#I'm Sorry Flower Arrangements | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

urbaebarnes · 6 months ago

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flowers

summary: who'd ever imagine that the big bad mob boss would be such a softie when it comes to a defiant flower shop owner

mob boss bucky barnes x fem flower shop owner reader

warnings: curse words, reader uses she/her pronouns, no use of y/n (thats it I think?)

this is my first fic i'm actually putting on here and i'm scared icl

word count: 4.7k words

This shop was everything to you. You’d bought it just under a month ago, the old owner was more than happy to hand over the keys, something about having family in a different state. The walls that were once decorated in peeling wallpaper were now filled with flowers, arranged on different shelves.

Sure, it took a few weeks to fix up, but after only a few days, business was bustling. Old couples came in to pick some tulips to brighten their sitting rooms, teenagers picked bouquets of roses and lilies for their first dates, it was just as you’d imagined.

The area was lovely too, the owner of the bakery from the other side of the street was a frequent visitor. You quickly became friends, Wanda would often buy flowers from your store and set them on her counter, and you would always buy your lunch from her, bringing back pastries and cupcakes to eat in your quieter moments.

The only strange thing you’d noticed was the kid who seemed to linger out the front of your store. He couldn’t be more than nineteen, and he often paced out the front of the store, head down as he paced back and forth, as if rehearsing a speech. At first, you’d figured he must just be anxious, but as he returned for the fourth time, your concern grew.

Truth be told, everybody you’d met so far had been so kind, asking how you were, checking up on you. Wanda was always especially adamant about asking if you’d seen anybody suspicious during the day and messaging you on a night to make sure you’d locked all your doors and windows. You’d never bothered to mention the kid outside, he still looked like a baby really and didn’t seem as though he would cause any harm.

The fourth day he appeared outside was different though. As soon as you opened the shutters of the shop, he was on the other side of the street dressed in all black, leaning against a building as he looked down at his phone. He hadn’t been here this early before. In the first hour of the sign on your door reading ‘open’, he moved around, inching closer but still not close enough. That was until mid-day.

After waving off the last person from the store, you were free to sit down on the swivel chair in the corner and let your eyes rest just for a second. A car alarm had been going off all night about a street away from your apartment about the bakery meaning you hadn’t caught a wink of sleep. However, your moment of peace and quiet didn’t last long as the small bell you’d installed above the door rang out again.

You quickly stood up, placing a smile on your face as you turned, unable to see the visitor due to the arrangement you had in the middle of the store. You walked through the plants, frowning as you noticed a particularly droopy looking fressia. “Hello, are you looking for anything…” Your voice trailed off as you took in the visitor. The kid from outside, his hood now up as he pinched at his fingers. “...in particular?”

He looked up, hand going to lower his hood before seemingly second guessing the action and lowering his hand so it now hovered awkwardly by his head. “Erm, I’m P- wait no, I’m not supposed to introduce myself.” You frowned as he muttered, scrunching his face. “I’m here on behalf of the Barnes family. We’re aware you recently moved to the area and we’re… we offer, uhm, we offer protection for a price.” His voice got progressively quieter the more he talked.

“I’m sorry, who are the Barnes family, do they need flowers for something?” You questioned, eyebrows hunched together as the kid groaned.

“No, no it’s, we’re like, has nobody really told you about this? You’ve been here a few weeks now and-” He stopped seeing as you shrugged and he seemed to say "Bad things happen to people who don’t pay us, okay?”

“But why am I paying you?”

“For protection.” He reiterated.

“Protection from whom?” You asked, fiddling with the corner of your cardigan sleeve.

“Us and them, the other mobs, mostly the other guys, well sort of, sometimes the boss-”

“You’re in a mob?” You cut him off mid sentence as you took him in. His hands were now awkwardly stuffed in the pocket of his hoodie, eyes wide as he looked at you. “How old are you? Shouldn’t you be in school or something?”

His face flushed pink as he yanked his hood down, “No, we… this is my first job and I’m supposed to collect the first amount today, and if I don’t then I don’t-”

You sighed, picking up an arrangement from the left of you and placing the pot in his hands, pausing his rambling. “Look, I’m not paying you anything. Take the flowers, they’re on the house I guess, I can protect myself, kid.” You smiled sincerely as you placed your hands on his shoulders ,which had hunched up towards his head, and led him out of the shop. “Have a nice day!” You said cheerily as he landed on the pavement, blinking in confusion as you waved and let the blue door shut.

You took a deep breath in as you flipped the small sign in the glass window around to show you were closed before shaking your head. You distracted yourself from the fact you apparently needed protection by clipping the fressia from before, reopening the store half an hour later.

Wanda found herself in your shop as you were both closing up that night, a bag of leftovers in her hand as she opened the door, meeting you with a smile. “Where were you today?” She questioned, placing the bag down on the countertop. “You haven’t found somewhere better for lunch have you?”

You appeared from the back quickly, a smile forming at the smell of the baked goods. “Of course not, just had a weird… thing happen over lunch.”

Her ever present grin dropped at that, “Oh yeah, who was it?” She asked cautiously, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear.

After rifling through the bag to find a cookie, you glanced up at her, “Somebody about protection or something like that.” You quickly dismissed it with a shake of your head, but Wanda continued to watch you carefully.

“You agreed, right?”

You screwed up your face at her, taking a bite from one of the cookies, “No, obviously not, I can protect myself.” Her mouth fell open as you groaned at the baked goods. “This is so good, Wan!”

“Uh uh.” She shook her head, glancing out the window as she said your name once over, “You can’t protect yourself from these people, the last dude that owned this place missed out on two payments so he sold this place to pay it off and left as quick as possible.”

“Well, these people haven’t met me yet, and I’m not paying them shit.” She sighed again, taking the bag off the counter and turning towards the door, “Hey, where’re you going?”

“You’re staying at mine tonight.” She declared. “Close up the shop and lock everything, I mean it.”

[⭐]

“I’m so sorry Mr Barnes, I don’t even know what happened, I just, she gave me the flowers and I-”

Peter stood in the centre of the room, eyes wide and frantic as he obviously feared getting into trouble with his boss. After all, Bucky Barnes wasn’t somebody you wanted to dislike you.

In fact, Bucky Barnes wasn’t somebody most wanted to be associated with. He was feared by most, including most of his people. He was known for being ruthless and cold blooded, a job was a job in his eyes.

Which is what made Peter so twitchy, this was his first time going on a mission and even though he wasn’t necessarily sure about what to do or how to intimidate people, it seemed he’d drawn the short stick and had been handed with a defiant mission. People who went against Barnes’ orders didn’t usually end up in a good condition, sometimes there wasn’t a condition at all.

“Peter.” He shut up quickly as Bucky said his name, fingers massaging his temple. “So she just… gave you flowers and you left?” His voice drawled around the empty room as he leant back into his chair. His frown was deep, people didn’t usually say no to this sort of thing, and whether he could pin it on Peter’s age or this woman’s sheer pride, he couldn’t tell.

“Well, she put her hands on my shoulders and like, walked me out of there?” Peter questioned his own words as his head tilted, “She told me she wouldn’t pay us but the flowers were on the house, so, there’s that.”

Steve couldn’t hold in a chuckle as he looked to Bucky, “I can go down tomorrow if you want.” He offered, white teeth flashing in a smile. Steve was the only person Bucky trusted- really trusted. This had all been passed down to him, this life had all been in his family for generations, but Steve didn’t know that when they were children, neither of them had any idea what his father was up to, and more importantly, Steve had no idea who Bucky would become.

Their friendship was genuine, something that had become a rarity as time went on and they grew up.

He shook his head, taking a sip of amber from the glass, “I’ll handle it.”

“Buck,” Steve started, raising his eyebrows, “I don’t think-”

“It’s been quiet, and I’m getting bored of sitting in this room all day. It’ll do some good for me.” He downed the rest of his drink as Steve nodded, Peter still stood, hands fidgeting. “Peter, go home, get some rest. I’m going to partner you with someone more senior next time. Maybe Stark?” He mumbled the last part to himself as Peter opened the mahogany doors and made himself scarce.

Bucky lent across the table, sliding the photo of your shop into his view as he squinted, seeing your figure through the window, standing with a customer, holding up a bouquet. He flipped it over, tracing the information for your name, running it over his tongue once.

“I don’t think she’ll agree easily.” Steve stated, eyes flickering over your picture, “Sounded pretty stubborn according to Peter.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, standing up from his chair. “It’ll be a piece of cake.”

[⭐]

Wanda was reluctant to even let you leave her apartment that morning, let alone go across the street, but you’d quickly reassured her that you would be fine. In fact, you’d be more than fine, the bat by your desk and nine years of karate weren't for nothing after all.

It had been a normal day, sweet customers, one angry woman who found flowers from your shop her husband had bought for his side piece, the usual, and no sight of the kid. Wanda came to check on you every hour, leaving her brother, Pietro, in charge of the tills, even though he mostly just flirted with the customers in her absence.

But seemingly, trouble had latched itself onto your door and by the time three o’clock struck, disaster came calling. You first noticed something was happening when the couple you were talking to exited the shop, stopping your conversation. Then, the others all filtered out with wide eyes until it was just you and a single other man in the shop.

His hair was combed back, jacket thrown over a button up shirt left unbuttoned at the top. As you approached him, he fiddled with an alstroemeria between his thumb and forefinger. The door shut as the last customer shut it behind them.

He turned to face you with a smirk, faltering slightly as he took in your appearance, the flower in between his thumb and forefinger pausing as he looked you up and down. You looked backwards towards the door, exasperated at the sudden abandonment of your shop. “Hi there, is there anything I can help you with, Sir?” You asked with a wary smile, eyes flickering to where you know you kept your bat.

He was a handsome man, you’d be blind not to notice that, in fact, as your eyes met his steel blue ones, you felt your breath escape you for a second. His voice was deep as he said your name, never tearing his eyes from yours, “You have a lovely place here.”

“Thank you.” You smiled, feeling yourself relax a little as a smile clawed at the corner of his lips. “It’s still new, but it’s going good so far.” He hummed, staring intently at your face as you shifted on your feet, face flushing at the attention. “Is there anything that’s caught your eye?”

He blinked twice quickly, the hint of a smile playing at his lips quickly dropping, “I’m not here about the flowers, sugar.”

Your heart fluttered at the pet name before frowning, processing his words. “If you're here about the kid yesterday, I’m going to tell you the exact same thing, I’m afraid.” You pursed your lips, “I can look after myself.”

“I don’t think you really understand.” He said, taking a step closer.

“I think I do, and if that’s all you're here for, I suggest you leave quickly.”

He looked down at you, watching as your breath hitched at the proximity, “There are bad things that happen around here, bad people that do bad things. All you have to do is pay me and I make sure you're safe, doll. That’s how it works around here.”

His head bent down as you looked up at him, swallowing and holding your nerve, “What, you gonna hurt me?”

He frowned at that, something that you didn’t fully expect after what the kid had said yesterday. You were expecting a laugh or something, not for his forehead to crease and eyebrows to pull together. “No, no. Couldn’t ruin a pretty face like that.” He seemed to catch himself as he stared at your lips, raising his head and taking a step back, face returning to a neutral expression as you could see the cogs turning in his head.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, but I’m still not going to pay you.”

The bell on the door rang as Wanda’s voice rang out, “You all-”

You turned around to see Wanda stood, a foot in the door as she stared at the two of you, eyes narrowed at the man in front of you.

He looked between you and Wanda, tongue in cheek before stepping further away from you, still clutching the flower as he made his way out the door, Wanda side-stepped out of his way as he looked at the flower, glancing back at you in the doorway. “Be careful.”

His voice held a sort of sincerity you weren’t expecting, a warning but not necessarily meant towards him. The door shut as Wanda quickly hurried over to you, “Shit, holy fucking shit, please tell me you agreed to pay them.”

You frowned as he disappeared from your sight through the window before looking back to Wanda, “Huh?”

She cursed under her breath once more, “That was Bucky Barnes, you know that right?” Your eyes squinted in recognition at the surname. “That’s the guy you're supposed to be paying, and he did a home visit, he doesn’t do that. He has people to do that for him, Jesus Christ, please tell me you just nodded along.”

You shook your head, letting out a shocked laugh, “No, I said the same thing as yesterday. I won’t be bullied into paying him, no Wanda!” She groaned loudly as your speech, hand resting on the top of her hair, “He didn’t seem, I don’t know, threatening or whatever.”

Wanda quickly studied your face, hands resting on your shoulders, “Nope, that is a mob boss, we are not doing the whole cutesy blushing over a man in a suit.” She gently shook your shoulders as you laughed.

“I’m not doing that.” You shook your head with a smile, picking a flower from that morning’s delivery that you hadn’t had a chance to sort through yet and placing it in her hair, smiling as she gave you a knowing look.

It was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous how you just couldn’t stop thinking about that goddamn flower, or more importantly, how it looked in between his fingers. How the bright colours offset his dark suit, the grin on his lips as he looked at you with the sort of intensity that made your stomach feel like it was on the verge of erupting. And his eyes, oh the eyes spoke for themselves. Every movement, every thought could be seen just by the smallest of movements.

He had perfect eyes, you thought.

You blinked at the sound of Wanda’s voice, snapping from your gaze as she stood at the door, “I have to get back before Pietro offers to take somebody else on a ‘private tour’ around the bakery.” She rolled her eyes as you could just make out her brother through the window, staring at a woman intently as he leant up against the counter, arms crossed.

“Have fun!” You teased as you watched her walk across the street, wrapping her long, multicoloured cardigan around her body.

You couldn’t help but let your mind wander back to him and the way his voice sounded and the way he walked and the way he looked- everything about him, truthfully. Every time you heard the bell chime, a part of you hoped it would be him, even if that probably didn’t mean anything remotely good.

Instead, you helped a woman -Natasha - pick out some flowers for her sister, who’d just moved into a new apartment somewhere downtown, and a girl named Kate who’d broken something or other valuable of her mother’s and thought flowers might soften the blow. And who could forget your favourite customer, Stan, an elderly man who came in mostly just for a chat, but also to pick out his own flowers and have her arrange them as they talked over a tub of biscuits.

But none of them could fully distract you, not even when Wanda forced you to sleep over at hers, or her and Pietro’s constant bickering over what TV show they should watch, even though they both know he’d give in eventually and agree to whatever Wanda wanted. And especially not as you lied on a mattress in Wanda’s room, her soft breathing the only sound that filled the room as your imagination went wild, your mind filling with what you would do or say if he appeared on your doorstep the next morning, or even right now, and what if he was wearing a giant croissant costume, and what if he had a pet iguana named Tom, and what if Tom could talk…

Eventually, you drifted off with the promise of Bucky Barnes showing up at your shop’s door dressed in all manner of strange costumes with a whole gang of talking animal sidekicks.

Yet, when you exited the bakery the next morning and found an all too familiar looking man standing outside, glancing at his watch every few seconds, you were all but too sure that he could show up in a tracksuit and cap and your stomach would still make the strange fluttery feeling. It didn’t really matter about his costume or masses of talking pets, your excitement seemed to rest in seeing him.

“The shop doesn’t open for another half an hour, Mr Barnes.” You said as you walked across the street, feeling for your keys in your pocket.

His head raised at the sound of your voice, a wide smile adorning his features, saying your name like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. “You sure you can’t let me in a smidge early.” He held his fingers up, pinching them fairly close together as you paused opening the door.

“That depends, are you here to buy flowers or here to tell me to pay you?” You questioned, letting your keychain rattle against the door. He felt closer than he actually was as you let your tongue run over your tongue.

He seemed to smirk at your question, tilting his head so you could see him from the corner of your eye, looking you up and down once, “Well, what if I just wanted to come see you?” He asked, shifting on his feet as he let his hands bury themselves in his pockets, eyes never straying from the side of your face.

“And why would you wanna do that?” You challenged, keeping your face forward as he neared your ear, trying to keep your smile at bay and breaths even. He was supposed to be the big bad wolf, so why couldn’t he stop making your heart beat faster than a race car?

It wasn’t even as if he was your type. Back home, you’d dated the perfect jock, high school football team captain, straight A student and hair reminiscent of the sun. That was until he broke your heart into a million pieces and you’d sworn off men after graduation and after years of saving, you’d finally moved here. Yet here you were, feeling as though his stare could make you melt into a puddle.

“Maybe because I couldn’t keep your pretty face out of my dreams.” He smiled, lips close to your ear as his warm breath fanned your face, the cool temperature finally catching up to you as you tugged on the sleeves of your jacket and unlocked the door with a twist of your keys.

“We open in half an hour Mr Barnes.” You giggle as you slip inside, watching through the window as his mouth formed a small circle before licking his lips and waving at you through the glass as you shut the blinds, disappearing around the arrangements and resting your arms on the desk.

Breathe, you repeat to yourself, it’s not as if the guy you only met yesterday just tried to flirt with you. And it’s not as if he’s currently standing outside.

Oh you were screwed.

