin line. His jaw flexed. “Don't make him good though”

A pause.

The night air carried the scent of rust and rain-soaked soil.

Then, something changed.

Barely perceptible.

You felt it before you saw it—the warmth of his hand shifting closer to yours on the railing.

His fingers moved in a twitchy, uncertain rhythm, like a man trying to approach a wild animal without spooking it.

And then, slowly… tentatively… his pinky brushed against yours.

You glanced down.

He wasn’t looking. He stared dead ahead, jaw tight, like the act of touching you burned through his defenses in real time.

And then his pinky hooked—gentle but deliberate—over where yours rested on the railing.

It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a brush of coincidence. It was intentional.

It said everything his mouth didn’t know how to.

He didn’t hold your hand.

He couldn’t yet.

But he wanted to.

After a breath or two, he pulled away slowly, cleared his throat, and stepped back.

“’Night,” he mumbled, already turning.

“Night, Daryl,” you whispered back.

He paused for a fraction of a second before disappearing, the prison swallowing him whole.

You stood there a moment longer, hand still on the rail, warmth blooming in the place where his touch had been.

[lyrakanefanaticwriting]

a temporary job, or something more?

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pairings: lyra kane x grayson hawthorne tags: assistant x boss au authors note: okay i have never done an au before, BUT i really wanna try one!! basically the events of the brothers hawthorne still occured (the phone calls), but the grandest game doesn’t exist in this universe. also the whole “lyras father” thing is going to be REALLY played down because i dont want it to be a big problem in this universe. anywaysss thanks this is going to be a multiple part series and i hope u guys enjoy it 💖💖

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GRAYSON:

“C’mon, Gray,” Nash drawled. “You’ve been overworking yourself for weeks. Just think about it.” Grayson sighed. He had been overworking himself for weeks.

His assistant, Sheila, was a kind, 42 year old woman. She had been working as Grayson’s assistant for 2 years, before quitting. Apparently she had gotten a job offering in Connecticut, closer to where her parents lived, and took it to be near them, and to help out her sick father. Grayson had been overrun with work, and simple tasks that Sheila used to take care of for him was weighing him down. And now there was finally time to open up the assistant job.

Taking a sip of his coffee, Grayson tried to ignore his 3 brother’s stares across from him. Their breakfast plates were empty, and yet they made no move to put them away. They simply stared, waiting for an answer. Grayson sighed.

“Fine.” he obliged, biting out that one word answer. Xander and Jameson both high-fived, glad that they had finally worn him down, while Nash just smiled at him.

“Good job, Gray. I’m glad you decided to finally get someone to help you out.” Nash said, his voice honest. Grayson gave him a slight smile.

“Honestly, I’m glad too.”

LYRA:

Lyra rubbed her temples, having gone over so many bank statements and tuition expenses that her head was starting to hurt. Not to mention it was currently way past midnight, and she had already drank 2 cups of coffee. She can’t stay at her out of state college if her brother wants a college fund, or if she wants to keep Mile’s End. And yet her father would kill her if she took a leave from school.

Lyra sighed, going over all her options one last time. The only reason she had continued to go to her out of state college was because she was already enrolled there. Otherwise, she would have dropped out and switched to a closer school. She didn’t have anything to run from anymore, anyway.

She remembered the day all too well. 1 year ago, Lyra was packing her bags for college. She didn’t know how it happened, but suddenly, she was arguing with her mother. And things got worse. Lyra was screaming, uncaring of what she was saying, when the words came out: “and it’s not like you care whether I go to an out of state college or not, or whether I quit ballet or not, because you never even bothered to ask me why!” She remembered pausing immediately, going silent, and her mother begging Lyra to tell her why. And she did.

Lyra told her mother every memory she had of that night, from beginning to end, and by the time she was done, she and her mother were kneeling on the floor. Lyra was crying, and her mother was rocking her in her arms.

That was when her mom decided she wasn’t going to continue to stand by and watch Lyra’s life continue to derail. She enrolled Lyra for therapy lessons at her college, and with a weekly outside of college therapist. Slowly but surely, Lyra began to work through her trauma, eventually getting better and better at controlling the narrative in her own life instead of her past doing that for her.

And the one thing that her mother did that really settled with Lyra was a year ago. Lyra’s mother sat her down, and showed her articles, older websites, anything she could find that showed that her father wasn’t the only person the Hawthorne’s screwed over. So many other patent owners experienced the same thing, losing everything typically at the hands of Tobias Hawthorne.

“Don’t get angry Lyra,” she told her in a kind voice. “But you have to accept this. Rich people do bad things. And your father is just another person Tobias Hawthorne screwed over. But you have to remember that Tobias is dead. That terrible generation of the Hawthorne family is gone. And that new heiress, she won’t do the things Tobias Hawthorne did. It’s not much consolation, and it’s not the justice I know you want. But knowing that nobody is going to go through what your father may have gone through by Tobias Hawthorne… that’s enough consolation for me.”

Her words resonated with Lyra. She can still feel the anger, the frustration when she thinks about what happened to her father. But now, instead of letting her anger and grief take control of her, Lyra remembers that both her father and Tobias are gone. And the only way for her to move forward in life is to accept that.

Lyra squeezed her eyes shut, her brain transporting her back to the present.

A job, her brain reminded her, you’re looking for a job. Lyra breathed in and out, the action something she was used to and calming, and continued to look through job applications. She didn’t need to look for ones close to her college, as she finally decided she was going back home on her leave. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission, she thought. Besides, once she made more money she could rent an apartment, and that would help her make her own choices with her life, ones that helped her keep Mile’s End while also helping her parents get a trust fund started for her brother.

Finally, after 20 more minutes of scrolling through possible job opportunities, her eyes landed on one job in particular that stood out to her the most: an assistant opening for the Hannah the Same Backward as Forward Foundation. Lyra’s eyes widened. That was Avery Grambs’ foundation, she thought, having to fight back memories of her father, the one she created to donate 98% of her money. Then she clicked the read more section, saw who she would be working under in this assistant position, and her eyes nearly bulged out of her head.

Grayson Hawthorne. The man she had called a mere 2 years ago, asking about her father. The man who told her to “stop calling”. Frustration rose in her chest, remembering how quickly she’d been tossed out by him.