By the time it came to opening, you opened the blinds, finding him leant against the wall beside the window outside, looking down at his watch again. He turned to you almost immediately, tugging down his sleeve as you flipped the sign over, signalling you were open as he pretended to queue in front of the door, rocking back and forth on his feet as you opened the door with a grin.

“You’re thirty-two seconds late, doll.” He smirked, biting his bottom lip as you moved to one side to let him in. He thanked you politely as he stepped in, inhaling deeply as you watched him expectantly, the door shutting. “I do have a bone to pick with you.”

He leant up against the wall as you swallowed thickly. Truth be told, your pride wasn;t the only reason you were against paying him, between bills and running the shop, after your first week, you weren’t exactly in a position to be giving anybody anything.

“It’s not about money, don’t you worry about that.” He dismissed it with a wave of his hand, shaking his head as he saw your worried expression. “You’ve picked up a nasty habit of calling me Mr Barnes.” He said the name mockingly, pushing off the wall and taking a step closer to you.

You struggled to hide your surprise. Wanda had definitely said Bucky Barnes, that had been his name, you were sure of it. “My friend Wanda said that you-”

“Well, your friend Wanda isn’t you.” He said, placing his hand on your shoulder, his fingers going to the collar of your t-shirt and fiddling with the hem, “You call me Bucky.”

You were lost for words as you took in the name. You absentmindedly leant into his touch on your shoulder. He hummed in response, letting his thumb run over your shoulder. “That seems awfully informal for a man who was attempting to get me to pay him yesterday.”

He paused, absorbing your words, seemingly surprised by your response. “I like that about you.” Bucky stated, hand pausing as he attempted to find your eyes which still avoided his, instead tracing over the shelves behind him. “You’re not afraid to speak your mind, but I guess it makes it better when you have a voice as sweet as yours.”

You look down, lips struggling not to grin widely at his flirty comments, instead you bite the inside of your cheek before glancing back up at him. “So you’re not here to try and sweet talk me into paying you?”

He chuckled at that, and god was his laugh something you’d try to commit to memory. “That’s what my people think I’m here to do.”

“Well, what do you think you’re here to do?” You were careful to keep your voice levelled.

“I think I’m here to see a beautiful flower shop owner-” His voice trailed off as the doorbell chimed and you took a step back seeing the girl from yesterday, Kate, walk in. Your body missed his hand on your shoulder instantly, but you forced your legs to move anyway, rounding the corner to see her in a long purple coat.

“I’m gonna need more flowers.” She stated with a sigh as you laughed softly at her annoyed expression. You showed her to a small section, spotting Bucky watching you intently from the corner behind Kate.

He was holding two bouquets of flowers, one in each hand as they nearly covered his face. You shook your head, telling Kate you’d be back in a minute before wandering over to his side. “Are you using them to hide behind or are you making a purchase?” You questioned with a light laugh seeing his chin poke up between the two.

“I’m making a purchase, doll. Thought these would brighten up my kitchen nicely.” He exclaimed with a smile, walking over to your desk with the till on it.

“Aren’t you supposed to be collecting my money, not giving me it?” You asked hesitantly as he put the flowers down on the desk and rummaged through his pocket for a wallet before holding his hand full of far too much cash out to you. It was more than enough for the two bouquets, probably more than enough for ten, and as much as you weren’t one for turning down generous amounts, this all felt a little too good to be true.

“What did I say earlier, sugar, you don’t need to worry about that money thing, I’ll take care of it, on one condition.” He added the last part in a whisper as you took the money and put it in the till, leaning against the counter with a small smile on your face.

“And what’s that, Mr Barnes?” You asked, squinting playfully at him as he picked up the colourful bouquets.

“You have to call me Bucky.”

You laughed, standing up from the counter, “Okay then, Bucky.”

His head leant backwards as you said his name, scrunching his nose as he grinned, “You say it like that and I might just have to come back.”

You walked towards the door with him, silently offering to carry one of the bouquets as you outstretched your hands, but he quickly shook his head and insisted he could do it himself until you finally got to the door, holding it open so he could exit. “Whatever you say, Bucky.”

His grin was impossibly wide as he turned backwards on the sidewalk, parting the flowers as much as possible to spot you through the masses of colours. “I’ll see you soon, doll.” He said, turning around and walking back down the street. He looked quite the sight, carrying the abundances of flowers down the path until you couldn’t spot him anymore, leaving you wondering how exactly he was going to get anywhere if he had to carry them all the way.

You let the door shut as you shook your head to yourself. “Who was that?” Kate asked curiously, wiggling her eyebrows as you grinned, hand tracing over your shoulder where his had been moments ago.

“Bucky.”

read part two here!

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atzinwonderland · 2 months ago

Text

Ateez react to their s/o calling them by their full name

.・✫・゜・。..・✫・゜・。

fluff, humour, a bit of angst | ateez x reader

Hongjoong

Working at his home studio all day, Hongjoong felt exhausted. All he wanted was some good food and sleep. Stepping out of the studio, he left everything in a hurry and grabbed his phone out of his pocket. Arranging dinner with the members was an easy task. In less than a minute, he was already putting his shoes on and heading towards the agreed restaurant.

Dinner was going great, the mood was chill, and the only thing left on his to-do list was to sleep. Nothing could ruin this peaceful night…or, well, that’s what he thought.

Today was a long day for you. You’d been asked to cover a late shift at work, and since you couldn’t say no, here you were, counting the minutes until it was over. Unexpectedly, for this time of day, your phone rang, and it was none other than your neighbour. You’d never gotten calls from them before, so you thought that it might be important.

“Hello?”

“Hi, um, I didn’t want to call, but—” the neighbour began explaining, but you could barely hear them over the loud music that was playing in the background.

“I’m sorry, but I can barely hear you. Is it possible to turn down the music a bit?”

“That’s the thing… it’s coming from your apartment. It’s also not the first time, that’s why I’m calling”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. “Really?! Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I’ll be finished with my shift in a few minutes, and I’ll head straight home. I’ll talk to my boyfriend since he might be at home, and I’ll tell him to turn it down”

“Okay, thank you”

“No, thank you for your patience. I’ll solve the issue as quickly as possible,” you ended the call. Your blood was boiling at this stage. Your poor neighbour—they must’ve had to endure that for a long time.

You immediately called Hongjoong, hoping to find a good explanation.

"Hi, honey, how's—"

"Kim Hongjoong!" you interrupted, and his sense of calmness was immediately gone. He had never heard you call him by his full name.

"Should I be scared or turned on?"

"Tell me why our neighbour just called and complained about loud music playing from our apartment??" you asked, anger rushing through your veins.

"What?! There's no way I—wait, maybe I did forget the music on..."

"Maybe?!"

"Okay, I did forget it, but I'm not home"

"Then go home now and stop it—we'll talk there"

"Okay, I'm sorry. Just please don't drive mad, okay? Be careful...," he said, making sure that you come home safe.

"Okay, Joong...see you later," you replied, to not worry him, and then hung up.

Somehow, the two of you ended up arriving home at the same time. Not saying a word to each other, you just rushed to get to his computer and turn the music off. After the click of a button, the apartment became dead quiet. That's when Hongjoong knew it was time to apologise and make up for his mistake.

"I'm sorry, honey. This must've caused you a lot of stress," he apologised, as he gently approached you and placed his hands on both sides of your waist.

"To be honest, that call was the last thing I needed—my day was already draining enough. Just please be careful next time. They said it wasn't the first time it has happened"

"There won't be a next time, I promise. I don't want to hear you say my full name ever again"

"Oh, yeah, I'm sorry about that, by the way. The anger just got to me..."

"I think I deserved it...although, It did turn me on, so if—"

You couldn't believe the words coming out of his mouth. "Shut up, Joong!" you said, as you playfully punched his shoulder.

He knew how to make you smile.

Seonghwa

The other day, you decided to buy yourself a little present—a flower Lego set that you were going to build on your day off.

After you brought it home, you placed it on one of the display shelves in your living room and stared at it for a while, satisfied with your purchase. You were so excited for the weekend to come, so you could build it and put it in your bedroom.

It was finally Friday. You finished work and headed home, excited for the eventful weekend ahead of you.

You unlocked the front door to your apartment, entered, and, one look later, your whole world was crumbling at your feet.

"Park Seonghwa! Noo—how could you do this to me?" you disappointingly shouted at the sight of your boyfriend finishing up the Lego set that was on the shelf, waiting for you to build it.

Your loud entrance scared Seonghwa, and he jumped out of his seat on the couch.

"What happened, love? Wait, did you just call me Park Seonghwa?" he asked, feeling the effects of hearing his full name.

"I was meant to be the one to build that set. I've been waiting all week...," you explained whiningly, at the verge of tears, as Seonghwa walked up to you.

"Really? I had no idea, my love—I'm sorry. I wanted to surprise you by building it and putting it in our bedroom, but I should've asked you first. What can I do to make it up to you?" he asked softly, pulling you into his arms, because he couldn't stand looking at your pouty face.

"I guess if we go and buy another one to build together, that would be nice..."

"Let's do that, love. I would love to build another set with you"

"I also wouldn't mind a massage...and chocolate...," you added cutely, and Seonghwa couldn't help but chuckle at how adorable you were.

He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, then agreed to your requests.

"Consider all of these done, love. I just have a small request as well..."

"What is it?"

"Can you go back to calling me bun again? I don't really like it when you call me Park Seonghwa," he innocently asked, and you couldn't help but smile.

"Of course, bun," you said, and watched as his eyes sparkled at your words.

Yunho

It was yours and Yunho's day off, and some of your closest friends invited you for a girls' day out. You couldn't say no, because you barely saw them nowadays—it was only right that you go.

Although he was happy for you, Yunho couldn't help but feel upset that he wouldn't be able to spend his day off with you, and pouted until the last minute.

You knew him well—he always acts upset until you leave, and then, once you're gone, he has the time of his life playing all of his favourite video games—so you weren't too worried about him.

Plus, he wouldn't be completely alone. He had to take care of your recently adopted puppy.

You gave Yunho a goodbye kiss, then headed out.

The day spent with the girls was amazing, and you had a very fun time. You had so much fun that you'd completely forgotten to contact Yunho and see how he was doing—and you realised that too late.

You were already on your way back when you decided to call him. Strangely, he wasn't picking up, and that was very unusual for him. Wondering what he was doing, you rushed to get home as quickly as possible.

Taking the keys out of your bag, you unlocked the door, only to be met with an incredible sight.

Yunho, sleeping on the couch, with your puppy asleep on his stomach, all kinds of snacks—even dog treats—spilled all over the living room table, as the tv played his favourite show.

When you got closer, you realised that he had given so many treats to your puppy that now his tummy was poking out. You were mad that he didn’t think of your puppy’s health, but before waking him up and scolding him, you took a picture of the cute scene. Even when he was in the wrong, he was still cute.

“Jeong Yunho, what's happening here?” you said quietly enough not to scare him.

“Who? Oh hi, bug, I didn’t realise you’re back already…I must’ve fallen asleep”

"Why is our table a mess? And how could you give Sparkles so many treats? Look at him, he probably feels sick," you scolded, and Yunho's face turned from happy to embarrassed.

"I'm sorry...My plan was to clean up before you came home, but somehow I fell asleep. I'm also sorry about Sparkles, but I couldn't resist his cuteness—though I know that I should've been more careful," he apologized with his lips pouted, still laying down on the couch, looking down, not having the confidence to face you.

Seeing him like that, you couldn't stay mad any longer. "I'm the one that can't resist your cuteness," you said, giving in with a sigh, kneeling close to him on the couch.

"Next time, just be careful with giving him treats, okay?"

"Okay...," he replied, as a slight blush appeared on his cheeks.

"Actually, I think I also had a little too many snacks," he confessed in a soft voice, and you couldn't help but chuckle. The two of you exchanged looks, then simultaneously looked in the direction of his tummy, poking a little out of his t-shirt.

"Aww, Yuyu, please stop being cute or I might just die..."

"At least I'm Yuyu again. That means my strategy worked," he shared, and you giggled at his remark, giving him a peck on the cheek.

Yeosang

You and Yeosang got invited to an important event, and both of you were quite excited to attend it.

You’d thought of everything—your outfit, your makeup look, and today was finally the day to get ready.

You finished work early and headed to your apartment. Arriving there, you noticed that Yeosang’s shoes were placed near the door, meaning he was already there.

You thought that’s great, because he’ll be able to get ready first, and then you’ll have the bathroom all to yourself. It wouldn’t be a problem to get ready together, but since your bathroom is really small, that’ll make it harder for both of you.

“I’m home, pup”

“Okay, precious, I’m getting ready in the bathroom,” he shouted in a happy voice across the hallway.

“Perfect, I’ll have some food in the meantime,” you said, thinking that in not more than 30 minutes he’d be out of there—but you were very wrong.

After more than half an hour passed, you decided to check on him and see what was happening.

"Pup, are you done yet?" you asked impatiently and hoped for a positive answer.

"Give me five more minutes..."

"Okay, but hurry up—I also need to get ready, and I take longer, so..." you warned, and just like that, way more than five minutes were already gone.

At this point, you couldn't believe how long it was taking Yeosang to get ready.

"Kang Yeosang! You're taking way too long, and I have to get ready as well!" you shouted outside the bathroom door, and when he heard his name being called out, he dramatically opened door.

"What did you just call me?"

"Your name...?" you said, confused, acting like you had no idea what he was talking about.

"Okay, so because I'm using the bathroom, you dared to call me by my full name? How is that fair, when I never said that you can't be in here getting ready with me?"

"Our bathroom is too small, Yeosang," you complained, and without another word, he placed both of his hands on the sides of your waist, gently pulling you close to him, both of you now standing in front of the bathroom mirror.

"See, it works... Plus, I wouldn't mind standing this close to you, precious—it makes me feel good," he flirted, and you couldn't help but laugh.

"You're unbelievable...," you didn't get to finish, before he questioned the end of your sentence.

"Pup?" he said, eyes twinkling with hope that that's how you intended to call him at the end of your sentence.

"Pup," you confirmed, and a wide smile formed on his face.

Yeosang wrapped his arms around your waist from behind and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek.

"Thank you, precious. Now let me help you get ready, so I can make it up to you"

"You better..." you responded cheekily, and he just giggled at your cute anger.

San

You and San have been friends longer than you've been together as a couple. Since the two of you haven't been together for long, he still hasn't had the chance to meet some of your family members—one of them being your older brother. You felt like it was finally time for them to meet.

In your head, the way you described your brother was normal—fitness maniac, extremely protective, hates unhealthy food, but sweet. To San though, your description seemed quite scary.

After hearing your description of him, San thought that the only way to get his approval was through preparation.

A week in advance, San not only worked out harder, but also ordered different types of fitness machines for your shared apartment.

On the day that you went to pick up your brother and bring him to your apartment, while you were gone, he also went to the grocery store and swapped out all of the food you had in your fridge for only healthy food.

Once he prepared everything, he couldn't sit in one place, so he paced around the apartment, hoping that everything would go well.

The sound of the door unlocking made him freeze in his place, standing in the middle of the living room.

"Welcome, y/b/n—" you said, cutting yourself off after taking a look at the sight in front of you. Your whole living room, filled with workout machines, weights scattered all over your shelves and living room table. Walking further in, different kinds of protein bars were displayed on your kitchen counters, two extra-large boxes of protein placed next to your fridge.

"Wow, sis, since when did you get into fitness so much?" your brother exclaimed, surprised at the sight of his sister's home.

Anger rushing through your body, you turned to San as he already felt what was coming his way.

"CHOI SAN! What is all of this??"

"Well, I just wanted to—"

"Do not even finish that sentence. This is all so unnecessary and expensive..."

"But you said your brother loves fitness and healthy food, and that he's also very protective, so," San said quietly, sad that he didn't receive the reaction that he was hoping for.

"Didn't you hear the part when I told you that he's also super sweet??" you asked, still annoyed, but a bit more calm, seeing his embarrassed state.

"No... well, kind of—but the other part scared me, so I had to be prepared," he replied, staring at the ground, his cheeks red from all of the embarrassment.

"Why did you describe me so harshly? San, don't worry, bro—I'm not like that. Y/n just loves to exaggerate"

"Hey, that's not true—I just didn't realise that I made you seem so horrible"

Your brother's words made San really happy, and he finally looked up, not feeling as embarrassed.

"Well, I'm sorry to both of you... I did go overboard," San apologised, and your eyes softened at his words.

"It's okay Sannie," you started, and he felt relieved to not hear his full name again. "...Actually, I'm the one that should apologise—I was too harsh on you," you said, and your brother just couldn't resist teasing you.

"That's right, poor San just tried to be nice"

"Oh shut up, don't get involved in my relationship—you just got here," you teased back, and San couldn't help but chuckle at your bickering.

Mingi

One of your closest cousins growing up texted you that he wants to see you, since the two of you hadn't hung out in a long time. You agreed to meet for lunch at a restaurant you'd been to with Mingi before, because you remembered that they had amazing food.

Going in, you sit at a table with a nice view and start ordering your food, chatting away.

While that was happening, on the other side of the restaurant, there was a person you knew all too well—and he had noticed you. It was Wooyoung.

His first instinct when he saw you giggling away with a guy that wasn’t Mingi was to call him and let him know about the situation.

“Hey, where are you?”

“I’m at my studio, why?”

“Do you know where y/n is, by any chance?”

“Oh, she said she’s quite busy today, so I haven’t spoken to her yet—but what’s up with all these questions?”

“Well, I’m at your favourite burger restaurant, and I can see her from my table”

“Oh, really?! She’s there? She’s probably just getting some lunch”

“That’s not why I called, though—she’s having lunch with a guy”

“A guy? Do I know him?”

“I don’t think so, but they’re really hitting it off—she’s full-on giggles with him,” Wooyoung said, and Mingi’s blood started boiling.

“What?! She can’t be laughing at a random dude’s jokes—wait, is she cheating on me? That can’t be right, there haven’t been any signs whatsoever,” he said, anxiety and anger rushing through his body.

“I just think you should come over here”

“I'm already on my way, but she better not be cheating—otherwise, I’ll be heartbroken,” he said, then quickly hung up the phone.

After rushing to get to you, he dramatically walked into the restaurant, not a care in the world other than you.

“Y/n, how could you do this to me?! You’re the love of my life and I thought I was yours—but I see that I was wrong. How long has this been going on for? Who even is this guy?” Mingi said in a dramatic, loud voice with no breaks between his words, not giving you a chance to say even a word.

As he spoke, the whole restaurant became quieter, and the more nonsense he said, the more it got on your nerves—until you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Song Mingi! Pull yourself together! What the hell are you talking about?! This is my cousin!” you exclaimed, and he froze in his place.

He wasn’t sure what to do—beat up Wooyoung or apologise and leave. He decided to go for the second option first, but he was definitely going to do the first one as well.

“Oh, uhm, I’m sorry… I just thought that—you know what, I’ll just leave,” he confessed, disappointed at his actions, and then turned to leave, embarrassed by the whole situation.

You excused yourself and followed him outside.

“Song Mingi, why did you do that? What happened?” you asked calmly now that you were outside, getting some fresh air.

“Please stop, don’t talk to me anymore…” he said, lips pouted.

“Why? I’m so confused”

“I’ll do the talking and explain everything… Wooyoung called me. He said you were here having lunch with a guy I don’t know, giggling at his jokes, and I just—what was I supposed to do? I needed to make sure I wasn’t losing you, so I came here and embarrassed myself,” he confessed cutely, making you regret how harsh you were with him at the start.

You found his reaction really sweet. And although he made a mistake, it was very adorable of him to go and fight for you.

“That’s so sweet—”

“Wait, before you say anything, I can take you being mad, I don’t even mind if you punch me or slap me, but please—don’t call me by my full name. It just hurts hearing you say it,” he pleaded, eyes glossy, almost like he was about to cry.

“I promise I won’t call you that again, and I’m not mad anymore. It wasn’t your fault—you were misled. I actually think what you did was adorable, Mingming”

“You really think so?”

“Yes, you silly boy. Now stop acting dramatic and come give me a kiss, I haven’t seen you all day,” you teased, and the usual smirk on his face returned within seconds.

Mingi approached you confidently, then placed his hands at your lower back, pulling you into a strong kiss.

“Now that this is sorted, I have one more piece of business to finish…” he said mysteriously, heading back into the restaurant.

…“WOOYOUNG!!”

Wooyoung

Wooyoung and the rest of the members were in the middle of a fun dance practice, just goofing around with the other dancers and practicing some moves.

Wanting to surprise him, you picked up some food and drinks for everyone and headed to their practice room.

Walking towards the room you could hear loud music blasting through the walls, making you think they were deep in a tough rehearsal—but you quickly realised you were wrong.

Opening the door, you were greeted with full-on chaos. Some guys were chasing each other, others doing karaoke, and then in the midst of it all was Wooyoung—testing your patience like never before.

By now, you should’ve been used to him doing that, but this time he was really doing too much.

There he was dancing in the center of the room with a girl, having the time of his life. Everyone else was watching and cheering them on—but not you.

You angrily dropped the bag of food on the ground, then stormed through everyone in the room, finally getting to Wooyoung.

“Oh hi, queen—”

“Jung Wooyoung! Outside, NOW!” you snapped, and the whole room went silent.

You pulled his arm and yanked him out the door, leaving him with no time to react.

“Wow, I haven’t heard that name in a while—what’s wrong? Why the sudden attack?”

“What’s wrong?! Are you seriously asking me this?”

“I have an idea... but you know I wouldn’t cheat. So, it must be something else”

“I know you wouldn’t. But dancing like that with a girl who's clearly into you? She’s definitely going to try and kiss you, stealing you away from me!”

“Ohh, I see... my queen is a little jealous," he said with a mischievous look.

“Of course I am! Who does this girl think she is…”

“She’s no one. You know I wouldn’t let her kiss me or flirt with me, right? I mean, I can play around, but there’s a limit”

“I’m glad to hear that,” you said, finally calming down.

“One thing though—if you’re mad at her, why scream at me?”

“Well... I don’t know. It just makes more sense?” you mumbled, feeling self-aware.

“Yeah, right," he chuckled. "Actually, you made me realise something… I think you should call me by my full name more often. It’s kind of growing on me,” he confessed with a smirk.

“Really? You want me to call you Jung Wooyoung?”

“Yeah, why not? It shows the authority you have over me. That’s why I call you my queen, right?” he flirted, and once again didn’t fail in making you flustered.

No more words were needed, as the two of you went in for a kiss, closing the distance between you.

Jongho

You and Jongho were in your shared bedroom. You were scrolling on your phone, as Jongho played his favourite video game.

“Yess! I’m so good at this,” Jongho suddenly exclaimed after winning a round of the game.

After another few comments like this, you were done with his cockiness. You were more than ready to humble him.

As he just finished another round, you scoffed loudly, getting his attention.

“What’s your problem, dumpling?” he asked, turning around.

“I’m not your dumpling, I’m your rival…” After a moment of silence, Jongho started laughing.

“Oh wow, that’s so scary,” he teased, leaving you more annoyed than ever.

“Choi Jongho! Do not tease me, because you will regret it!”

“Choi who? Who is that?”

“A person that’ll get humbled really quickly”

“I doubt it, but since you’re prepared to lose—let’s play,” he further fuelled your anger, and you grabbed the other controller, plopping yourself next to him at the edge of the bed.

“I hope you’re prepared for what’s coming your way, Choi Jongho,” you confronted.

“Don’t worry about me so much, and focus on yourself, y/n y/l/n,” he replied.

After a long, dramatic game, you accomplished your mission, and you could just see the shock on his face.

“I hope you learned your lesson, sir—never tease me again”

Being faced with the facts and surprised by your gaming abilities, all he could do was accept the fact that he lost.

“I’ve definitely learned my lesson, dumpling—congrats on your win,” Jongho said as he faced you, and bowed slightly with his head.

“Can I stop being Choi Jongho now?”

“Uhmm…okay, I won already, so you’re not a rival anymore”

“Wow, thank you for kindness,” he joked, and you placed your hand on his shoulder.

“You’re welcome, honey bear!” you exclaimed with a smile, and he couldn’t help but feel happy at being called his usual pet name, showing off his gummy smile.

#atzinwonderland #ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez imagines #ateez reactions #ateez hyung line #ateez maknae line #hongjoong #seonghwa #yunho #yeosang #san #mingi #wooyoung #jongho #ateez fluff #ateez angst #ateez x reader #ateez soft hours

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moon-ttokki-x · 4 months ago

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omgomg can you please write a 9th member fic (chan x f!reader) where they attend the milan show together (the one chan is at rn) 🥹🫶

hihi sorry this took a while to answer >< it's here now tho . i liked this idea so much, i haven't written much fashion event stuff ! maybe i added a little surprise near the end, but you'll just have to see hehe . here you gooo~

fendi - bangchan x female!9th member reader

pairing: bangchan x female 9th member reader

summary: chan asks you to accompany him to the fendi event in milan.

genre: idol!au, 9th member!au, super duper fluffy and cute, sleepy channie, mentions of eating and drinking, swarming from fans, lots of mentions of camera flashes, chan almost falling over (yes that is a warning)

a/n: yuhh i'm so back guys ! div by @elleisdesigning

skz masterlist

Chan who surprises you with the biggest bouquet of your favourite flowers as he hands you the invitation to the Fendi show in Milan. Who flushes as you look up in shock and shyly explains that he wants you to be his plus-one to the event. He lets out an 'oof' as you fly into his arms, almost knocking him over and nodding over and over again to accompany him to Milan. He grins again in relief as you explain that you don't have anything half as fancy to wear and pokes your cheek, telling you that your outfit isn't something you should be worried about, and that he would handle all of it. You're unconvinced but decide to trust him anyway, and coincidentally, later in the day, he asks what your favourite colour is.

Chan who holds your hand all the way to the airport and refuses to let go, even when you're all swarmed by the photographers and fans. His leader-mode kicks in and he protects you from the swarms as you navigate through the airport. His grip is strong, warm, and steady, and he leads you skillfully through the throngs of people pressing in on both of you until you reach the terminal gate. Makes you go first and presses a warm hand to your back as he guides you down the ramp. Refuses to sit down until you've found your seat and then offers to swap places with you so you can have the window seat. He spends about half an hour gazing out at the ground falling away beneath you and then immediately falls asleep, his mouth open and hair endearingly ruffled as the plane vibrates all around you, rising higher and higher in the air.

Chan who wakes up sleepily when the plane lands and accidentally stands up too soon, almost ending up sprawled in the aisle as the plane bumps against the tarmac. He guides you through the mess of cameras and flashes and falls asleep again in the car on the way to the hotel you'll both be staying in. You wake him up and watch him drain a bottle of water as you step out of the car, heading into the lift and up to your shared hotel room. You watch him bustle around the room, making phone calls and arranging food to be delivered, and then nuzzle into his shoulder as he sits down on the bed next to you, coiling an arm around your shoulders as you both watch the city bustling with life from outside the window.

Chan who offers you his hand as he steps out of the car, letting you take his arm as you both make your way inside the stylist's room that's been temporarily set up for the event, and fights a grin as you look around in curiosity and ask what you're doing here. He leads you to a curtain and pulls it back, nodding thankfully at the designer, and jumps when he hears you gasp and then squeal in delight. Your hands trace the beautiful, flowing fabric of the gown and you throw your arms around the leader, not caring who sees. His face is tinged pink as you run over to the mannequin once more and fawn over the dress he's had custom-made for you for the event. It's sparkly and subtle and just the right colour, and you hold back another squeal as you realise, this is why Chan asked your favourite colour a few days earlier. Not that he didn't already know what it was...

Chan who presses a hand gently onto your knee as the car pulls up to the carpet leading into the Fendi event. His gaze is reassuring and a little of the subtle sparkle on your cheeks come away on the curve of his fingers as he brushes a strand of hair off your face, promising that you'll do great. Not that the sparkle on his hands makes a difference; he looks stunning as always, and whispers the same thing back to you as he offers you his arm. You close your eyes briefly against the camera flash and step out of the car, letting him lead you inside. He stays with you and gracefully walks you around, greeting people, introducing you, and mingling with the crowd. As expected, he is a hit; unexpectedly, so are you. You're entirely comfortable in just an hour, and you even receive some lovely compliments on your appearance at the event.

Chan who secretly strokes your hand with a gentle thumb as both of you stand and pose for the cameras; he keeps your intertwined fingers behind the both of you, his smile warm and genuine as photos are snapped endlessly. The subtle, secret yet possessive gesture makes your heart flutter and you fight a laugh as he whispers jokes and comments to you in an attempt to make you smile harder than you are. He succeeds, and the result is a beautiful photo of the both of you on the cover of several fashion articles and websites, who all sing your shared praises, gushing over your outfits and potential chemistry (the members, who have been keeping updated on the event, cheekily start planning your eventual wedding).

Chan who's glad he brought you along; he's never seen his ninth member and secret crush looking so stunning and effortless. He thanks his stars for the rest of the night as he remembers the courage it took to ask you to accompany him to the event. He's never been prouder of you, and later, when the event ends, he takes you out on a walk, both of you licking at ice creams in the warmly-lit streets and talking about the day. His heart is fluttering as he wipes a little of ice cream off your lips and presses his mouth to yours, sweet treats forgotten as you melt immediately into his embrace, relishing the warmth and steady comfort he always manages to exude.

He couldn't be happier.

a/n: i'm thinking of starting a fic taglist, the post for it will be up soon ><

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beloveds-embrace · 7 months ago

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Omg the dukedom sick reader was amazing. I'm so addicted I just love the thought that they are now realizing how far the relationship with the reader has gone. Will the reader recover? If they do, will the wound (is it on the leg?) be a constant reminder (if its something noticeable, like limp when they walk?) to the guys of what they did.

I really like the fact you put Kyle's perspective in there, how do you think the rest of the guys will react to the reader. Idk I just image a pale, malnourished person. Their face having dark circles around the eyes and just a somewhat sunken in face because of the fact they weren't eating.

How do you think the guys will try and make it up to the reader? I feel as if after that experience of being left in their room to rot, basically, they would want to be outside more, not in the manor. I see John having like a HUGE conservatory or greenhouse of plants that he used to visit just not anymore and just has his workers take care of all that with a courtyard.

I'm sorry for putting a lot

- 🐸

@nes-kopi Thanks to all of you!! I combined the answer to these all together because they are pretty much in the same wavelength, i hope no one mind 😔 linking still doesn’t work otherwise i would be linking the masterlist ueueueueue dukedom masterlist au first part

The manor was eerily quiet, but not the kind of quiet that soothed. It was oppressive, heavy, pressing against you like a weight you can’t shake. The warmth of the fire in your chambers, the softness of the freshly laundered sheets, the smell of fresh flowers arranged by the maids who now came by regularly- it all felt like a mockery. A sharp contrast to the months of cold, desolate silence that had left you here: numb, broken, and hollow.

The room was silent, save for the faint creak of wood under your weight as you shifted on the bed. The prosthetic, heavy and foreign, rested against the edge, and you stared at it with a detached sort of hatred. It wasn’t the prosthetic itself; it was what it symbolized- what you had lost, what they had taken from you without even trying.

Your body ached constantly, even after so long spent under the doctors’ care.

Your heart ached more.

The warmth of the room now- the fire, the clean sheets, the gentle glow of the afternoon sun streaming through the newly opened curtains- did nothing to thaw the frost that has made itself a home in your chest.

They were trying now. Oh, they were trying. Even if they couldn’t bring themselves to look at you in the eye anymore, though you weren’t surprised; you look… horrific. You’ve been avoiding the mirror on purpose for a good while now.

You aren’t sure what is worse; the way they ignored you before or the way they hover now.

Every step you took was a struggle. The prosthetic leg strapped to your stump was heavy and awkward, the chafing unbearable at times. Its mere existence, its mere need, alone was enough to make you balk more often than not.

But you refused their help.

When Simon silently appeared at your side during your attempts to navigate the stairs, you waved him off. When Johnny offered his arm to steady you as you crossed the garden, you shook your head. When Kyle insisted on helping you carry things, you snapped at him to leave you be. You were trying to not rot away again, yet they were making it incredibly bothersome.

And John… John lingered the most, his piercing gaze trailing after you like a shadow. His voice was softer than you’d ever heard it, his every word laced with regret. A tone never, in your entire life, aimed at you.

You wondered if he was sincere. You wondered if it even mattered if he was.

“Let me help you, Duchess.” he said one morning, watching as you struggled to tighten the straps of your prosthetic. You have not called for any help from the maids or anyone even if they lingered, and you weren’t about to ask help from him of all people.

König would’ve helped-

“I don’t need your help.” you bit out sharply, your fingers trembling as they worked against the stubborn leather. You refuse to depend on him, especially for this. Why would you trust him, or any of them, after everything?

His jaw tightened, and he knelt before you, his large hands carefully prying yours away. “Please,” he said, his voice cracking. For once, he wasn’t a presence larger than life. “Let me. Just this once.”

Your instinct was to pull away, to snarl that it was too little, too late. But the exhaustion won. You sat back in the chair, your arms limp at your sides, and let him finish securing the straps. You wished you could feel anything except for the numbness and misery that has been clouding you for so long, but you couldn’t.

His hands were gentle, his fingers brushing against your skin with a reverence that made your chest ache.

Why did it take this much for them to care?-

They tried, in their own ways, to make amends.

Johnny started bringing meals directly to you, ones that catered to your preferences. He’d sit quietly at the edge of the room, cracking jokes or humming soft tunes, never leaving until you’d taken at least a few bites. The plates are always so well-decorated, the food so well cooked, not a single spot burnt or undercooked.