She didn’t need his help anymore. She was finally accepting her past. But then? Him abandoning her, him giving her hope and then taking it away, him telling her to “stop calling”? That broke her.

Lyra didn’t know what she was doing then; it felt as if a spirit had taken over her body, because in seconds she had submitted her resume and had applied for the job.

She stared at her laptop with shock at her own actions, and wondered then if she could reverse them. But then she remembered her brother’s college fund, and Mile’s End, and realized that no matter her past with Grayson Hawthorne, she needed this job. It must be high paying, considering there weren’t many positions in the foundation. And besides, Lyra was sure that he wouldn’t even remember her. Each call had been placed by a burner phone, all only a few minutes in length. Those calls wouldn’t deny her this job.

Shutting her laptop, Lyra placed it on her nightstand, and finally went to sleep.

Lyra didn’t know how to feel when she got the message that she had been accepted for the job. Her mind was stuck in a loop of worries, but somehow the idea that she would be working for Grayson Hawthorne didn’t quite hit her until she was standing outside of the foundation, her laptop bag in hand. Then she began to wonder about the state she was in when she applied for this job. They requested that she wear a “Hi, my name is” sticker on her blouse with her name scrawled on, so Lyra did exactly that, feeling wildly ridiculous.

After about 3 minutes of staring at the building, Lyra took a deep breath, and stepped in. She wasn’t quite sure where to go, so she walked up to the woman in the front desk, who looked just as elegant as that entire marble-coated building. Lyra’s heels clicked as she walked up towards her, and the woman looked up.

“Hello.” Lyra said, slightly awkward. The woman payed no mind to her hesitations, and smiled at Lyra with honesty and kindness in her expression.

“Hi there! What brings you to the Hannah the Same Backward as Forward Foundation building?” She chirped, surveying the sticker on her blouse with unfamiliarity in her eyes. Lyra couldn’t help but give her the slightest smile, even if it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I’m a new assistant. For Grayson Hawthorne?” Lyra said, trying to sound as unaffected as possible when she said his name. The woman looked surprised.

“I wasn’t aware that he had opened up the position. I mean, I knew that Mr. Hawthorne’s past assistant had quit, but he seemed pretty adamant on not needing a new one—“ the woman didn’t get to finish her sentence before somebody interrupted her.

“And yet here she is, a shining new assistant, all thanks to me!” Exploded a male voice. Immediately Lyra turned to give whoever interrupted this kind lady a mean look, when she realized who she was glaring at: Xander Hawthorne. Lyra didn’t have time to be shocked when she surveyed the two men behind Xander: Nash Hawthorne, and Jameson Hawthorne.

Lyra realized then that her glare from before was still sitting as clear as day on her face, and it looked as if she was judging all of them pretty fiercely.

Fixing her face, Lyra gave them a polite—and utterly fake—smile. “Do you think you could lead me to his office?”

They all shared the quickest look, before Jameson Hawthorne stepped forward. “Sure thing. Follow our lead…” he trailed off, reading the sticker on her shirt. “Lyra Catalina Kane.”

The walk there was mainly silent, as well as the elevator ride, but Xander Hawthorne still found a way to talk through it all, even when there weren’t any real conversations happening.

Finally they reached his office. The first thing she saw was an empty desk area in front of it, clearly meant for Lyra. The second thing she saw was the inscription on Grayson’s office door—Office 301 - G. D. Hawthorne.

Lyra swallowed, nervousness closing up her throat.

“Here it is,” Nash Hawthorne spoke abruptly, his Texan accent thick. “Don’t be nervous. You’ll be great at the job, I’m sure of it.” Lyra was surprised, her gaze flashing to Nash’s. She hadn’t expected him to be so kind.

“Thanks.” she said, politely yet surprisedly. Then she stepped forward, and opened up the door. There, sitting at the desk, was Grayson Hawthorne. She stepped forward, glancing behind her to see if the other 3 Hawthorne brothers were still there, but they were all starting for the elevator. Lyra turned back around, and saw that Grayson Hawthorne’s gaze was now on her. She opened her mouth to speak—and was immediately interrupted.

“You’re the new assistant?” he asked, his gaze formal yet calculating as he swept his eyes over her. Lyra nodded, slightly aggravated but not letting it take ahold of her, and opened her mouth to speak.

And wouldn’t you know what happened, yet again.

He interrupted.

“Good. I was just finishing up some paperwork. I have some more leftover documents, but I can look through those. Though I would appreciate you getting me a coffee.” he said, standing as he rearranged some papers. Lyra’s jaw went slack. First he interrupts her, twice, and now he assumes she can’t look over basic documents?

Asshole.

Lyra stayed silent, stewing in her anger, and Grayson Asshole Hawthorne looked up at her.

“Did you not hear me?” The question was entirely rude, but said with such formality that you would think you were going crazy for thinking it was. Lyra’s jaw tightened.

“I heard you perfectly fine. I just assumed that I’m supposed to be given leave to speak, considering I haven’t been able to get a word out up until now.” she gritted out, immediately regretting her words as soon as she said them. Great way to get fired 2 minutes into the job, Lyra thought.

But Grayson’s expression wasn’t annoyed, as she expected. No, he was utterly taken aback.

Lyra was beginning to feel scared, when Grayson spoke.

“What?” he breathed. Lyra made a face.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I—“

“No, not that.” Grayson cut her off again, waving a hand. He still looked shocked, staring at Lyra like she had grown a pair of horns mid conversation.

And then he spoke, and Lyra realized why he was so shocked.

“I know you.” he breathed. Lyra froze. The phone calls.

Each phone call was placed by a burner phone, all less than a few minutes in length and around 2 years ago. He shouldn’t have been able to recognize her voice. That was the one thing that soothed her nerves, knowing Grayson wouldn’t recognize her.

So much for that.

“2 years ago,” Grayson spoke, walking around his desk to come closer to her. “you called me, asking about your father. The one who killed himself, saying “a Hawthorne did this”.” Grayson was significantly closer now, his body only a few inches from hers.

“Am I correct?” Grayson asked, his pupils wide. Lyra gave him a look. He knew he was.