Kyle began organizing the staff, ensuring your chambers were kept warm and your belongings were arranged just how you liked them. He even replaced the stiff linens with softer ones and left books on your bedside table that he thought you might enjoy. You touched none of them.

Simon never said much, but his presence was almost constant. He became your silent sentinel, appearing whenever you struggled, watching over you from a distance. He didn’t speak often, but his eyes held a kind of quiet guilt that spoke louder than words but you decided that just this once, you’ll defean your ears.

And John…

John was everywhere. He lingered outside your door at night, the faint creak of the floorboards betraying his pacing. He watched you with an intensity that made your skin crawl, not out of fear but because you couldn’t reconcile this man with the one who had left you to rot. You had nothing to say to him. You barely had the strength to refuse his help attempts already.

The days blurred together, each one a series of numb moments punctuated by pain. The servants were more attentive now even without Kyle, but you couldn’t bear their pitying looks. The maids still whispered, though the words had changed:

Poor thing. How awful.

You avoided them all.

The manor felt smaller somehow, its walls closing in no matter where you went. You found solace in the gardens- when the weather allowed and you had the strength to navigate the terrain. The cold didn’t bother you anymore; it was the one constant, a reminder that you were still alive, still breathing. Unfortunately.

They watched from the windows sometimes, their gazes following as you limped across the grounds. You didn’t acknowledge them.

Something in you broke when the doctor told you you had to stop those trips for now, for your own health. Like the miserable thing you are, he didn’t even say it to you- but to John. Told him not to let you dilly dally around.

That very same night, after you’d spent hours pushing yourself to the brink- trying to walk farther, faster, to prove you could, even as the prosthetic left your stump raw and aching anew- you collapsed into bed, trembling with exhaustion.

You thought you were alone.

The tears came before you could stop them, hot and bitter as they slid down your cheeks. Pain radiated through your leg, your shoulders, your back. But worse was the weight in your chest- the overwhelming suffocation of it all.

You buried your face in your pillow, trying to muffle the sobs that wracked your body. You didn’t hear the door creak open, didn’t see John standing there, frozen in the doorway.

He stayed there, his fists clenched at his sides, listening to your muffled weeping. His chest ached with the knowledge that this was his doing; that every single tear, every shuddering breath, was because of him and the others.

When your cries finally quieted, exhaustion lulling you to a peace-less sleep, he stepped back, closing the door as silently as he’d opened it.

Several days later, he personally led you outside.

You didn’t ask where you were going; you didn’t have the energy. When the massive glass conservatory came into view, you stopped, your breath catching in your throat. Were those… your favorite flower as well?

“I had this built for you,” John said, his voice low, hesitant. “I thought… after everything, you might want a place of your own. Somewhere to breathe.” Somewhere you can stay and walk around in.

The conservatory was beautiful, filled with lush greenery, colorful flowers, and a gentle bubbling fountain at its center. The glass walls let in streams of sunlight, and the air inside was warm and fragrant. This must’ve been in the process for a while now.

You stepped inside, your prosthetic clinking softly against the stone floor, yet you didn’t hear it. The beauty of the place was overwhelming, almost unbearably so.

“This doesn’t fix anything,” you said, your voice trembling. It didn’t, truthfully. It didn’t bring your leg back, it didn’t wash away the dark cloud clinging to you. It didn’t wash away the pain.

“I know,” John murmured, his gaze fixed on the ground. His shoulders were slumped. “But it’s a start. You deserve something… beautiful. Better. The gardens brought you peace, and I can hope that this does the same.”

You turned to find Johnny, Simon, and Kyle standing behind him, their expressions a mixture of hope and guilt.

“We’ll keep trying,” Kyle added softly.

You stared at them, your chest tight, the weight of your pain and exhaustion threatening to crush you.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you.” you whispered.

“We don’t expect you to,” Simon’s voice was quiet. “But we’re not going anywhere. We’ll be here for you regardless.”

“…don’t expect this to change anything.”

John’s voice was so painfully soft, but you didn’t notice. You were limping towards the flowers, gait uneven but determined. “I don’t.”

That night, as you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the memory of the conservatory lingered. It was a reminder of what could have been—of what you might have had if they had tried sooner.

You still didn’t trust them.

But part of you, the part that still remembered what hope felt like, wanted to.

984 notes · View notes

certaimromance · 6 days ago

Text

𝄢 Haunted.

Spencer Reid x Ex gf!reader

speak now; mini series | chapter one, two, three, four

Summary: As your wedding plans take shape and the date approaches, Spencer starts to think that maybe everything isn't as beautiful as it seems. Perhaps he hasn't fully accepted the idea of losing you.

Words: 6,5k.

Warnings & Tags: this is part of a mini series, so make sure you're on the right chapter. fem!bau!reader. mentions of serial killers, injuries, and marriage. suggestive themes. angst. love triangle?. second chance romance. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: Hiii, I'm back to make things even more complicated and then fix my mess because the last two chapters are the most dramatic, so enjoy!

Spencer Reid’s days had taken on a kind of grayscale. Not because of the cases, though they were as harrowing and exhausting as ever, but because something inside him had gone quietly hollow. He wasn’t a loud person to begin with, but now he barely spoke at all unless necessary. His dry, unexpected humor, the kind that used to catch you off guard mid-coffee sip, had vanished completely. He used to linger at the edges of team gatherings, never the center of attention but always present. Now it was as if he wasn’t there at all. A shadow with a badge. A name on a case file.

It all started with a conversation. Just one. Two months ago.

You’d have looked him in the eyes and told him. The words had left your mouth like a quiet storm, and he had nodded, swallowed hard, and said all the right things. Congratulations. He was happy for you. Of course.

Two months later, he was still curling into himself at night, biting his knuckles in the dark, trying to muffle the sound of sobs that refused to be reasoned with. Crying, sometimes, until the pillow was damp and cold beneath his cheek. It didn’t happen every night, only the ones where the loneliness didn’t have everything else to occupy it.

But you were trying to make it easy. You really were.

You usually didn’t wear the ring around the office, brushing it off with a casual excuse about fieldwork and risks and how you didn’t want to lose it. You usually didn’t talk about the wedding in front of him, citing stress, logistics, or paperwork. But it never really worked, not when someone else brought it up. Not when Penelope squealed about color palettes and champagne towers. Not when JJ’s eyes lit up at the mention of flower arrangements. Not when someone, always well-meaning, brought up how generous your fiancé must be, how lucky you were to have a man willing to spend that kind of money on the perfect day.

In this moment, everything felt exactly like that for Spencer.

The sky outside the hotel window was a muted watercolor, soft grays bleeding into pale, reluctant blue. It looked like a sky that didn’t know what it wanted to be: clouded, overcast, indecisive. As if even the sun had chosen to stay hidden today, as if the whole world had taken on the same quiet ache that hummed beneath his skin.

He stepped into the conference room with his usual precision, coffee in one hand, case files tucked neatly beneath the other arm, and credentials swinging gently at his side. The room was still settling into its early morning rhythm: rustling papers, murmured conversations, the faint clink of ceramic mugs against the edge of the makeshift catering table. But for Spencer, everything felt unusually sharp today, like the air had too many edges and not enough warmth. His thoughts were loud. His body was tired. He hadn’t slept again.

“Good morning, Spence.”

Your voice was soft, gentle in the way only yours could be, familiar enough to stir something painful under his ribs.

He barely looked up.

Couldn’t.

Didn’t dare.

He braced for it anyway, for the ache that always followed your presence. For the small, devastating details: the way you somehow looked both composed and soft at this hour, hair loosely pinned back like you’d done it with one hand while answering emails; the hint of your sleepy face that still lived vividly in his memory, half-lidded eyes and pillow-creased cheeks; the way your voice used to dip into something lower, warmer, when it was just the two of you.

He waited for you to undo him.

But then he saw them.

Not you.

A vase.

Centered perfectly at the edge of the conference table, as if someone had taken their time arranging everything just so. Deliberate. Thoughtful. Romantic.

Peonies.

He stopped walking.

Mid-stride. Breath caught in his throat. The coffee trembled slightly in his grip.

Full, blushing blooms in shades of pale pink and cream, ivory petals curling at the edges like parchment left out in the sun. They looked impossibly soft, impossibly new, freshly delivered, still kissed by dew. Their delicate scent curled faintly through the air, just enough to reach him over the sterile smell of coffee and dry-erase markers.

He didn’t need to read the card to know. But there it was anyway, tucked between the blooms like a quiet weapon. A small, cream-colored card with one word scrawled in a crisp serif font.

Darling.

His stomach dropped.

It didn’t fall. It plummeted. Like a stone tossed off the edge of something very high and very final.

You stood beside the vase, one hand curled around a travel mug, the other gesturing absently as you laughed at something Emily had just said.

Spencer couldn’t hear the conversation. Couldn’t hear anything at all, in fact. Just the rising static in his ears, the white noise of heartbreak swelling in the silence that followed recognition.

Because there they were.

Peonies.

He had once told you they were the most impractical flower on earth.

“Too delicate,” he’d said that afternoon at the flower market in Georgetown, the wind still cool from spring but the sun bright overhead. You had crouched beside a stall brimming with them, your fingers trailing the petals as if they were spun silk. “They wilt faster than anything,” he’d explained, watching you from behind the safety of science and statistics. “They only bloom for a few fleeting weeks. They bruise if you so much as look at them the wrong way. And they’re absurdly expensive compared to more durable options.”

You had glanced up at him, arms already full of soft pink and warm ivory, sunlight dancing across your cheeks, and smiled that maddening, cinematic smile, the one that made him feel like the center of something for once in his life.

“They don’t have to last long to be beautiful, my love.”

You’d said it so simply, like it was the most obvious truth in the world. And maybe it was.

So that day, he had bought them for you anyway.

A whole bouquet. Delicate, romantic, hopelessly impractical.

He remembered how careful he’d been, carrying them like spun glass through three city blocks, protecting each bloom from jostling crowds and gusts of wind like they were something sacred. He didn’t care how much they cost. He didn’t care that they’d wilt in two days.

You loved them. And that was enough.

You were home by the time he arrived, exhausted, quiet, still shaken from the case that had kept you both in Alabama for five days straight. You hadn’t even taken your boots off yet when he stepped inside and held out the bouquet without a word.

You froze. Looked at him. Then at the flowers.

And then you smiled.

Not the smile you gave the team when a case closed or someone cracked a joke. Not the polite, practiced expression you wore in professional spaces. No, this one was different.

It bloomed slowly across your face like dawn. Soft and radiant.

You took them with reverent hands, as if they were too good for this world. And without a single word, you set them gently in a vase beside your bed, right where the morning light would hit them first.

That night, after the dishes had been left in the sink and the silence had wrapped around the apartment like a comforter, you climbed into his lap on the couch. Curled your hands in his hair like it anchored you to something. And kissed every inch of his face with reverent, breathless care: his cheeks, his forehead, the sharp line of his jaw, and the slope of his nose.

“You heard me.”

“You really heard me.”

“No one’s ever done that like you do.”

And Spencer, always so full of words, could only hold you tighter, burying his face in your shoulder as your fingers traced soft shapes at the base of his neck.

It wasn’t just the peonies. It was what they meant. The remembering. The listening. The choosing.

And now—

Now, they were back.

Same flower. Same softness. Same symbolism.

But not from him.

“Oh pretty flowers,” JJ whispered to you as she passed. “Very fiancé-coded, right?”

Spencer blinked.

Fiancé.

The word still sat like lead on his tongue.

You didn't even look at it. Not yet. Now you were standing in front of your desk, your fingers wrapped around a paper cup that was too hot, filled with chamomile tea that Penelope had kindly made for you an hour ago. The steam had long since dissipated, but you kept drinking it anyway, more for the comfort of the ritual than for the taste. You had the phone pressed to your ear, your shoulder slightly tilted to hold it in place, and your voice was soft, pleasant, almost rehearsed.

Spencer watched from the corner of his desk, the book open on his table but forgotten, the words fading behind the sound of your laughter, too light, too synchronized, like the ticking of a clock. You wore a smile that didn't reach your eyes, the same one he had seen more and more often in recent months. A smile that seemed sculpted for someone else.

“Seth, I already told you,” you were saying, your tone patient, sweet, and apologetic. “Yes, I remembered to eat. No, I haven't had a single case today.”

There was a pause.

You winced, barely, but Spencer caught it. The faint narrowing of your eyes, the shift of your body inward like you were shrinking.

“I didn’t forget. I’ll ask about the dinner reservations later, okay?” Another pause. “I know. I’m sorry. It just slipped my mind.”

You looked down at the tea again, blinking slowly. You still hadn’t glanced at Spencer.

He knew that look, the one you wore when you were being corrected. Not scolded, not exactly. Just realigned. The kind of emotional choreography that didn’t leave bruises but rewrote your boundaries in quiet, invisible ink.

When you finally hung up, you let out a slow breath. Your smile faded the second the call ended, like someone had turned off the light behind your eyes. You didn’t even notice Spencer watching.

He knew what had just happened. He’d seen it before, in witnesses, in victims, in people who said, “he’s just protective” with a smile they didn’t realize had become a mask.

He saw the way Seth had you spinning plates: always checking in, always apologizing, always a little bit unsure of yourself unless you were actively reassuring him. He saw how Seth left you no room to just be.

And he hated it.

Because even now, even as you turned to finally look at Spencer with a soft, tired smile and said, “Sorry. He just worries,” he could see the way your fingers gripped the cup tighter.

As if you were holding onto something warm to remind yourself you were still here.

Still you.

Still trying to believe this was the love you really needed.

After a moment, Hotch began the briefing.

His voice was steady, even, reading off case updates like clockwork: victim timeline revisions, behavioral patterns, and a new trajectory plotted across the map in precise red markers. The unsub’s profile was narrowing. The case was taking shape. The team nodded along, pens moving, brows furrowed.

Spencer tried to follow. He really did.

But his mind kept drifting back to the bouquet sitting just inches from your elbow. Pale pink peonies, their petals full and flushed, trembling slightly with each draft of air from the overhead vent. They glowed in the morning light, lush and unnecessary, an opulent whisper of someone else’s affection.

And your hand, bare. No engagement ring yet.

He didn’t realize he was staring until Morgan nudged his elbow with the side of his own, deliberate and light.

“Earth to Reid,” he muttered, brow cocked.

Spencer blinked, tearing his eyes from the table. “Sorry. I’m listening.”

Morgan gave him a sideways glance. “You sure? You look like someone just ran over your chessboard.”

Spencer didn’t respond.

The meeting droned on. Diagrams clicked onto the screen. Statistics were recited like rosary beads. But Spencer heard none of it. All he could see was the way your fingertips gently trailed along the vase, like you were trying to memorize its texture, its shape, the fleeting silk of petals that had been bought for you with a kind of casual extravagance.

You looked happy.

Or maybe, just maybe, you were trying to convince yourself you were.

When the meeting ended, chairs scraped against the floor. Agents yawned and stretched. Someone cracked a joke about the vending machine eating quarters again. You lingered, talking to JJ, your voice soft with laughter as you tucked your hair behind your ear and gestured toward the bouquet like it was a silly indulgence you didn’t deserve.

Spencer’s eyes remained fixed on you.

Morgan came up beside him as they walked out into the hallway, the door swinging shut behind them with a muffled click. They didn’t speak at first, both men walking side by side, the hallway quiet except for the distant hum of the break room microwave and the faint hiss of air conditioning.

Then Spencer spoke. Low. Measured.

“Do you know how much peonies cost?”

His friend blinked over the rim of his coffee. “Uh…no? I don’t buy a lot of flowers, man.”

“They’re fragile,” Spencer said quietly. “They bruise at the slightest touch. Their petals wilt quickly once they’re cut. They bloom for less than two weeks, and even then, only during a very specific season. They’re extremely difficult to source this time of year, especially fresh. And they’re…expensive. Really expensive.”

Morgan furrowed his brow. “Okay…”

Spencer looked down at the floor as they walked. “He sent her a whole bouquet. Before a case briefing. To a hotel room. No reason. No apology. Just…because.”

“Sounds like a fiancé move.”

They walked another few paces. Silence bloomed between them.

Then Spencer stopped. Abruptly.

His friend turned, brow raised. “What?”

“She used to say,” Spencer murmured, “that it wasn’t about how long they lasted. The flowers. She knew they’d die. But she said…‘Sometimes you just want to hold something beautiful. Even if it doesn’t stay.’”

Morgan’s expression softened. His grip on the coffee loosened just slightly.

Spencer’s eyes stayed fixed ahead, faraway. “I used to buy them for her. Not peonies. Not always. I couldn’t afford them, not regularly. But sometimes. When I found them. When I knew they were real and in bloom. I’d save up and surprise her. Just a few stems. Nothing like that bouquet in there. But still, when I gave them to her, she’d look at me like I’d given her the whole world.”

He smiled faintly, but there was no joy in it.