“Does it matter? It was 2 years ago. Those phone calls have nothing to do with this job.” she retorted, not being able to pry her gaze away from his. “I’m not here for some revenge plot. I need this job.” He came closer.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice cold—yet quiet, like he was grappling with himself. Lyra was about to defend herself, her eyes flashing, when the door to Grayson’s office suddenly opened.

“Mr. Hawthorne—“ Lyra heard a familiar voice behind her. She immediately stepped away from Grayson, turning around to see the same front desk lady who had greeted her a mere 5 minutes ago at the door. She seemed incredibly awkward after catching the two of them standing a mere few inches away.

“Ms. Grambs wanted me to drop these off. But now that Ms. Kane is here, she will be able to go through those for you, if it’s too much of a hassle.” she said, quickly shuffling into the room and dropping a small stack of papers onto Grayson’s desk, an air of hesitations around her.

“Thank you.” Grayson’s voice was deeper than previously, the rich and low sound of his voice distracting Lyra more than it should have.

More than it could have, now. Besides the fact that he was a Hawthorne, he was her boss.

Lyra went for the papers before he could.

“I can fill these out.” she said briskly, needing any excuse to turn and walk out the door. And she was about to when Grayson interrupted.

“Our conversation isn’t over, Lyra.” Lyra froze. Lie-ra.

“It’s Lyra.” Lee-ra. Her palms were getting sweatier as she had to fight back memories of her father.

“My apologies, Lyra.” he said, pronouncing her name right that time. Exactly right. He seemed like he was going to say something else, but Lyra didn’t give him the opportunity to. She turned and walked out the door before he could speak, closing it behind her and giving Grayson Hawthorne a taste of his own arrogant medicine.

GRAYSON:

Lyra Catalina Kane. Her voice immediately sent him back to two years ago, to phone calls and riddles, to that damn opal ring.

“What begins a bet? Not that”.

It became increasingly hard to focus on work when all Grayson could do was stare out the glass pane of his office, watching Lyra at her desk. His mind was occupied with questions, about why she needed the job, about her father, about what her being here meant for his family.

And for him.

He couldn’t say that he hadn’t thought about her after he had told her to stop calling. But he didn’t think he could pester he about the phone calls any longer, especially when she’d said that the job had nothing to do with them.

Still, to be safe, he sent out a text to Avery.

“Did you perform a background check on Lyra Catalina Kane?”, he texted, pressing send. There was a pause, before the text bubbles showed up indicating that Avery was texting back, and she finally wrote her reply.

“Yes, there was nothing concerning about her. Why?”, read the text. Grayson paused, before his fingers continued texting.

“Just curious.”, he sent back. Then he placed his phone down, his mind going back to the mystery girl who he had been thinking about for the past 2 years. The one who was now his assistant.

Then a brief knock sounded at the door, pulling Grayson from his thoughts.

“Come in,” Grayson spoke. Lyra Kane walked in, holding a document.

“Mr. Hawthorne,” she spoke, sounding as if she were talking to him for the first time, like their past phone calls were nothing. “I need you to sign your name on one of these papers.”

Grayson stared at her, watching her as she came closer. She put the paper on the desk neatly in front of him. Grayson stared at her for only a moment longer, before turning his attention to the document.

Grayson signed his name quickly and efficiently on two different spots, before handing the paper to Lyra. She turned around and was about to walk out, when Grayson spoke.

“Ms. Kane,” he called out. Lyra turned around. He stared at her, unsure of what to say, before improvising.

“Call me Grayson.” he said. Grayson was a bit surprised; after all, Sheila had always called him Mr. Hawthorne, but Lyra and Sheila were different on a multitude of fronts. She paused, before a look came on her face.

“Only if you call me Lyra.” she retorted. Grayson was surprised, not used to anyone talking back as much as the spark in front of him did.

In a moment, Grayson realized that Lyra wasn’t just a spark. She was a wildfire—fatal, stubborn, and more than a little dangerous. He smiled then.

“If you wish, Lyra.” he said. Lyra looked at him a moment longer, before giving him a slight nod and stepping out of his office. Grayson watched her walked away, intrigue clear in his face.

Who really are you, Lyra Catalina Kane?

And despite what he thought, the idea of finding that out was a mystery that Grayson considered his to solve.

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hi guys!!! so that was the first part to my first au fanfic, i hope u guys enjoyed it and if u have any constructive criticism/recommendations for what you might want to see moving forward in the fanfic please lmk!!! <33

[lila-lou]

✨Beyond his true fate - Part 3/14✨

Summary: Sequel to "His true fate".

(Jensen hasn't been happy for years. But it seems almost impossible for him to escape. After another nasty argument between him and his wife, he decides to visit his ´former´ best friend for his birthday. Back in Austin, an encounter awaits him that will turn his life completely upside down.)

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: Language, age gap, tough topics

Word Count: 6730

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes. I love them all.

Jensen’s hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. The drive to Houston felt never-ending, the hum of the road beneath his tires doing nothing to quiet the storm raging inside him. He had never been here—not to your parents’ house, not even when they moved to be closer to you. And you had never pressured him.

Now, he was about to show up unannounced at nearly midnight, desperate, unsure, but knowing he couldn’t wait any longer.

Beside him on the passenger seat sat a bouquet of roses, the petals a deep shade of red, freshly picked from the best florist he could find in a rush. And at that hour. Next to them was your favorite chocolate, the kind you always reached for when you were having a rough day. And beneath them, tucked neatly inside a small envelope, was a plane ticket.

He had bought it weeks ago.

Back when he thought you’d be here with him. Back when he imagined surprising you with it, seeing the way your face would light up at the thought of finally visiting the place you’d talked about since the moment he met you. He had planned to take you with him, to steal a few days away from the chaos and just be with you.

But now, he wasn’t even sure if you’d want to go. If you’d even want him.

Jensen exhaled sharply as he pulled up in front of your parents’ house, his pulse hammering in his ears. The lights inside were off, save for a small glow coming from what he assumed was the living room. His stomach twisted. What if you didn’t want to see him? What if this was a mistake?

Too late now.