“Even when I brought other flowers. Tulips. Dahlias. Even wildflowers. She always looked at me like it meant something. Because it came from me.”

Morgan didn’t say anything. Just watched his friend quietly.

Spencer’s hands went into his pockets.

“And now…” He didn’t finish. The words stayed there, suspended in the air. He just shook his head, teeth pressing against his lower lip.

“Now someone else sends flowers,” he finally said. “No hesitation. No thought. Like, it’s easy. Like it doesn’t cost him anything.”

Morgan exhaled slowly. His voice was calm but grounded. “Doesn’t mean it means the same.”

Spencer turned his head slightly. His eyes were glassy.

“No,” he agreed. “But it means something. And sometimes…that’s enough.”

The elevator pinged softly down the hall, a distant reminder of movement, of time passing whether you wanted it to or not.

Morgan clapped a hand gently on his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go get some real coffee. And maybe something stupidly sugary.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You look like you haven’t eaten since last Tuesday,” Morgan said with a crooked smile.

Spencer let out a breath, the shadow of a laugh curling at the edge. But he didn’t move right away.

Instead, his eyes drifted back toward the conference room.

You were gone now.

But the flowers weren’t.

They still sat there on the table, impossibly bright, impossibly tender. A fragile, fragrant declaration that someone else had taken the place he never said out loud he wanted.

A bouquet.

A message.

A future that was no longer his.

The boutique was nestled between a candlelit wine bar and an impossibly expensive florist in Georgetown, the kind of place that made you feel like you needed to whisper even before stepping inside. A bell chimed as the door opened, not harsh or shrill, but soft, like a breath of wind filtered through silver chimes. The air smelled faintly of lavender water and fresh peonies, undercut by something warmer: pressed silk, old wood, and champagne.

It was quiet, but not empty. Every surface gleamed: antique mirrors with filigree corners, pale gold shelves holding folded veils like secrets, and rows upon rows of ivory silk and lace, hanging like ghostly promises along satin-padded racks. The walls were painted in a gentle, candlelit blush, adorned with hand-painted vines that curled up toward the ceiling like ivy growing toward light. The chandeliers above weren’t the grand, ostentatious kind, but delicately draped with teardrop crystals, casting dappled light like stars on the polished marble floors.

From the moment you stepped in, the boutique whispered luxury, not in the way it bragged, but in the way it knew it didn’t need to.

The consultant offered champagne with the kind of smile you only learn from years of rehearsed joy. JJ accepted on your behalf with a grin, placing the flute in your hand before you’d even unwrapped your scarf. The bubbles tickled your fingers as you gripped the delicate stem.

“Hydration is important,” she winked, and you laughed, though it felt a beat too delayed.

Garcia was in full fairy-godmother mode, sparkly cardigan, pink glasses, and a phone ready at every turn. She took photos of everything: the monogrammed welcome sign that greeted you in calligraphy, the chandelier, even the faint shimmer in the boutique’s windows. “Just documenting the sacred bridal journey,” she whispered theatrically. “We’ll want to remember every tearful step!”

“I haven’t cried yet,” you said, gently teasing.

“Give it time,” she sniffled dramatically. “I already feel it coming.”

You smiled and let yourself be ushered through the boutique’s velvet-curtained dressing rooms, where they placed you in a cocoon of silk and satin, of too many buttons and whispered adjustments. The first gown was too tight. The second had too many sparkles. The third, a sweeping tulle ballgown with an off-the-shoulder neckline and a trailing train that glistened like moonlight, made Emily exhale audibly.

“You just broke me,” she declared, placing a hand over her chest like she’d been struck. “I’m going to sue.”

Garcia clutched her chest. “I’m getting married vicariously through you. Don’t you dare take this moment from me.”

And yet…even as they gasped and squealed and told you you looked radiant, your fingers kept fidgeting with the fabric. Your hands smoothed down invisible creases again and again. You kept turning side to side in the mirror, searching for something you couldn’t name. A flicker. A click. A shimmer of certainty.

The fifth dress was satin. Long-sleeved. Understated and elegant, with buttons trailing all the way down your spine like tiny pearls. You stepped out of the dressing room slowly, your heels clicking softly on the tile. Your friends all reacted again; Emily snapped a photo, Garcia made a noise like she’d been punched in the soul, but their voices felt far away.

Because this time, you were staring at yourself in the mirror, and you finally understood the ache that had been sitting in your ribs all morning.

You were waiting for a voice that never came.

Not just any voice. His.

You were waiting to hear a murmured fact about 19th-century dressmaking techniques or the origin of ivory dye. You were waiting for Spencer Reid, the one person who’d been quietly present for every pivotal moment of your life. The one who’d made even the most ordinary days feel permanent.

You could see it too clearly.

He’d stand off to the side, awkward in a boutique but trying his best. Hands in the pockets of his slacks, his cardigan sleeves pushed up, hair slightly mussed from nervous fingers. He wouldn’t drink champagne; he hated how it dulled the edges of his mind, and he’d mumble something about wanting to be fully present.

And then he’d look up. Just once. Really look.

The kind of look that made the rest of the room fall away. The kind of look where he blinked slowly, like he’d been pulled out of his own thoughts by something too beautiful to ignore. That shy, reverent smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth when he was caught off guard.

“You look like a poem,” he would’ve said. Soft. Honest. Like it hurt to say it out loud.

You stared at yourself now, surrounded by satin and shimmer and everything you were supposed to want.

And all you could think was, why didn’t it feel like poetry?

You blinked quickly and forced a smile when JJ handed you another flute of champagne. Your throat was tight, but you lifted it anyway. Toasted nothing.

The sixth dress was the one…at least, according to everyone else.

It was made of whisper-light crepe and silk, the kind that moved when you breathed, pooling at your feet in a train that shimmered with every step. The skirt clung at the hips and then floated, like it had been designed to follow you into every room like a second, softer shadow. The neckline dipped low and elegant, a curve like water slipping down a hillside, not daring, not showy, just…natural. Like it had always belonged on your body.

Penelope let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a squeal. “Oh my God, honeybee,” she breathed, one manicured hand over her heart, the other already fumbling for her phone. “I’m sending this to absolutely no one, because Seth is banned from seeing it, but…holy shit. You are a vision.”

JJ turned to the consultant, misty-eyed. “This is it. This has to be it.”

Even Emily blinked twice, then said softly, “You look like…someone painted you from memory.”

You smiled, small, soft, and grateful. You tilted your head toward the mirror and folded your hands in front of your waist, just like the consultant had gently instructed.

The lace gloves were delicate, ivory-trimmed, stitched like spiderwebs. The ring, that ring, caught the boutique’s soft chandelier light just right, glinting like a tiny, perfect star.

But something inside you didn’t glint back.

Because this was the kind of dress meant for someone who had been loved gently. Completely. Patiently. It was the dress for a story that had no doubts, no loose ends, and no ghosts.

And Spencer would never really see it.

Worse, you knew that he wouldn’t interrupt.

He wouldn’t storm in, hair mussed, cheeks flushed, heart pounding, begging you not to marry someone else. He wouldn’t plead for a second chance or say he’d made a mistake letting the rules of the BAU destroy you two. He wouldn’t remind you of the time you slow-danced barefoot on a hotel balcony or the night he read poetry aloud until you fell asleep against his shoulder. He wouldn’t say he still remembered how you cried when a little girl on a case named her teddy bear after you.

Because Spencer was selfless. And kind. And deeply, painfully good.

And you, coward that you were, had let the silence grow between you until there was nothing left to answer.

You blinked hard. The tears held, barely.

You turned to JJ and nodded. “I think this is the one,” you said.

But you were lying.

And no one noticed, not when the consultant brought out champagne to celebrate, not when the dress was wrapped in silk tissue and folded into a cloud of a garment bag, not when you took photos with Garcia under the boutique sign outside.

No one saw the way your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Not even Penelope, when she sat beside you in the back of the car, already designing the wedding scrapbook on her phone.

“These are cinematic,” she said, practically vibrating with joy. “Classic. Ethereal. You’re going to cry when you see these again. I already am. Look at this one, look, your hand on your hip, you’re laughing, the light caught your veil just right—”

You leaned over, dutifully, watching yourself scroll by like a guest at your own wedding.

Each frame was perfect. Each smile glossy. Each moment beautiful.

But none of them looked like you.

Not the real you. Not the you who used to cry with laughter on the floor of Spencer’s apartment. Not the one who used to hold his hand under the table at team dinners, just to ground yourself. Not the one who once said ‘I love you’ like it was a scientific constant.

One photo lingered too long.

You were mid-laugh. The veil slipping from your fingers. The train of your gown pooled around you like a secret garden. And in the background: a mirror, catching your reflection.

And all you could hear, not from the photo, but from some buried memory, was Spencer’s voice:

“You’re my favorite version of reality.”

He had said it once on a couch in San Francisco, while you wore one of his shirts and your legs were tangled together like roots. He had whispered it against your neck, drowsy with contentment, like it was a truth that had always been in him, just waiting for you to exist.

Your throat tightened.

You turned away from Garcia’s phone. The air in the car suddenly felt too thick. Too sweet. The champagne was still on your tongue, but it tasted wrong now. Like sugarcoating something bitter.

You curled your fingers around the edge of your dress bag.

And for the first time since you said yes to Seth, the thought came so quietly it was almost a whisper in the back of your mind:

This doesn’t feel right.

Not because it was wrong on the outside.

But because it didn’t feel like you on the inside.

Like maybe, just maybe…the dress fit.

But the story didn’t.

The door to Garcia’s office hung slightly ajar, a familiar invitation to a space that was part sanctuary, part technological wizardry. Her signature pastel mug sat steaming on the cluttered desk, the aroma of chamomile lingering faintly in the air. A soft, almost imperceptible hum emanated from the computers, punctuated by the occasional blink of multicolored LED lights, casting a gentle, ethereal glow that danced across the walls covered in stickers and quirky trinkets. The faint scent of lavender from a nearby diffuser created a strangely comforting cocoon in the otherwise sterile bullpen.

Spencer stepped inside, his shoes whispering softly against the carpet as he moved with hesitant purpose. He had meant only to leave a file for Garcia to run a search later, routine business, nothing more. She was nowhere to be seen, probably chatting with JJ or Emily in the break room. He had no intention of invading her privacy. Yet, his eyes caught the pale light of the monitor still glowing in the semi-darkness. And then, suddenly, he was rooted to the spot.

There, paused mid-scroll, was an image of you.

The white fabric of the dress spilled across the screen like fresh snowfall: ivory, delicate, almost impossibly pure. Satin and lace intertwined in a subtle dance of texture and light, soft as a whispered secret. You stood framed by the ornate boutique mirror, your body angled just slightly, shoulders relaxed but uncertain, arms bent gently at your sides. You weren’t smiling, there was no posed perfection here. Instead, your face wore a quiet stillness, thoughtful and distant, as if you were caught somewhere between the moment and the memory of it.

Spencer’s breath hitched. The sharp intake pulled at his chest like a sudden, invisible tug.

Then the screen shifted, a slideshow advancing with a gentle click.

Now you were laughing: eyes crinkled, mouth open in joy that seemed effortless. One hand held the hem of your dress, the fabric catching the light, while your other moved to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the familiar gesture that he’d seen only when you were nervous or overwhelmed. It was a small, intimate movement, and seeing it here, captured forever in pixels, felt like an ache pressed directly into his heart.

The folder was still open on the desktop, labeled with a glittering, teasing title: “Blush Bride 💖✨.”

His hand moved before his mind could intervene. His fingers brushed over the mouse, a motion he didn’t fully register until the images multiplied across the screen.

There you were, again and again.

You standing quietly as JJ adjusted the delicate zipper of the gown with painstaking care. You spinning with reckless delight, the dress floating around your ankles like mist caught in sunlight. You biting your lower lip, caught in a moment of private contemplation.

And then, a single photo that struck him with a sudden, brutal clarity.

You weren’t looking at the camera. You weren’t even looking at the room. You were looking at your own reflection in the mirror, not with hope or excitement, but with a distant, fragile calm. Like you were a ghost haunting a future you hadn’t quite claimed.

Spencer’s throat tightened, and his chest felt too small to hold the sudden rush of pain. That look, the distant, faraway gaze, was etched into his memory. It was the same expression you wore the night you kissed him goodbye. The one you wore when you said you had to move on, even if a part of you never wanted to.

His hands trembled, resting lightly on the edge of Garcia’s desk as if touching the surface might make it all vanish.

He knew he should close the folder. Turn away. Pretend he hadn’t seen anything.

But the image held him fast, like gravity tethered to a memory that refused to let go.

“Stop it,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “It’s not yours anymore.”

But the truth echoed relentlessly in the hollow of his chest:

She didn’t look like a bride in love.

She looked like someone pretending.

The office door creaked softly behind him.

His heart jumped, pounding wildly as he minimized the window and stepped back quickly. He tried to compose himself, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves.

“Reid?” Garcia’s voice drifted in, warm and cautious. “Everything okay?”

He turned slowly, forcing a neutral expression. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Just…leaving a file for you.”

Her eyes narrowed, not with suspicion, but with the kind of gentle concern reserved for people you know are quietly breaking inside.

“You alright?” she asked quietly.

He nodded, unable to meet her gaze for long.

But as Garcia’s eyes flicked to the minimized window, the flicker of understanding passed through her. She moved to the desk, reopening the folder without a word, the images filling the screen again.

“Oh, boy…” She whispered, her voice thick with empathy.

“I didn’t mean to see it,” he confessed, voice barely above a breath. “I wasn’t looking for anything. I’m sorry I looked in your things.”

Garcia smiled faintly, a mix of teasing and tenderness. “That was masochistic, you know.”

Spencer gave a weak chuckle, though it sounded more like a sob held back. “I know.”

His eyes drifted back to the screen, drinking in the sight of you.

“She looks beautiful,” he murmured.

Garcia nodded. “Like a princess.”

The word hung in the air, fragile and aching. Spencer closed his eyes, imagining the gentle curve of your smile when he’d given you peonies in secret or the way your fingers had laced through his in quiet moments between cases. How he had dreamed of a future painted in those soft whites and blush tones.

“How about…can you give me one?” he asked suddenly, his voice hesitant.

Garcia blinked. “One what?”

He swallowed hard. “A picture. Just one. Something I can hold onto.”

She hesitated, biting her lip thoughtfully. “You mean, a photo of her in the dress?”

He nodded, eyes honest and raw. “Not to hurt her. Not to hurt me. Just…to remember her. Just in case it really ends this way.”

Garcia studied him silently for a long moment. Then, with a soft sigh, she scrolled through the folder once more and stopped on a single image: you, standing still in front of the mirror, eyes distant but peaceful, the dress gently flowing around you.

She dragged the file onto a USB stick and handed it to him without a word.

Spencer took it reverently, like holding a fragile relic, the weight of it heavier than any physical object.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Garcia nodded, her voice gentle as a promise. “Don’t let this break you too much, Spencer…and please don’t tell anyone I did this.”

He gave a small, uncertain smile but made no promises.

The door to Garcia’s office swung closed behind him with a faint hush, the soft click echoing in Spencer’s ears like a final punctuation to a sentence he hadn’t meant to write. He stepped into the hallway, the USB still cradled in his palm like a secret he hadn’t asked for but couldn’t let go of. His fingers curled tightly around it, thumb pressing against the smooth plastic as though he could anchor himself with just that small sensation.

The hallway was half-lit, washed in the golden spill of late afternoon light that streamed through narrow, high windows, painting warm stripes across the floor. The air buzzed with low voices and distant printer clicks, but here time seemed to slow. A quiet pause between everything.

And that’s when he saw you.

You were standing just beyond the row of lockers, half-turned from him, your silhouette etched against the light like something out of a dream he used to have. The kind that lingered long after waking. You were holding a stack of ivory envelopes wrapped in a silk blush ribbon, adjusting them against your chest with one arm while smoothing down the top one with delicate fingers. Your hair caught the light and shimmered like gold filigree, and your cheeks were flushed, not with heat, but with anticipation. You were biting the inside of your lip, a habit he’d memorized, one you always did when you were trying to keep a secret or contain your excitement.

For a brief, suspended moment, Spencer didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.

Because you looked like something from another life. And you looked beautiful.

Then you looked up.

Your eyes found his like they always did: effortlessly, instinctively, like you’d been waiting for him without even realizing it. And when you smiled, soft and bright, genuine in a way that stole the breath from his lungs, it felt like the hallway around him narrowed, folding time inward until it was just the two of you again.

“Spence!” you called, and your voice hit him in the chest like sunlight. “Perfect timing.”

He tried to smile back, tried to keep his grip from tightening around the USB, from showing anything on his face except the kind of warmth you expected from him. The kind that didn’t shake.

He held up the USB slightly, gesturing toward Garcia’s office. “Just…dropped off a file for Penelope. Case-related.”

“Of course you were,” you grinned, stepping closer, your heels tapping lightly against the floor. “Always the responsible one.”

He chuckled softly, the sound thinner than usual. “Someone has to be.”

You shifted the envelopes in your hands, looking down for a second, and when you looked back up, there was a shyness to your expression, the kind of vulnerable pride that came with wanting to share something special. You reached forward and held out one envelope with careful fingers.

“I have something for you too,” you said gently. “Wanted to give it to you in person.”

Spencer blinked, heart lurching. He took the envelope slowly, reverently. The paper was thick and luxuriously textured, the creamy ivory color accented by delicate gold leaf pressed into the corners. There was a faint scent of peony on it, maybe from the ribbon, maybe from your perfume, and it settled in his lungs like a memory.

He didn’t look at the names on the front yet.

“I…We finally picked the date,” you said, your voice warm with a kind of pride he hadn’t heard in you in a while. “And the venue, and the flowers. Everything, actually. It’s all coming together.”

He forced a smile, looking at the envelope instead of you. “You must be excited.”

“I am,” you said quickly. Too quickly. Then you softened. “But I also really wanted you to be there. You’ve been part of so many moments in my life. It wouldn’t feel right without you at this one.”

The words landed in his chest with a soft thud. He nodded. “Thank you. That means more than I can say.”

You beamed, then reached into a pocket of your purse and pulled out a small folded note card. “Oh! Before I forget…the menu.”

“The menu?”

“For the reception,” you said, teasing now, as you handed it to him. “Seth wanted this elaborate plated dinner, but I vetoed him unless we got input from everyone, and especially you. So, consider this your democratic contribution to the wedding feast.”

Spencer opened the card. “Mini grilled cheese with tomato soup shooters?”

“I remembered you liked them,” you said, eyes sparkling. “You nearly caused a riot at JJ’s baby shower with how many you stole.”

He laughed under his breath. “In my defense, I hadn’t eaten in twelve hours.”

“And you still managed to quote Jean-Paul Sartre between bites,” you grinned. “Which was deeply confusing for the caterer.”

His smile faded into something softer. “I’ll check a box.”

You nodded, looking quietly pleased. Then your fingers returned to the bundle of invitations, your thumb brushing the ribbon.

“I should keep moving,” you said, the smile slipping back into place. “Still have a bunch more to deliver before the end of the day. JJ and Emily are threatening to make me wear a tiara if I don’t hurry.”

Spencer looked down at the envelope in his hand again.

“Of course,” he said softly. “Don’t let me hold you up.”

You hesitated just a second longer, your eyes meeting his one last time.

“Don’t forget the food card,” you said, backing away with a wink. “I expect a gourmet opinion, Doctor Reid.”

He smiled. “Of course.”

Then you turned and walked down the hall, the soft fabric of your blouse catching in the light, the scent of your perfume lingering in the air behind you. You didn’t look back.

But Spencer did.

He watched you disappear around the corner, the invitation still in his hand, the envelope warm where your fingers had touched it.

And he stood there, holding it like it might vanish. Like if he held it too tightly, it would tear.

The name printed in gold leaf still stared up at him like a challenge.

You & Seth.

It felt like an ending.

But somewhere inside him a different thought stirred.

Maybe not yet.

Not if there was still time to stop it.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fanfiction #spencer reid angst #matthew gray gubler

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vanteguccir · 1 year ago

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤQUALITY TIME * MATT STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　where Matt skips Tara Yummy's 1M party to have quality time with his girlfriend.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　none.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

Matt's car glided through the moonlit streets of Los Angeles as he headed toward Y/N's apartment after dropping off his brothers at Tara Yummy's 1 million celebration party. The radio played the playlist created by him and Y/N, which they constantly fed with new songs that reminded themselves of each other.

Matt smiled as he looked to the little surprise he had prepared for his girlfriend. He made a brief stop at a flower shop on the way, where he bought a simple bouquet of pink tulips - Y/N's favorite. His eyes momentarily found the bouquet carefully wrapped and placed on the passenger seat before returning his gaze to the road.

Upon arriving at the building where Y/N lived, his access to the parking lot was quickly granted, the doorman already knowing him very well. The boy didn't take long to take the bouquet in hand, locking the doors and taking the elevator to the corresponding floor.

The sound of the keys against the front door lock sounded faintly through the living room, followed by the sound of the door opening and closing seconds later, Matt quickly taking off his shoes and resting them against the wall.

"Baby?" His voice echoed through the walls, expanding to the nearest rooms, while his eyes quickly surrounded the space, searching for the girl.

"Kitchen!" Y/N shouted back, an involuntary smile growing on her face almost automatically, her body reacting to Matt's presence.

Matt made his way to the kitchen and found Y/N with her back to him, focused on the counter as she moved her arms over the ceramics. With a smile on his face, he approached her silently and hugged her from behind, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his hands on her stomach covered by her hoodie and little green apron.

"Hi, pretty boy." Y/N murmured softly, rubbing her hands together to shake off the flour before wrapping her arms around his, caressing the hoodie-covered skin. "I thought you were going to Tara's party."

"Without my girl? Never." He responded in a low tone against her neck, laying his head on her right shoulder so that his face was facing her neck and sealing her jaw gently. "I brought you something." Matt pulled away slightly and retrieved the bouquet he had rested on the table.

Y/N turned to him with eyes full of curiosity and confusion, which soon turned into pure ecstasy, her heart overflowing with love.

"Oh my... Matt, they're beautiful!" The girl beamed, accepting the bouquet and cradling it in her arms as if it was a newborn.

"I always bring you flowers, I don't know how you still react so surprised." Matt murmured jokingly, smiling as he watched her enjoy the little gift.

As Y/N carefully arranged the tulips in a new ceramic vase, Matt approached the oven to peek at what she was preparing. The delicious aroma of freshly baked cookies filled the air, making his stomach growl with anticipation.

"Did you make cookies?" The boy asked excitedly.

"Yes! I was baking it to take it to you tomorrow." Y/N nodded quickly, returning to her starting position. "Do you want some, hon?"

"Yes, please."

Matt watched in awe as Y/N bent slightly, opening the stove door and carefully taking out the baking tray with her hand covered in the soft yellow fabric glove, resting it on the counter.

He knew he was lucky to have someone so incredible in his life, someone who cared about making every moment special.

The girl rose to her tiptoes after closing the oven, opening the cabinet above the stove and retrieving two dessert plates designed with little strawberries. She placed them side by side next to the tray before taking a small spatula and moving two cookies to each plate carefully, afraid of breaking or dropping them.

Matt walked over, taking one of the cookies from the tray with the tip of his fingertips, ignoring the slight burn from the high temperature. He lifted his own hand, blowing on the sweet before biting off a piece, closing his eyes automatically and letting out a sigh of pleasure through his nose. The way the cookie was still warm made it melt in his mouth, the chocolate exploding against his tongue, multiplying the variety of flavors.

"Is it good?" Y/N giggled, watching him with a smile gracing her face, receiving a quick nod with wide blue eyes. "Come on, baby."

She took the plates in her hands delicately, leaving her kitchen and walking to the balcony with Matt following close behind as he licked his fingers, removing all the chocolate residue.

The night was cool and clear, with the sky dotted with twinkling stars. The couple snuggled into the cushioned chairs that decorated the small space, Matt quickly reaching for the pink blanket that was folded on the small table on the right corner, opening it and throwing it over his and his girlfriend's legs, protecting them against the light breeze.

"Oh! Matt, remember the dog constellation I was telling you about the other day?" Y/N's excited voice cut through the comfortable silence, her eyes lighting up just like the stars above them.

"Sirios? No, wait, Sirius... Right?" Matt frowned, a cute look of confusion spreading across his face as his eyes darted from Y/N to the sky and back again.

"Exactly! Sirius, the brightest star in the night sky. Right there." The girl raised her arm that wasn't holding her plate, pointing her index finger upwards.

Matt looked in the indicated direction, navigating through the stars for a few seconds until he found it.

"Wait, it's actually beautiful. What else do you know about it?"

Y/N smiled truthful, her heart warming at being able to talk more about something she loved so much, without having restrictions or feeling ashamed for her excitement.

"Well, Sirius is a binary star, which means it is actually two stars orbiting around each other. It is part of the constellation Canis Major, the Greater Dog, and is known as 'The Dog Stars'. Oh, oh! Do you remember Sirius Black? My favorite Harry Potter character? So, this star..."

Matt listened intently, slowly chewing the small cookie pieces while keeping his eyes fixed on Y/N. Her passion for astronomy and the universe always fascinated him, and there wasn't a time when she brought up the subject that he wasn't willing to give her his full attention.

As the night progressed, Matt and Y/N continued to stargaze, lost in conversations about the cosmos and its mysteries.

As the last cookie crumbs disappeared from the plates and the sky began to brighten with the sun that appeared over the horizon, Y/N felt a wave of comfort and contentment envelop her body, resting the ceramics on the corner table and moving gently towards Matt, settling on his lap.

The boy opened a big, involuntary smile, automatically wrapping her with his arms and the pink blanket, protecting them from the slight cold of dawn, while she laid her head on his chest, feeling the peaceful rhythm of his heartbeat and serene breathing.

Together, they kept their eyes fixed on the sky that was beginning to take on color, the sound of the first cars on the street, and the laughter of children going to school filling their ears.

Little by little, Y/N began to feel the effects of exhaustion after staying up all night, her body relaxing against Matt's comforting warmth. Sleep came like a gentle wave, enveloping her senses in an embrace.

Her breathing became slow and regular, while her body became limp and light. Her brain shutting down and giving in to deep sleep, to the point where she didn't hear the little whisper of "good night, petal" from her boyfriend, let alone his arms carrying her to her bed, where they finally slept in each other's arms.

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gldrushh · 2 months ago

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GUILTY AS SIN? | JJK | PART 𝐈𝐈𝐈 |

"After all lessons are learned. There's only one to live out in practicality. You're not sure how good you're at it —only that, this time, you won’t try alone."

→ Pairing brother in law! Jungkook x widowed fem!reader

→ Genre forbidden love! au, childhood friends to lovers, angst, fluff

→W.C 20k

→ Warnings lots of mentions of graveyards, loss, nostalgia, because you can scream and scratch and bite but you can never go back, minhos third death anniversary, he stays haunting everyone, jk being lovesick, what's new?,their dating era!!, kissing, self realization, they make it official, mentions of anxiety, soft family moments :(, mention of jk threatening someone, protective jk, mentions of alcohol, like a lot, jk manhandling oc, she's drunk and a menace, he is so in love, and so is she apparently, jks nose gets appreciated, nose kisses, fluff, jk is rich, dancing around, real chessy stuff im sorry haha but trust me when i say that it pained me too

→ Playlist You are in love by Taylor swift

→A/N hi! hello! It's definitely not been a while since I posted but it most definitely feels like I've lived a multiple lifes since. I'm sorry for not posting when I promised and I'm sorry that you had to see me falling for rage bait because i don't belive that was anything but. Like genuinely get a life my brother in christ. I write fanfiction for a hobby. A silly little hobby. It's not that deep and you don't have to lose your shit over that. Anyways, all that negativity aside I wanna thank you to all the majority of my readers who were nice enough to put up with me. You all are who I write for and will continue doing so though can't say for sure lol. I've had a great time with writing this fic and all the love it got. It will forever hold a special place. These characters will forever hold a special place. I will miss them and I really hope you understand from the word count why it took the time it did and enjoy reading <33 please comment or message your thoughts!! Love you!!

| PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE |

The graveyard was deadened in a way that empty places where bones met soil learned to be. In a way that they are belived they are. With a stillness so complete, it surmised like a hostaged breath.

You sat cross-legged before the headstone, coat draped around your shoulders, your fingers numb from the stone bench that did little to hold warmth or from holding the bundle of white lilies, their stems slick with dew. You hadn’t put them down yet. You had spent the better part of your time here, staring at another small bouquet resting at the base of the grave—white carnations and forget-me-nots, arranged with care, like they always were. Someone’s been here before you. Arranged these flowers with love. There's just no name in some card that gives away the beholder of the love.

You traced the curve of a petal with your gaze, not touching it. Not needing to.

You're not wary of them. It's a graveyeard. It's Jeon Minho's—beloved son, brilliant brother, best husband—grave. It's never empty. You recalled, absently,how on his first death anniversary the plot had been crowded. A forest of flowers so pretty and perplexing, letters folded into stones, paintings left by former students who still wrote emails to an address that no longer worked. One of them left a thumb drive with a digital portfolio and a note that simply read: “I only got in because of him.”

Even now—three years later—his name never stopped resounding in impertuable places because he had a way of staying with people, even long after he’d left the room. Had this laugh that would get stuck in your head. And somehow, that made it both easier and harder. That he was remembered in a love that he alone inspired. Gentle. that was earned without asking. The kind of love that was mourned in secret, in ritual, in color.

You placed your bouquet down next to the others, brushing a fallen leaf from the base of the headstone. The stone was smooth beneath your touch, cold. You traced the carved letters-his name, the dates-and swallowed the lump that always formed when you read them too slowly.

“I was going to bring tulips,” you said softly, not sure if you were speaking to the stone or the wind. “But you always said they looked sad. Too floppy.” A just as sad smile that would have mimicked the tulips curled at your mouth.

“Thought I’d bring lilies instead. Thought they might hold their shape better. I hope they do.”

The ache wasn’t sharp anymore. But it was deep. It was marrow-deep. Though it didn't weight like it used to. It hummed in your blood, a familiar frequency. Almost like a song you’d once loved but now couldn’t bear to hear past the first few notes. Like the sky that is a pale repose of overcast, streaked with gray, the kind that always made Minho grumble about "bad lighting" when he painted. The ground is damp but not cruel. Just enough to remind you that time moves here too. That even woe must learn to grow things again.

A breeze stirred, threading through your coat, pushing strands of hair across your cheek. You didn’t brush them away. You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, the grave in front of you, the silence beside you.

"Odd taste you had, min-min." You said after a while. "I wouldn't be suprised if you would find me sitting here, trying to make conversation with a slab of stone romantic. Probably say how so much effort for a guy who once mixed paint water into his cereal is good kind of weird."

Your voice cracked a little at that.

You don't cry.

You think that maybe you’ve used up all your tears on the wrong days—the regular ones, the grocery-list ones, the Tuesdays that came out of nowhere.

And then because the present can only be held for so long, you begin to remember.

The first time you were ever in a graveyard. Before you understood what death really was. Before it had touched you. When it was just a mystery. A place with names and flowers and questions no one could answer properly.

It had been years ago—childhood still clinging to your limbs like summer heat, with scraped knees and sticky palms and dreams that stretched further than your little world could hold. You and Jungkook couldn’t have been more than ten. Minho, already bordering on thirteen, had taken to pretending that his age made him wiser, even though he still laughed too loudly at fart jokes and left crayon smudges on his school notebooks.

You had been searching for this place for a while.

Not this graveyard, exactly, but the idea of it.

A name. A date. Something real to press against the fading edges of Jungkook’s memory.

He had come across a slip of paper one day in the back of a file, folded four times over, nearly forgotten in the drawer of father's study that nobody was allowed in. The handwriting had been unfamiliar—elegant but rushed—and it bore two names. His parents, he said. He thought.

And for weeks, the three of you had quietly tried to piece it together.

You’d used the school’s clunky computer lab—pretending to research for a social studies project while Minho furiously clicked through online directories and civic records. You whispered questions to the lunch lady, who knew someone who once worked in town hall. You even bribed the janitor with your entire sticker collection to let you sneak into the staff archives one afternoon.

No one said it was about sorrow.

No one had to.

You just wanted to help him find something—anything—that made him feel less like a shadow of someone else’s loss.

And finally, on a Thursday that still smelled like last night’s rain, you did.

You’d all skipped school that day.

The air still damp from last night’s rain, the sky overcast in a way that made the world look softer, quieter, like someone had pulled a cotton sheet over the sun.

It had been Minho’s idea, but Jungkook who needed it. You remember that part vividly, because he hadn’t asked out loud. Hadn’t needed to. He had stood in the courtyard with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his too-big jacket, hair a mess, eyes darker than usual. And Minho had just looked at him, then at you, and nodded.

“We’re going,” he said. "Are you ready, Kook?"

He was holding a slip of paper in one hand and clutching the edge of his jacket with the other.

“Yes, hyung." He had nodded. "I want to find them."

The air around you had gone quiet then—not out of shock, but out of care. Like the air had thinned out so as not to crowd him.

“We’d get in trouble,” you had broke the silence, voice a sharp whisper, mind already thinking of all ways you could get in trouble, eyes darting to the teachers pacing the other side of the field.

“Yeah,” Minho agreed. “But it’s a good reason. I'm sure they will understand...right?" Taller than the both of you already. He looked between Jungkook’s face and the paper again, then over at you.

You’d rolled your eyes, half because you were nervous and half because that was your role in this trio—to be skeptical just enough for Minho to feel brave. That made minho provide reassurance to his own doubt. "They will." Minho had said, like it was that simple.