He shoved the car into park, took a deep breath, and reached for the bouquet, the chocolates, and the envelope before stepping out into the cool night air. The gravel crunching beneath his boots sounded deafening in the silence. His heart pounded harder with every step toward the front door.

For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the wood, willing himself to knock.

Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he lifted his hand and knocked. Once. Twice. A third time, firm but not too loud.

A long, tense pause stretched out. Then, slowly, the porch light flickered on.

His breath hitched when the door creaked open. And there you were.

You looked smaller than ever, standing in the dim glow of the porch light, drowning in a huge shirt that hung loosely off your frame. Your bare legs peeked out beneath the fabric, your skin marked with the faintest goosebumps from the cool night air. Your hair was a tousled mess, like you had just woken up, and your eyes—red-rimmed, puffy—told him everything he needed to know. You had been crying.

His chest tightened painfully. He hated that. Hated that he had been the cause of those tears. Hated that you looked so exhausted, so fragile, as if carrying the weight of everything alone had drained the life out of you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

You just stared at him, blinking slowly, like you weren’t sure if you were dreaming or if this was real.

Jensen swallowed hard, shifting the flowers slightly in his grip. “Hey”, he said softly, his voice rough with emotion.

You blinked again, your lips parting slightly. “Jensen?”. Your voice was hoarse, laced with disbelief, like you weren’t sure if you should be relieved or angry or something in between.

He let out a breath, nodding. “Yeah”.

Your fingers gripped the edge of the doorframe as if steadying yourself, your gaze flickering down for a split second to the roses, the chocolates, the envelope in his hand. A faint crease formed between your brows, confusion clouding your tired features.

“What… what are you doing here?”, you asked, your voice quieter now, like you weren’t sure you were ready for the answer.

Jensen exhaled slowly, forcing himself to hold your gaze. “I had to see you”.

You stood frozen for a moment, like you weren’t sure how to respond. Your body was stiff, your shoulders tense, like you were preparing for something painful.

Jensen’s grip on the flowers tightened. He cleared his throat, shifting slightly on his feet. “I know it’s late”, he admitted. “And I know I should’ve given you more time. But I couldn’t wait anymore”.

Your breath hitched ever so slightly, your fingers curling into the fabric of your oversized shirt.

“I messed up”, Jensen continued, his voice raw. “I let you walk away, and I’ve been going crazy ever since. And I know—fuck, I know I don’t deserve to just show up like this. But I needed to see you. I needed you to know that I—”. He hesitated, looking down at the envelope for a beat before his eyes met yours again. “That I don’t want to lose you”.

Something flickered in your gaze, something so vulnerable and hesitant it made his stomach twist. “Jensen…”. You whispered his name like it hurt to say, like you were still guarding yourself from him. “I don’t—I don’t know if I can do this again”.

Jensen’s jaw clenched, his chest tightening. “I know”, he admitted, his voice thick. “But I do know that I love you. And I know that I want to try”. His breath shuddered. “If you let me”.

Your throat bobbed as you swallowed hard, your fingers gripping the doorframe a little tighter.

Silence stretched between you.

Jensen felt his heart pounding, waiting—praying—for you to say something.

Finally, you exhaled shakily, your lips pressing together before you spoke. “Come inside”, you whispered.

And his felt his entire body sag with relief.

Jensen wanted nothing more than to take you in his arms, to kiss you until you could barely breathe, to hold you so close that neither of you would ever feel that awful, hollow distance again. But he knew that would be wrong. He couldn’t rush this. Couldn’t expect things to go back to the way they were just because he showed up with flowers and whispered that he loved you.

So instead, he forced himself to step inside carefully, his hands still gripping the bouquet like it was the only thing keeping him steady.

You turned away, moving toward the kitchen, already searching through cabinets for a vase. Your movements were slow, tired, like your body was running on autopilot. He hated that. Hated that he had let things get to this point.

His gaze swept over the room, taking in the framed pictures on the walls, the cozy but modern furniture—things he had never seen before, reminders of a life you had built long before him. “Where are your parents?”, he asked after a moment, his voice low, careful.

“They’re out”, you murmured, pulling a clear glass vase from the cabinet and setting it on the counter. “Some concert in town. Knowing them, they’ll probably crash at a hotel and come back in the morning”.

Jensen nodded, shifting his weight. He wanted to say something—anything—to keep the conversation going, but the words stuck in his throat.

Instead, he watched as you filled the vase with water, gently placing the roses inside. Your fingers trembled slightly as you adjusted the stems, but you kept your focus on the flowers, avoiding his gaze.

Jensen exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “I, uh… I didn’t mean to just show up like this”.

You let out a soft, humorless chuckle, finally turning to look at him. “You did drive three hours in the middle of the night, Jensen”.

He smirked slightly, shrugging. “Yeah, well. I figured subtlety wasn’t gonna cut it”.

Something flickered in your expression—something almost like the ghost of a smile—but it was gone just as quickly as it came. You sighed, leaning against the counter, crossing your arms over your stomach. “What are you really doing here?”, you asked softly.

Jensen swallowed hard. “I told you”, he said. “I needed to see you”.

Silence settled between you again, thick and heavy.

Jensen hesitated, then slowly—so slowly—took a step closer. “I, uh… I got you something”.

Your brows furrowed as he reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out the envelope with the plane ticket inside. He held it out to you, his hand slightly unsteady.

You took it cautiously, glancing up at him before carefully pulling out the ticket. The moment your eyes scanned the words printed on it, you froze.

Maldives.

Jensen cleared his throat, shifting on his feet. “I bought it weeks ago”, he admitted. “Before everything… before I screwed everything up. I wanted to surprise you”. He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know it doesn’t fix anything, but I just… I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t thinking about you. About us”.

You stared at the ticket, your fingers tracing the edges, your lips slightly parted. “You remembered”, you whispered.

Jensen’s chest ached at the way you whispered those words—like you couldn’t believe it, like the idea that he had remembered something so important to you was a foreign concept now. “Of course I remembered”, he said softly, his eyes never leaving you. “You’ve been talking about going for forever”.

Your throat bobbed as you swallowed, still staring at the ticket like it was something too delicate to hold. Your fingers traced the edges, your mind racing, your heart pounding so loudly in your chest you were sure he could hear it.