And it was.

It always was, with the three of you.

You were kids, but not careless ones. You planned it like it was a secret mission—packed snacks in the side pockets of Minho’s bag, let Milo tag along even though he wasn’t technically allowed out without a leash. The sun was high when you snuck out, the kind of early spring day that couldn’t decide if it was warm or not. As if it was playing a cruel game of hide and seek, peeking through clouds that weren’t sure if they wanted to rain again. You wore your favorite jacket—denim with a strawberry patch on the sleeve. Jungkook didn’t bring anything except the folded piece of paper. Milo sat at his feet, tail thumping occasionally against the metal floor of the bus.

You caught the bus by the corner near the florist’s shop, ducking low behind the seats in case any familiar faces passed. The journey was slow. Long bus ride—two transfers, three wrong stops. You sat tucked in the back row, heads down, laughing behind your hands when Milo licked a stranger’s elbow. You passed the time counting license plates and telling each other made-up stories about the people outside.

One old man at the third stop looked at you from under his hat and said, “That place? That place’s been forgotten.”

But then a woman at the vegetable stall a few streets over gave you better directions. Told you to follow the path lined with dogwoods until you saw the iron gates.

You wandered through the quiet neighborhoods of Daejun on foot, sneakers wet from the last puddles, stepping over cigarette butts and crushed petals, past shuttered stores and a shrine half-covered in ivy. The deeper you walked, the more the world thinned out into something older. Something that felt sacred and sad all at once.

The graveyard.

Wrought iron gates half rusted, vines crawling up the stone wall, the sign chipped but still legible.

There was no one there to greet you. Just wind. And quiet. And Milo’s soft panting.

You stepped inside together, slow. Reverent. As if you were entering a cathedral.

You didn’t speak much. Just looked.

Row after row of headstones, some cracked, some buried under moss. The names were unfamiliar. The silence, even more so.

“I think it’s this way,” Minho said, squinting at the map he’d drawn on notebook paper. “I printed a map. And I’m, like, really good at reading maps.”

“You got us lost last week trying to find that new ramen place,” you reminded him, turning around to walk backwards for emphasis.

Minho rolled his eyes. “That was one time."

"Was it?" You looked at Jungkook to back you up but he only cracked a tiny smile at that. You caught it—brief, barely there—but it warmed you anyway. It had been a long week leading up to this.

“They’re somewhere near the east wall,” Minho said, squinting at the faded directions. “Row 12, plot 33. I think we’re close.”

Your footsteps crunched over gravel and scattered leaves. Milo veered off occasionally, sniffing at corners and chasing insects, but always came back. The sun filtered through bare branches in patches, dappling your arms in faint light.

The wind picked up when they turned the final corner—soft, not cold, brushing past their jackets like a whisper. Row twelve stretched ahead in crooked lines, some stones older than others, names worn down by years of weather and forgetfulness.

Jungkook stopped walking.

Your eyes followed his gaze.

Two gravestones stood side by side, tucked beneath a slant of oak branches. The grass was longer here. The stones smaller than you expected.

They were side by side. Dates etched beneath them.Born years before any of you. Gone before Jungkook had learned what it meant to belong to anyone. No pictures. No flowers. Just names and silence. And that was all he had.

Jungkook stared at them like he didn’t know what he was supposed to feel. Like maybe he’d expected something different. Or maybe he didn’t know what he expected at all.

His hand crumpled the piece of paper still clutched in his fist.

You moved first, not touching him, just standing nearby, close enough that he’d know you were there if he needed you.

Minho lowered the backpack slowly to the ground, the usual jokes stalled on his tongue. Even Milo went still, sitting quietly at Jungkook’s feet, as if he understood the moment too.

Jungkook stepped forward, cautiously. His sneakers scuffed the grass. He crouched slowly in front of the grave, his knees pressing into the damp soil, fingertips hesitating above the stone.

“That’s them?” he asked, voice tight in his throat. “For real?”

Minho nodded. “Yeah. The names match.”

Jungkook didn’t speak again. He pressed his fingers lightly to the letters on the headstone—first his father’s, then his mother’s. They were cool from the shade, worn smooth at the edges.

You crouched beside him. He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see the way his eyes were glossed, not quite crying, but close. “Do you think they were nice?”

Minho sat down cross-legged beside him, stretching his legs out like it was any other afternoon. “Your mom? Definitely. Anyone who names a baby Jungkook has to be at least kind of awesome.”

That earned the smallest laugh from you, and then from him.

Jungkook looked at the gravestones again. “Do you think they’d like me?”

You nudged his side with your elbow, gently. “Koo, it’s kinda hard not to like you.”

“I dunno,” he mumbled. “I cry sometimes. And I suck at spelling.”

Minho made a dramatic groan. "You’re the coolest. Smarter than me. And you always win at Mario Kart.”

Jungkook ducked his head, but you saw the way his shoulders loosened. He reached out then—hesitant—and brushed some dirt off the stone. You watched the movement, how careful it was. How reverent.

“I didn’t think I’d feel anything,” he murmured.

“But you do?” you asked.

He nodded, still not looking at either of you. “Yeah.”

You stayed there until the sun dipped lower behind the hills. Minho finished the sketch and tore the page from his book. He folded it carefully, handed it to Jungkook without a word.

Jungkook looked at it for a long moment, then tucked it into his hoodie pocket.

“Hey,” Minho said as you were walking back toward the gates. “Think they’ve got a vending machine nearby? I want strawberry milk.”

You laughed. “You always want strawberry milk.”

He smirked, tugging his cap lower. “Yeah, well. It’s a long walk home.”

You trace the rim of the headstone now, your fingertips ghosting. Lingering. Your voice is soft. Almost like a child's again.

“We never did find that vending machine.”

The wind stirs in the trees like it remembers too.

“But you’d be happy to know,” you continue softly, “that your paintings found their way anyway.”

You smile faintly, fingers brushing a small chip in the edge of the stone like you could smooth it out. “It’s finally happening. Really. The gallery. Jungkook’s opening it today.”

You glance up toward the stone, as if you might catch his reaction.

“I told him we should. After I saw it—I mean really saw it—I couldn’t not share it with the world. And you know me. I don’t say things like that unless I mean them. I think… I think you’d be proud of how much care he put into it. How many nights he stayed up figuring out framing and lighting and titles. Gosh."

Your voice thickens around the word proud.

“He asked me what kind of wine you’d want served at the opening,” you add, with a shaky laugh. “I said you’d just tell people to bring root beer instead and call it a day.”

You look at the lilies now, at the way their petals fold gently inward. You try to imagine the sound of Minho’s laughter if he were here. Try to imagine the way he’d tease you for crying without making you feel like crying was wrong.

“It looks beautiful, Min min. The gallery. I think it would’ve made you shy. All those people showing up just for you. Can you imagine?”

You pause.

A crow calls from a nearby tree. A leaf skitters across the gravel.

“And something else,” you say softly. “I think I should tell you.”

It’s not a secret, not really. Just something unspoken for a long, long time. Something you’ve carried carefully, like glass.

“I wasn’t sure at first,” you admit, a dry laugh slipping out. “I mean, of course I wasn’t. It felt impossible. Like… crossing a bridge I shouldn’t have even been near. I can't even think of anything else to describe it to you."

The words take time. But you don’t rush them.

"The very first it was the the little bakery near the university with the good tarts. The museum with the terrible lighting but the softest benches. He even took me to that rooftop bar that used to give you vertigo—remember? "

You chuckle, covering your face briefly with your hand.

You shift your weight slightly, stretching your legs in front of you. A leaf lands on your boot.

“And then last week,” you continue, “he took me to this little Korean BBQ place in Hongdae. Said the meat was just okay, but the company made it worth it. We stayed until the restaurant closed. Walked along the river. He kissed me beside the railing. It was cold, and I couldn’t feel my fingers."

The place wasn’t fancy. People probably didn’t dress up for here dressed up or made reservations two weeks in advance. It had plastic chairs that wobbled slightly, walls lined with signed polaroids and grease-stained menus, and a sliding glass door that stuck every time someone tried to open it too quickly.

You ordered too much, of course. He insisted on the samgyeopsal, you picked the bulgogi, and somehow you ended up with three side dishes neither of you remembered asking for. The grill sizzled between you, soft smoke curling toward the ceiling vents, and Jungkook poured you a glass of water like it was part of an accent only he knew how to follow.

And there was something about watching him like that—hair pushed back, head slightly tilted, tongs in hand while he laid down the marinated strips of meat that made something alter inside you. Something small but sure.

Something you didn’t feel with the with the accountant who wouldn’t stop talking about NFTs. The guy who took you to a food truck but only ordered for himself.

A soft breath escapes you. “And it’s not the same. It’s not like it was with you. But it’s not different in the wrong ways either.”

You glance at the grave again, hands resting in your lap. Your heart hurts and swells at once.

“I think you’d understand,” you whisper.

And you do. In some strange, marrow-deep way, you believe it. That he would. That Minho, the boy who used to kiss the corners of your eyes and name his paint colors after inside jokes, would know what this meant. That he’d want this for you.

That he’d forgive you.

You reach for the lilies again, adjusting them so the stems don’t bend. Your eyes flick back to the stone.

“I still miss you,” you whisper. “I still love you.”

The breeze quiets again.

"And I still think you're the best friend I've ever had. That's why I needed to tell this this to you first."

Your fingers press gently to your lips, then down to the stone.

Who else would you tell other than the boy who had orchastered the definition of fairytale love for you? Who would you tell that you're starting to realize that he loves you? Maybe he had a for a long time now. And maybe you-

Bzzzt.

Your phone vibrated in your coat pocket.

The sound was soft, almost reluctant against the hush of the graveyard, like it too didn’t want to interrupt.

You blinked, pulled it out with chilled fingers, and read the message lit dimly on the screen.

[Dad:]

Sweetheart, we’re parked outside, still. Just checking if you’re ready.

You turned your head slightly and spotted the vague outline of your father’s car just beyond the gate, tucked in the corner of the lot. You could imagine your mother in the passenger seat, fingers wrapped around a thermos of tea, eyes scanning the trees while she waited with the scarf minho brought her two christmas ago, letting you have this moment uninterrupted.

They’re in town, of course. They always are, on this day.

It started the first year—when the pain was still red and raw and too large for your chest. Back then, you couldn’t eat, couldn’t speak without choking on the spaces where Minho should’ve been. Your parents had shown up with soup and chamomile tea and enough patience to outlast a storm. They stayed even when you didn’t speak for hours.

And every year since, they’ve found new ways to not let you be alone.

This day always makes them softer with you. Or maybe just more afraid of saying the wrong thing. Hovering a little closer. Speaking in quieter tones.

You sigh, brushing your thumb across the message. You don’t reply yet. Instead, you turn back toward the headstone, heart still soft and cracked wide open.You smile faintly.

“I should probably go.”

You reach down, sweeping a fallen petal from the edge of the stone.

“I’ll come by tomorrow, okay? Tell you how it goes."

You gather your coat closer around your shoulders, standing slowly. Your knees creak from the cold stone bench, from sitting too long in one position. You stretch slightly, then glance once more at the flowers now clustered at the grave’s base.

The sky has begun to change—clouds pulling apart in slow, reluctant threads, letting in slivers of afternoon light. You press your fingers gently to the headstone one last time.

"Wish me luck, min min."

You imagine he does. Hands in his pockets. Smile tugging wide and lazy. Head tilted, like he knows you've got this.

Like he's urging you to go back to the part of the story where something finally begins.

You slipped into the backseat with a soft apology, the car door clicking shut behind you.

“Sorry,” you murmured, pulling your coat tighter around your shoulders. The fabric had gone cold against your skin, but the chill clinging to you wasn’t just from the graveyard. “I didn’t mean to keep you both waiting.”

Your mother turned in her seat, her eyes warm even beneath the slight crease of worry still lingering at her brow. “Don’t be silly,” she said gently, her hand reaching back to rest briefly on your knee, the kind of maternal touch that knew when to press and when to ease. “We figured you might want a few more minutes. We all do."

“We were just talking about how this town hasn’t changed a bit,” she added, shifting the topic without making a show of it.

“She was talking,” your father interjected from the driver’s seat, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I was checking the parking meter.”

“You were checking your watch and pretending it was the parking meter,” your mother teased.

“I was,” he insisted. “City’s always been eager to ticket people in parked cars.”

You let the cadence of their conversation fold around you, like the comfort of a familiar quilt. Safe. Worn soft with time. The kind of talk you’d heard all your life, in road trips and kitchens and walks through grocery aisles.

The engine kicked into motion, pulling you away from the graveyard slowly. You turned once in your seat, watching the wrought iron fence fade into the distance, your eyes lingering on the tree line long after it disappeared.

Outside, the town blurred past—branches heavy with the early promise of spring, cafés setting out mismatched chairs, signs swinging in the breeze like the sighs of old shopkeepers.

Your parents started talking about the café near the roundabout—how it had changed hands again, how the new owners apparently served matcha pancakes now, how the inside had been repainted a strange, charming blue. You listened with half an ear, forehead resting against the cool glass, hands folded in your lap.

Bzzt. Your phone made the same noise again.

[Jungkook]:

Are you on your way yet?

Missing you.

You typed back quickly, thumbs moving faster than your thoughts:

[You]:

On the way now. In the backseat with my parents. Be there soon.

He replied instantly like he was waiting with his phone in his hand.

[Jungkook]:

Good. See you.

You could picture him now—standing in the middle of the gallery in those dark slacks and a shirt with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed as he scanned the placement of frames and fiddled with the lighting, making sure nothing was out of place. He’d probably refused help again. Probably hadn’t eaten yet. Probably had to be convinced into not polishing every glass display himself.

You scrolled up, letting your thumb drag slowly over the thread from this morning:

[Jungkook]:

Good morning, angel ❤️

[Y/N]:

Good morning 😊

[Jungkook]:

Did you eat?

[Y/N]:

Just coffee so far. Did you?

[Jungkook]:

Two bites of toast. Stress eating. Lights are temperamental again but I'll sort them out.

[You]:

Don't stress it too much, okay? And eat.

[Jungkook]:

Copy that, professor.

You had smiled when you read that. Still did. A quiet little curve of your lips you didn’t bother hiding. Then he had sent a photo—one of the larger canvases half-unwrapped, sunlight catching the ridges of Minho’s brushstrokes like gold embroidery.

[Jungkook]:

Look at this.

[Y/N]:

Looks so beautiful. Everyone's gonna love it. You've done so much.

The light turned red and your father hummed to the radio while your mother picked at invisible lint on her sleeve.

[Jungkook]:

I can come get you after you're done visiting the cemetery. Just say the word.

[You]:

It’s okay. My parents are in town. I’m coming with them.

You were still staring down at the screen when your mother spoke again.“You’ve looked miles away for the last five minutes. Who’s texting you?”

You didn’t look up from your phone, but you could hear the knowing in her voice. “Oh.. it's Jungkook.”

“Ah,” she said, like that explained everything.

“He’s there already, isn’t he?” Your father asked casually.

You nodded, surprised. “Yeah, he’s… there. He’s doing a lot.”

“He always did have a stubborn streak,” your dad added. “Good head on his shoulders though."

Your mother smiled to herself. “I remember how he used to follow Minho around. And it's so beautiful now that he’s carrying so much of him forward.”

You looked down at your lap, throat tightening. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “It is.”

The car turned left and began its slow crawl into a lane that was too familiar.

You sat straighter as the car slowed, heart pulling taut in your chest, held in place by something between magnetism and memory. You recognized the bend in the road before you saw the sign—the soft flicker of gold script in the window, the sharp white glow of the "Open" sign casting its light across the pavement.

Your mother leaned forward slightly. “Oh. We’re here.”

The tires crunched over the gravel as your father pulled into the side lot. There were already several cars here, clustered neatly in crooked rows—some you recognized, most you didn’t. The gallery looked different in this light. Not the mum, plagnent space Jungkook first brought you to, that secret place where ghosts had been allowed to breathe without interruption.

the same place pulsed now. Lived.

Soft warm light spilled out of the tall windows. Music, muffled by glass, carried on the wind in threads. A little cluster of people stood out front—hands curled around invitation slips, eyes lifted toward the lettering carved into the wooden sign overhead.

You inhaled slowly.

It was still the same place you saw a month ago.

But it had opened its doors.

People had come. People would see it. His art.

The same paintings that once cluttered the corners of your apartment. That leaned against your sofa while waiting to dry. That held pieces of him—his bursts of joy, his quiet grays, his wild blues. You wondered if anyone walking past those canvases today would feel it. Would know what it cost him to bare his soul in brushstrokes.

And what it cost you to let it go.

Your mother turned to you in her seat, her hand reaching for yours, gentle.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

You nodded before you even knew if it was true. “Yeah, eomma. I’m fine.”

Your father opened his door, stepping out and stretching a little. “We’ll head in first,” he said, not unkindly. “Give you a moment if you need it.”