Jensen shifted closer, just a step, but enough that the space between you felt smaller. More intimate. “I don’t expect an answer right now”, he admitted, voice rough. “I just… I wanted you to have it. In case you wanted to go. In case you wanted to go with me”.

You finally looked up at him then, your tired eyes searching his. And for a long, silent moment, you just stared at each other.

God, he looked wrecked.

His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw covered in the kind of stubble that said he hadn’t been sleeping well. His hair was messy, like he’d run his hands through it a thousand times on the drive here. He looked older, exhausted, like the weight of everything had finally crashed down on him.

And yet—there was something else there too. Something raw. Something real. Something hopeful.

You exhaled slowly, shaking your head just slightly. “Jensen…”, you started, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I love you”, he said suddenly, the words tumbling out like he couldn’t hold them in anymore. His throat tightened, but he didn’t look away. “I love you so goddamn much, and I know I’ve been an asshole. I know I don’t deserve to just fix everything with some stupid plane ticket, but I don’t know what else to do”.

Your breath caught.

“I’m trying”, he continued, his voice breaking slightly.

Jensen took a shaky breath, his hands flexing at his sides like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare. His green eyes, so raw with emotion, stayed locked on yours. “I really am trying”, he said again, voice thick. “I know I can’t erase the past few months, I know I don’t get to just say sorry and make it all better. But I need you to know I’m trying”.

You felt your chest tighten, every wall you had built around your heart trembling under the weight of his words.

“I’ll do whatever you want”, he continued, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “If you need more time, I’ll wait. If you want space, I’ll give it to you. If you want me to prove it—God, I will”. He swallowed hard, his throat working around the emotions threatening to break him.

Jensen finally, finally took that last step closer, close enough that you could feel his warmth, close enough that his voice dropped into something barely above a whisper. “Just… please”. His jaw tensed as his breath shook. “Please come home”.

Your fingers curled around the plane ticket, the edges pressing into your palm.

“You and our baby”, Jensen whispered, his voice breaking on the last word.

Your lips parted on a shaky inhale, tears welling in your eyes. Our baby. He had never said it like that before. Not like he meant it. Not like it was his too.

Your breath hitched as you stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in, breaking apart the wall you had built around yourself piece by piece. Jensen stood right in front of you, one hand reaching for your hip, his eyes searching yours, desperate and vulnerable in a way you had never seen before.

He meant it. For the first time, you felt it.

Jensen swallowed hard, his thumb barely moving against your belly, the smallest, most careful stroke—like he was testing himself, testing this, seeing if he could really be the man you and your baby needed.

Tears spilled over your cheeks before you could stop them. A shaky exhale left you as you covered his hand with yours, pressing it just a little harder against your stomach.

Jensen sucked in a breath at the contact, his fingers twitching slightly under yours. His eyes flickered up to meet yours again, glassy, almost disbelieving.

“You…”. His voice wavered, his throat bobbing. “You still want this?”.

Your bottom lip trembled. You wanted to scream yes, to throw yourself into his arms, to tell him you had wanted this from the very beginning—that all you ever needed was this. But there was still fear lingering in your chest, still a small voice whispering what if?

So instead, you whispered, “Do you?”.

Jensen’s face crumbled. He let out a shaky breath, nodding almost immediately. “I do”, he said, his voice thick, raw. “I don’t have all the answers, and I know I’ve messed this up more times than I can count, but I swear to you, I want this”. His fingers curled slightly against your belly, his gaze flicking downward before returning to yours. “I want our baby. I want you”.

Your breath caught, the last bit of resistance in you cracking.

Jensen stepped even closer, his forehead nearly touching yours now. “I don’t deserve for you to come home”, he admitted. “But I’m asking anyway. I will spend the rest of my life making this up to you if I have to. Just… please don’t shut me out”.

Your chest ached, torn between everything you had felt for weeks and the undeniable truth staring you in the face now—Jensen wanted you. He wanted your baby.

Maybe he wasn’t perfect. Maybe he was still figuring it out. But so were you.

Your hand squeezed his, your tears still falling silently. “Okay”, you whispered, the word barely making it past your lips.

Jensen exhaled sharply, his whole body trembling. “Okay?”, he repeated, almost like he couldn’t believe it.

You nodded, your forehead brushing his. “Okay”.

A broken laugh left him, half relief, half disbelief. And then, finally, finally, he kissed you.

Jensen’s lips moved against yours in a slow, aching way—like he was afraid if he let himself take too much, you might change your mind. Like this was fragile, like you were fragile.

And maybe you were. Maybe you were still terrified. Maybe you were still holding your breath, waiting for something to go wrong again.

But when Jensen’s hand cradled your face, his fingers trembling slightly against your skin, when he let out a soft, shaky breath like he was feeling you for the first time all over again, something inside you eased.

This wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t a magical fix. But it was real. And for the first time in weeks, that felt like enough.

Jensen lifted you effortlessly onto the kitchen counter, his hands strong but gentle as they guided you into place. His knees nudged your legs apart, stepping between them, keeping you close—closer than you had been in weeks. His lips never left yours, never broke the slow, desperate kiss that felt more like a reunion than anything else.

His fingers slid along your back, pulling you flush against him, a quiet, shaky breath escaping his lips when he felt it—your belly pressing against his stomach.

It was small, but it was real. And it was his.

A shudder ran through him as he broke the kiss, just enough to glance down between you, his hands hesitating over your sides, like he was just now realizing how much had changed. His green eyes flicked up to meet yours, something raw and unreadable swirling in them.

But before he could say anything—before either of you could process the moment—there was a loud noise at the front door.

Then, voices. Laughter. And suddenly—“What the hell?!”.

Your stomach dropped as your parents stumbled into the kitchen, still high off the energy of their concert, but now frozen in place at the sight of you—legs wrapped around Jensen Ackles, perched on the kitchen counter like you were seconds away from being thoroughly compromised.

You never told them exactly who you were dating. And judging by the stunned, wide-eyed expressions on their faces, they were just now putting it together.

Jensen stiffened immediately, his hands instinctively shifting to steady you before he carefully—so carefully—set you back down on the floor. His jaw clenched as he stepped back slightly, running a hand through his messy hair, looking every bit like a man who had just been caught red-handed.

Your mom’s eyes flickered from Jensen to you, her lips parting slightly. “Oh”.

Your dad, on the other hand, had no such hesitations. His brows shot up, and he let out a short, breathless laugh—half disbelief, half seriously?! “So this is who you’ve been sneaking around with?”, he said, crossing his arms. “I thought you were dating some regular guy, not—”. He gestured vaguely at Jensen. “Him”.

Jensen cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “Uh. Hi. I’m Jensen”.

Your mom sighed, pressing her fingers against her temple. “Oh, we know who you are”.

Your dad let out another short laugh, shaking his head. “Well, this explains a lot”.

You stood there, absolutely mortified, your face burning as your parents continued to process the sight of Jensen Ackles standing in their kitchen with you.

Meanwhile, Jensen looked just as awkward, already bracing himself for the inevitable—comments about the huge twenty-year age gap, or the fact that he was already divorced with kids. He was ready for skepticism, judgment, maybe even outright disapproval.

But instead—

Your dad smirked, arms still crossed. “So, what, you thought your mom and I weren’t trustworthy enough to know who you’ve been dating?”.

Jensen blinked, clearly caught off guard. Looking at you.

Your mom sighed dramatically, shaking her head. “I mean, really”, she said, pretending to look offended. “Did you think we’d freak out? Lock you away? Refuse to let you see him?”.

Your dad snorted. “We’re cool parents”.

Your eyes widened. “Okay, let’s not get carried away”.

Jensen let out a breathless chuckle, finally relaxing just enough to slip his hand into yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Yeah, uh… This is not how I thought this was gonna go”.

Your dad shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s hilarious that you’ve been sneaking around and we had no idea, but I mean… c’mon”. He nodded toward Jensen. “If you’re gonna date someone old enough to be your—”.

“Dad”, you groaned, covering your face with your free hand.

Your mom smacked your dad’s arm lightly. “Oh, stop”, she said, but she was clearly fighting a smile.

Jensen, to his credit, took it in stride, letting out a deep, amused sigh. “Yeah, I was waiting for that one”.

Your dad smirked. “Figured you were”.

Jensen exhaled, finally easing a little. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but this? This was somehow both better and way weirder than anything he had imagined. He squeezed your hand lightly, then cleared his throat.

“It wasn’t just about keeping it from you guys”, he admitted, glancing between your parents. “No one could know—not until my divorce was official. We had to keep everything quiet, even from family”.

Your mom’s eyes softened, and your dad nodded like that explanation made sense.

“Well”, your dad said after a beat, rocking back on his heels. “Still think it’s funny you didn’t trust us with it”.

You let out a small, exasperated sigh. “It wasn’t about trust”, you muttered.

“Uh-huh”. Your dad smirked. “Sure”.

Jensen chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “You guys are exactly how she described you”.

“Flattering, I’m sure”, your mom teased, finally stepping forward to give you a hug. “We’re just happy you’re happy”.

You let out a small breath, hugging her back. “Thanks, Mom”.

Just as the moment settled, the front door swung open again.

“We’re back!”. A familiar voice rang out, followed by the unmistakable sound of heels clicking against the floor. “And, God, that concert was amazing. I mean, did you hear them do that acoustic set? I swear—”.

Your aunt’s words died in her throat the second she stepped into the kitchen.

Her eyes landed on Jensen.

She froze.

You knew that look.

“Oh my God!”, she gasped, immediately gripping her husband’s arm so hard he actually winced. “That’s Jensen Ackles”.

Jensen blinked, visibly taken aback. You groaned. “Aunt Lisa”, you muttered.

“Oh my God!”, she repeated, ignoring you entirely. Her hand flew up to her chest, her eyes going wide with something close to awe. “You’re him! You’re Dark Angel! You’re Alec! I had posters of you!”.

Your uncle sighed, rubbing his temple. “Here we go”.

Jensen, despite everything, let out a surprised laugh. “Wow”, he said, shaking his head. “That’s a throwback”.

Your aunt turned to you, pointing dramatically. “You never told me you were dating Jensen fucking Ackles!”

You groaned again. “Yeah, that’s what I was worried about”.

Lisa turned right back to Jensen, practically vibrating with excitement. “You have to sign something for me. I mean, oh my God. Dark Angel was my show. I even had the—”.

“Lisa”, your mom cut in, smirking. “Let the man breathe”.

Your aunt’s excitement hadn’t died down in the slightest, but as she turned to you, her eyes suddenly flickered downward, taking in the way Jensen’s arm had disappeared behind the small of your back, his fingers resting gently against you.

Her eyebrows shot up even higher, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. “Ohhhh”, she drawled, pointing between the two of you. “So it’s not just dating-dating—this is a thing-thing”.

You stiffened slightly, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks, but Jensen’s grip on you tightened just enough to ground you.

Lisa’s eyes narrowed, her smirk widening. “You two are, like… really a thing”.

Your dad snorted. “Lisa, they just said they were together”.

But your aunt wasn’t done. Her eyes dropped just a little lower, to where your oversized shirt had shifted slightly, no longer doing as much to hide the small but undeniable curve of your stomach.

Her jaw dropped.

“Wait a damn second”.

You internally cringed, but before you could stop her, Lisa gasped dramatically, her hands flying to her mouth. “Oh my God, are you pregnant?!”.

Silence. Absolute, deafening silence.

Jensen’s hand reflexively pressed just a little more against your back, as if physically bracing himself. You swallowed hard, your heart pounding, but before you could even attempt to answer, your mom’s eyes widened as well.

“Oh my God!”, she whispered, glancing between you and Jensen.

Your dad’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Wait, what’s—”. He followed their gaze, his eyes dropping down to you. Then, his whole face shifted in realization. His mouth opened, then shut, then opened again.

For the first time in your life, your dad was speechless.

Lisa, however, was not. “Holy shit”, she half-whispered, half-squealed. “You ARE pregnant”.

Jensen cleared his throat, finally breaking the silence. His voice was surprisingly steady when he spoke. “Yeah”, he said simply. “She is”.

Your mom exhaled sharply, stepping closer, her hands fluttering like she wasn’t sure if she should reach for you or give you space. “Honey, why didn’t you tell us?”.

You hesitated, glancing up at Jensen before looking back at your mom. “It’s… complicated”, you admitted softly.

Lisa blinked, then turned to Jensen with a serious expression. “You knocked up my niece and didn’t even meet us first?”.

Jensen let out a dry, almost nervous chuckle. “I mean, when you put it that way…”.

Lisa shook her head, then suddenly beamed at you. “You’re having a baby”.

And just like that, the shock melted into something else, something warm.

Your mom finally closed the distance, wrapping her arms around you tightly. “Oh, sweetheart”, she murmured. “I wish you’d told us sooner”.

Your dad was still staring, his mouth slightly open, but after a beat, he huffed, shaking his head as he rubbed his face. “Jesus”, he muttered. “Gonna need a drink”.

Jensen snorted under his breath. “Yeah, I get that”.

The moment your mom’s arms wrapped around you, the dam inside you broke. Your shoulders trembled as silent, uncontrollable tears started to stream down your face, soaking into the fabric of her shirt. You hadn’t even realized how much you’d needed this—how much you had craved someone holding you, telling you everything would be okay.

Jensen let go of you immediately, stepping back just slightly. He swallowed hard, his throat tightening as he watched you fall apart in your mother’s arms. He knew—God, he knew—how much it had killed you to keep this under wraps. And worse, how much he had made it harder by shutting himself off, by not being there when you needed him most.

Guilt twisted in his chest like a knife.

Your mom smoothed a hand over your hair, whispering something too low for anyone else to hear, but whatever it was, it only made you cry harder. She rocked you slightly, the way only a mother could, while your dad let out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair.

“Well”, your dad muttered, turning toward the fridge. “That explains why there’s so much chocolate and junk food around since she’s been here”.

Jensen huffed out a quiet chuckle. “Yeah”, he admitted. “She’s been craving some weird shit”.

Your dad shot him a look as he pulled out a couple of beers, cracking one open before sliding another toward Jensen. “That’s your problem now, son”.

Jensen caught the beer and let out a slow breath, nodding. “Yeah”, he said, his voice softer. “It is”.

Your dad sat down at the kitchen table, studying Jensen for a moment before glancing toward you and your mom. Then his eyes flickered toward the roses still sitting in the vase on the counter, then back to you. His expression shifted—thoughtful, sharp. He wasn’t stupid. He’d known something was wrong when you showed up weeks ago, but you’d been careful. You never told them much, just that you and your boyfriend had a fight. Nothing more.

Now, with Jensen standing here, with you in tears, with the tension still thick between you both, he knew there was more to the story. “You never said who he was”, your dad muttered, taking another swig of his beer. “Not once”.

You swallowed hard, rubbing at your face as you pulled away from your mom. “Because it wasn’t about him”, you admitted, voice still shaky. “It was about… everything”.

Your dad’s gaze lingered on you for a second longer before he looked back at Jensen. His expression was unreadable, unreadable in that way only a protective father’s could be.

Jensen held his ground. He didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. He just exhaled slowly and nodded, accepting the weight of your father’s unspoken judgment.

After a long, drawn-out silence, your dad sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Alright”, he muttered, rubbing his jaw. “Guess we’ve got a lot to talk about”.

Jensen nodded. “Yeah”, he agreed, his voice low. “We do”.

Later that night, the porch was quiet, the warm Texas air thick around you. Crickets chirped somewhere in the distance, and the faint scent of honeysuckle lingered in the air. You sat on the wooden steps, knees tucked up slightly, arms wrapped loosely around them.

Jensen sat beside you.

Neither of you spoke for a long while.

It wasn’t an awkward silence, not really. It was just… heavy. Like there was too much to say, too much to unpack, and neither of you knew where to start.

Jensen exhaled, his hands clasped between his knees. He glanced at you, hesitating for just a second before reaching out. His fingers brushed over the back of your hand, testing, waiting.

You didn’t pull away.

His palm slid fully over yours, his fingers threading through your own, squeezing lightly. When you finally looked at him, his green eyes were soft but serious.

“Are you coming home?”, he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Your throat tightened.

You wanted to. God, you wanted to. But you didn’t know if it was that simple.

You looked down at your hands, Jensen’s fingers still gently tangled with yours. The warmth of his skin was familiar, grounding, but it didn’t erase the storm inside you. Your breath hitched slightly as you whispered, “I don’t know. I just… I don’t know”.

Jensen inhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening for just a second before he nodded. He had expected that. He had prepared himself for it. But damn, it still hurt.

He squeezed your hand lightly, forcing himself to keep his expression neutral, to not let his desperation show. He couldn’t push you—not now, not when you were finally letting him back in.

Silence settled between you again, thick and loaded this time.

You hesitated, your fingers twitching against his before you finally whispered, “Can you stay the night?”.

Jensen’s breath caught. He turned to look at you, his green eyes searching yours, trying to gauge what you meant, what you wanted. His throat worked as he swallowed, his voice hoarse when he asked, “You want me to stay?”.

You nodded slowly, still looking down. “Just… just for the night. Well, what’s left of it”.

Jensen didn’t hesitate this time. “Yeah”, he murmured. “Yeah, of course”.

You exhaled, relieved that he didn’t question it, didn’t make it harder than it already was.

Still, Jensen wasn’t sure what this meant. Was it comfort? Was it a step toward fixing things? Or was it just the exhaustion in your bones, the need to not be alone tonight?

He didn’t know.

But he wasn’t going to waste the chance to be near you.

The bed was small—smaller than what either of you were used to—but somehow, that made it easier. There was no space to keep distance, no room to hesitate.

As you settled under the covers, Jensen moved cautiously, carefully. He didn’t rush, didn’t demand. Just… waited.

And when you didn’t pull away, when you let your body naturally lean into him, he exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Slowly, so damn slowly, he draped his arm around you, his warmth sinking into your skin as he pulled you in just enough to feel you against him.

His lips ghosted over your temple, his breath warm as he whispered, “I love you. More than anything”.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

His voice was soft, raw, filled with an emotion that made your throat tighten. It wasn’t just words—it was a confession, a plea, a truth that had been buried beneath months of fear and mistakes.

You swallowed, your fingers twitching slightly against the fabric of his shirt before settling. You weren’t ready to say it back—not yet. But you didn’t move away.

Jensen felt it—the way you hesitated but stayed, the way your body instinctively curled into his, seeking his warmth even if your mind wasn’t sure yet.

His hand rested lightly over your belly, his fingers barely moving, just the faintest brush against the fabric of your shirt. It wasn’t hesitant this time. It wasn’t forced. It was grounding. Like he was trying to connect, to anchor himself to you—to this.

A long silence stretched between you, the only sound the soft rhythm of your breaths in the quiet room. You thought maybe he had drifted off, that exhaustion had finally won over him.

Then, his voice came again. Soft. Raw. Real. “Tell me about it”.

You blinked in the darkness, your chest tightening. “What?”.

Jensen exhaled slowly, his thumb tracing absentminded circles over your stomach. “The baby”, he murmured. “Tell me about it. How you feel. How…”. He hesitated, his voice dropping even lower. “How the baby is”.

For the first time, he wasn’t saying it like a burden. Like something he couldn’t deal with. For the first time, he really wanted to know.

You swallowed hard, your hand instinctively moving over his, resting there, holding him there. “It’s…”. You cleared your throat, trying to find the right words. “It’s weird. And amazing. And terrifying”.

Jensen nodded against you, listening. Hanging onto every syllable like it was something precious.

“I feel movings now”, you admitted, your voice softer. “Not big kicks yet, but little flutters. Like bubbles popping sometimes. It’s… surreal”.

His breath hitched slightly. You felt it more than heard it. “Flutters?”, he repeated, his fingers twitching against your belly. “Like… right now?”.

You smiled faintly, nodding. “Yeah. Right now”.

Jensen’s whole body went still, completely focused on the quiet, unseen movements beneath his hand. His heart pounded so hard you could feel it against your back. “I don’t feel anything”, he admitted, his voice laced with something almost—longing.

You turned slightly, tilting your head to look at him, your fingers lacing with his. “You will”.

Jensen stared at you in the dim light, his green eyes searching yours for something he didn’t know how to name. “I want to”.

And you truly believed he did.

Jensen stayed quiet for a long moment, his forehead pressing lightly against the back of your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin. His fingers, still resting on your belly, curled slightly, like he was trying to hold on—trying to make up for all the time he had lost.

Then, barely above a whisper, his voice cracked. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for this before”.

The words hit something deep inside you, cutting through the exhaustion, through the hurt that had settled in your bones for months. You swallowed, your throat tightening. “What changed?”, you whispered, your voice shaky but steady enough to ask the question.

Jensen took a slow breath, exhaling like he was bracing himself. Then, finally, he spoke.

“I thought I could keep a distance”, he admitted, his voice low, raw. “That if I didn’t let myself get attached, if I ignored it, it wouldn’t feel real. I thought…”. He shook his head against your shoulder. “I thought if I just pretended it wasn’t happening, it wouldn’t change everything”.

You closed your eyes, listening, feeling the way his grip on you tightened slightly, like he was afraid to let go.

“But it is real”, he continued, his voice thick with something you hadn’t heard from him before—conviction. “And no matter how much I tried to push it away, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you”. He let out a breath, shaking his head. “I was so fucking scared. Scared of failing. Scared of starting over. Scared of—”. He hesitated, his voice breaking slightly. “Scared of loving something I might mess up”.

You felt your heart clench, your chest tightening as the weight of his words settled between you.

“But then I thought about you”, Jensen lifted his head slightly, his lips brushing against your shoulder as he whispered, “And I realized… I could never not love something that’s half you”.

Your breath hitched, a fresh wave of emotion washing over you.

“You are the best thing that ever happened to me”, he continued, his fingers pressing a little firmer against your stomach now. “And this baby—our baby—is half you. How the hell could I not love that? How the hell could I not want this?”.

Tears slipped down your cheeks, silent and unstoppable.

Jensen turned you slightly in his arms, just enough so he could see your face. His green eyes were glassy, full of something so raw and desperate it nearly broke you.

“I’m still scared”, he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I love you. And I love this baby. And I want this. I want you. I want us”.

You let out a shaky breath, your hands trembling as you cradled Jensen’s face between your palms. His words—finally, finally—broke through the fear, the walls, the doubt. Every piece of you that had felt abandoned, uncertain, and alone suddenly felt tethered to him again.

So, you kissed him.

Desperate. Aching. Pouring everything into the press of your lips against his.

Jensen melted into you instantly, his hands gripping you, holding you like he’d never let go again. His fingers pressed into your waist, his body flush against yours, warmth radiating between you. The hesitation, the fear that had lingered for months, was gone.

This was different.

This was him finally touching you again—not just in passing, not out of obligation, but the way he used to. Like he adored you. Like you were his girl.

A small, shaky gasp left you as he kissed you deeper, more sure, his hands sliding up your sides. He turned you ever so gently onto your back, the movement careful, reverent, like he was rediscovering you. His lips never left yours, not for a second, not as he nudged your thighs apart with his knees, settling between them, his weight pressing against you in a way that made your breath hitch.

Jensen hovered above you, his hands resting on either side of your head, his nose brushing against yours as he took a ragged breath. His green eyes, dark and blown wide, searched yours, silently asking for permission. For reassurance.

Your fingers slid into his hair, nails scraping lightly at his scalp, and you whispered, “Jensen, please”.

That was all it took.

A quiet, guttural sound rumbled in his chest as his lips found yours again, his hands finally roaming your body. His touch was familiar yet desperate, rediscovering the curves of your hips, the softness of your belly—the swell that was now undeniably there.

His breath hitched, his hand hesitating over your bump.

You pulled back just slightly, your forehead resting against his. “It’s okay”, you whispered. “You can touch me”.

Jensen let out a shaky exhale before his palm flattened over your stomach, this time with intent. No hesitation, no avoidance. Just him fully accepting it—accepting you.

He pressed a lingering kiss to your lips before trailing down your jaw, then lower, his breath warm against your skin as he murmured, “I love you”.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

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