You managed a grateful smile. “Thanks, appa.”

The doors shut gently behind them. And for a beat, you were alone in the car, staring at the front doors of a dream made real.

Minho should be here.

That thought burned sudden and sharp and then softened into something acheful and wide. No. If love made ghosts, he’d be here already.

You reached for your bag, tugging out your compact mirror. You checked your eyes, smoothed your mouth, and whispered something into your reflection you didn’t quite hear yourself.

You abode in the stillness of the car for a few more seconds.

The engine long silenced. The peal of your parents’ voices faded into the low thrum of background music filtering through the gallery windows, the kind that belonged to wine glasses and quiet awe. The kind you imagined would play behind moments people would remember long after they forgot the taste of the wine or the exact words said.

You stored at the open doors. Arms stretched out. Yet you couldn't find it in yourself to move.Your fingers fidgeted in your lap, tracing the stitching of your coat. The sleeves of your blouse itched slightly at the wrists where your nerves collected like water pooling before a storm. You weren’t sure why your hands trembled. Maybe it was the anticipation. Maybe it was memory. Whatever it was, you had to brush past it.

You finally opened the door.

The wind greeted you with the breath of spring—soft, cool, perfumed faintly by something blooming just out of sight. The air kissed your cheeks, lifted the ends of your coat, and whispered welcome in a language only the brave know how to answer.

Your boots landed on the pavement. One step after the another. surely you remember the movement. there's only so much a day can take away from you.

The closer you walked to the entrance, the quieter the outside world became. The street behind you faded. The city paused if it could even do that. All you could hear now was the creak of wood beneath your feet as you stepped through the front doors, the soft closing of them behind you.

You found yourself in the hallway.

Long. Polished. Narrow in the way old corridors are. lit warmly with sconces that cast golden glows on textured walls. The murmur of voices came from farther in, down toward the gallery proper. That’s where everyone must be. You imagined them standing in front of the paintings, glasses of wine held loosely, their faces tilted upward in soft admiration, eyes wet in that quiet way art sometimes invited. People standing in front of Minho’s canvases and murmured things like "alive" and "honest" and "brilliant" without ever knowing the sound of his laughter.

But this hallway was empty. Or you thought it was.

You had just reached the halfway point—right where the hallway curved inward—when arms slipped around your waist from behind.

A gasp left you before your body remembered the shape of his.The scent of cedar, lavender soap, and faint varnish clung to him like an afterthought. His arms locked around you with the ease of practice but the fervor of something still new, and for a moment, the world dipped, rearranged itself around this one small plantery motion.

“There you are,” Jungkook murmured, voice rough against your ear.

You turned in his arms, your hands finding the fabric of his shirt like they’d always known how. His sleeves were rolled, just as you imagined, the fine lines of stress still etched around his brow.

His eyes met yours.

And something in your chest loosened.

"Were you looking for me?" you asked quietly.

He replied just as. "I'm always looking for you, angel." There was no flourish in the way he said it. Your breath hitched, a tiniest of movement and Jungkook watched the subtle shift of your expression like a ripple breaking the surface of water.

Gods, he thought, how could he not?

Even now, here, when there was so much else demanding his attention—guests arriving in waves, wine being poured, lights flickering again in the east wing. And still, in every room he walked into, in every face he passed, he found himself searching.

It was ridiculous, really. The way his eyes would scan the corners of the gallery and mistake someone’s hair, the tilt of a shoulder, the sound of your laugh echoing in his head like phantom static. The way his pulse leapt anytime the door opened. The way he felt incomplete if he couldn't place you in the room.

And now you were here. And the world had stitched itself back together.

You didn’t speak at first.

Not because you didn’t want to. But because your heart felt like it was still catching up after it had been walking this hallway too, trying to find its way to him.

“Well, you're the host. I'm sure you must be needed elsewhere too.” you whispered, reaching to smooth the edge of his collar.

Jungkook shook his head gently. “I'm exactly where I want to be.” His hands tightened just slightly at your waist.

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his fingertips lingering just a beat longer than necessary.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Really okay?”

You hesitated, then whispered, “Now I am.”

He held your gaze for another moment, then dipped his head forward, just enough to press his lips to your forehead, his hands resting warm by your side. The world dimmed in that moment—just the two of you, suspended in quiet, his breath a soft punctuation at the crown of your head. But even as warmth bloomed beneath your ribs, there was a tight, pulsing thread of awareness that curled around your spine.

You stole a glance over Jungkook’s shoulder, eyes flickering to the curve of the hallway behind him—the doorway just around the corner where voices hummed, where glasses clinked, where footsteps could echo down the tile at any moment. Anyone could walk past. People with eyes and mouths and memories. Guests who knew your name. Friends of Minho’s. Colleagues. Distant family.

Anyone could turn the corner and see this—see him with you like this, your bodies tucked into each other. Your hand clenched softly into the fabric at his side. The paranoia was subtle, but it was real. It had crept in somewhere between the second kiss and the third hidden touch.

The thought made you tense, just slightly. He felt it.

“Baby.” Jungkook said, voice low, his hand drifting to the small of your back. “It’s just us.”

“Yeah, but…” Your voice trailed, lips brushing the fabric near his collarbone, your fingers curling into the cotton at his chest. “Someone might come.”

His eyes softened, though there was something that tightened at the corners giving way to a flicker of frustration he didn’t bother to hide. Not at you, obviously. He does'nt think he's capable of ever directing that at you. But at the way the world demanded so much of your caution, your retreat.

He leaned in, his nose brushing yours. "I promise. No one will."

The words curled in your ears, low and purposeful, like he’d carved them for just you. His hand slid up your back, a warm, steady line from your waist to your shoulder. You hated that you thought that they kinda do. You hated the need for shadows and how it has been shaping your frustration. How it has been shaping it in a circle so big you couldn’t tell where it started anymore. Only that it kept coming back. That it always ended with your pulse too loud in your ears and your eyes darting over your shoulder. Like what you were committing to didn’t deserve a place in the daylight.

You have also started eliminating even the possibility of the thought that it maybe didn't. Still, the guilt was no longer clean. It was clouded now, smeared at the edges with longing and the slow, terrible truth that what you had with Jungkook didn’t feel borrowed. It didn’t feel like a thing you could press back into a drawer once the moment was gone. It was the impossibility of compartmentalizing love.

Because how do you mourn someone and move toward someone else, all in the same breath? How do you walk through a gallery built from one man’s art only to fall into the arms of the man who framed it all?

It felt like it had grown roots.

And the more you buried it, the more it pulled at you.

You looked at him now—really looked. His brow furrowed slightly, not from worry but from effort. Like he was thinking, measuring, holding back the words that always swam just below the surface when you were this close.

Instead of saying any of the things tugging at the threads of your mouth, you stepped back just enough to feel the air slip between your bodies. Not far. Just enough for your hand to find his.

His fingers curled around yours instinctively. Always ready.

You looked up at him. “Is it crowded in there?”

"A little." He said. "Some of our colleagues. A few critiques."

You nodded again, absorbing that.

"None of them need to matter, yeah?" he added, searching your face, thumb skimming just beneath your eye. His next words were gentler.

You looked up then, caught the sincerity in his eyes, fought the urge to lean into his touch. Managed another nod. "Yeah...Can we stay a minute more?" The latter come out smaller than you would have expected.

“Take your time,” he nodded. "They can all wait."

You didn’t dare think about the look on his face when he had to let go of your fingers fitted around his after you said you were ready. He only offered a squeeze to your fingers and then let go with a kind of quiet reluctance, like pulling his hand out of warm water. The touch lingered, even as you stepped aside to let him lead the way. You rounded the curve of the hallway together, the voices sharpening in clarity now, glass clinking against glass, the soft rustle of shoes on polished tile growing louder until the threshold broke open and the gallery revealed itself in full.

It was no longer the dim, sacred place. It breathed differently now. Alive with soft light and the lull of conversation, with coats slung over arms and programs curled in curious fingers. Warm gold spilled from fixtures in the ceiling, catching on frames that lined the walls like punctuation. Artwork stretching in long, thoughtful rows, each canvas dressed in celebration. Of someone's unfinished story? you doubted it cared.

You stood still for a moment, toes just brushing the edge of the gallery’s threshold, eyes skimming the room as your body remembered how to belong to this space. The floors had been polished to a mirror shine. Glasses reflected in the glass cases. Someone was laughing softly by the front corner near the sculpture series.Others stood near the windows, wine glasses held delicately, murmuring words like “devastating,” “formidable,” “alive.” It wasn’t performative in a sense that you made up in your head. At least not all of it. You recognized a few of them—students, former professors, one woman who had once hosted Minho’s university exhibit and had cried at his brushwork.

You darted your gaze to Jungkook then. The way he walked just ahead of you now, poised and solid in his dark dress shirt and pressed slacks, shoulders straight, head slightly tilted to catch bits of conversation from passing guests. He looked composed. You assumed or you'd like to think so that he only bared his nerves in front of you. As if the man who used to flinch at compliments and pretend his silence was indifference had taught himself to carry meaning with quiet precision.

But then a man stepped into his path. Tall, suited, carrying a drink and the kind of posture that belonged to someone who used the word “impressionist” a little too often. His smile was sharp and familiar, one of Jungkook’s gallery donors or colleagues, you assumed. Maybe from Seoul. Maybe further. Either way, it took only a moment for you to read the shift in Jungkook’s expression—the subtle recalibration of his shoulders.

He turned to you before the man could fully pull him into conversation, fingers brushing your wrist in a barely-there promise. “I won’t be long.”

You nodded, already letting go. “Of course,” you whispered, because it was all you could offer right now, and maybe all he needed.

The man clapped Jungkook on the shoulder and pulled him aside, voice too loud and smile too bright. You watched them for half a moment—Jungkook answering politely, gaze flickering every so often in your direction like a thread trying not to fray before you eased yourself into the soft tide of the room, letting the current pull you away.

You moved carefully, politely. Like someone trying not to be noticed but still present enough not to be rude. You paused by a small table draped in navy linen, where empty glasses sat beside a quiet arrangement of baby’s breath and ranunculus. Someone offered you a flute of sparkling wine, and you accepted with a quiet smile.

You turned toward one of the walls, drawn in by a piece you hadn’t seen before; one of the mid-sized ones, full of green and amber and soft streaks of silver. The color didn’t move, it shimmered. Softly. Like someone had taken the feeling of being loved quietly and turned it into oil and canvas.

The placard below it simply read:

“Until Then.”

Minho’s signature curled in the corner, the same familiar scrawl you’d once watched him sign onto birthday cards and tax forms and the back of the fridge note that read don’t drink the milk, I’m trying to paint with it.

You had just rounded the sculpture wing—Minho’s smallest works, done in smoothed resin and wire, quiet things that bloomed under light like secrets left in the sun—when you spotted her.

Your mother, standing near the northern alcove, a glass of wine untouched in her hand, fingers curled gently around the stem like she was trying not to leave prints. She looked beautiful beneath the high arch of the window, her coat tucked neatly at her elbow, hair pinned like it always had been like she hadn’t aged a day past the first time she walked into your kindergarten recital.

You slipped beside her, your hand brushing her arm in greeting.

“Hey,” you said quietly.

She turned, her face lighting up with that familiar mix of joy and worry, the kind only a mother could balance so well. “Here you are. I was wondering if you’d gotten swallowed by the hallway.”

“Almost,” you said, managing a faint smile. “But I escaped.”

"where's dad?" you added. 'making friends I think."

Before you could respond, a familiar voice laced into the air from behind.

"Found you."

Mrs. Jeon stood a few feet away, her posture regal even beneath the soft, flattering lights. She wore navy silk—understated but elegant—and her hair was pinned in place with simple pearl combs. Always the portrait of grace, always the kind of woman who held her sorrow like a folded note in the corner of her purse: private, creased, but always within reach. of her, atleast.

Her smile, though, was real. It warmed as she drew nearer.

"Mom." You muttered in muscle memory.“I was hoping to catch you before the crowd did,” she said, pulling you in for a quick, maternal sort of hug. “You look lovely.”

“So do you,” you said honestly, letting yourself be held for the brief second she allowed.

"You look exactly the same, you witch. Do you age backwards?”

Mrs. Jeon turned at the sound of the voice she hadn’t heard in a while—one that still carried the same quiet humor, tinged with a touch of fond exasperation. Her eyes widened slightly before softening, and her expression brightened into something looser, something more like the woman she might’ve been before grief gave her bones new weight.

“Oh, look who’s talking,” she replied with a smile, already moving forward. “Still glowing like you’ve got a secret no one else knows.”

Your mother laughed as they embraced, arms curling gently around each other’s shoulders in a way that spoke of familiarity—of years stitched loosely together with holiday dinners and shared glances from opposite ends of the table.

“It’s been so long,” your mother murmured as they pulled apart. “I’m sorry it took something like this.”

Mrs. Jeon shook her head, brushing it off with a small wave of her hand. “Don’t be. You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

"It's been a long time still. When was even the last time we saw each other properly?"

Mrs. Jeon tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “Hmm—wait, there was that awful fundraiser for the community garden. The one where everyone got food poisoning from the shrimp cocktail.”

Your mother gasped. “That’s right! I completely forgot about that.” Her eyes glittered with the memory. The laugh that followed was lighter than you expected it to be. “We left early and went to get hotteok from that little cart in the alley.”

“We did,” Mrs. Jeon smiled, and something softened in her gaze, her fingers brushing absently over the pearl comb in her hair. “You know, I don’t think I’ve had hotteok since.”

For a moment, it was easy to forget the reason for this gathering. Easy to forget the weight of what this day had always meant.

These were two women who had held time in their hands and offered it gently to each other across decades. You saw it now, plain as anything—in the crinkle of their eyes, in their voices when they leaned closer, speaking not just as in-laws, but as women who had once, maybe still, shared the same kind of heartbreak no parent should have to.

“Has he come?” your mother asked softly, her tone shifting as she scanned the room briefly, no longer talking about students or fashion or time but of something more specific.

Mrs. Jeon’s expression softened, her posture stilling in that way you’d learned to recognize—when something trembled just beneath the grace. She shook her head once. "No." she said, smoothing her hand down the front of her skirt. “He wanted to come. Really, he did. But I guess he had to sit this one out." She passed you a apologetic look and you nodded in reassurance.

Your mother didn’t press either. She simply nodded, and her hand found Mrs. Jeon’s again—a squeeze, not meant to comfort so much as to acknowledge. To say, I know.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she added, turning to you, her hand squeezing your elbow briefly. “I know today couldn’t have been easy.”

"Makes the two of us, mom." You said with crinkle of your eye that earned a acknowledging smile from her.

Reaching out to adjust the collar of your coat like it was second nature, she added. “He’d be proud of you, you know. Both of you.”

You didn’t trust yourself to respond to that with anything other than a quiet, "I hope so."

She let out a breath, slow and steady. “Oh, my dear. He would.”

And then, like all good women who’ve loved and lost and laughed too hard in small corners of too-large rooms, they both smiled again.

Then Mrs. Jeon tucked her arm into your mother’s. “Come on,” she said with a small lift of her chin. “You’ve got to tell me where you found that skirt. And I need wine before I start tearing up in front of a painting again.”

"Oh I've been out of loop for years. I've got to." Your mother said and offered a hand to you. "Would you like to join us, love?"

“You should.I have stories,” Mrs. Jeon promised, and you smiled. "You two should go. I'm gonna look around a bit and try to find Mira. She's here, right?"

“Oh, I saw her by the impressionist wall earlier,” Mrs. Jeon said, glancing over her shoulder. “She looked like she was interrogating someone about varnish techniques.”

“That sounds about right,” you replied with a smile. “I’ll catch up with you both in a bit.”

They nodded, already slipping back into their quiet conversation, and you watched the two of them disappear into the soft murmur of the gallery, heads tilted together like old friends caught mid-thread. You turned then, letting yourself exhale fully for what felt like the first time since you stepped through the door.

A cello murmured somewhere over the speakers, curling between the talking here and there, and the lights glowed honey-gold against the soft canvas walls. Every corner of the room breathed with pigment. you could'nt stop noticing that.

You wandered.

Your boots tread lightly over the polished floor, hands tucked loosely in front of you, eyes scanning the crowd—pausing now and then at paintings you remembered in their messier stages: taped along the kitchen wall, hanging crooked behind your sofa, still smelling of linseed and dust. It was surreal, this setting—so curated, so clean—when you remembered the life that birthed the art was anything but.

You caught a flash of Mira’s hair through the crowd, that soft copper tone that always helped you find her in a room. You lifted a hand slightly, already beginning to weave your way toward her. But before you could call out or lift a hand in greeting, someone stepped into your periphery.

“Excuse me—are you…?”

The voice was tentative, warm with a kind of hesitant reverence. You turned, expecting perhaps one of the donors or a distant family friend, only to find a young man—tall, soft-eyed, and maybe just a little older than Minho had been when he first started teaching.

He looked vaguely familiar, though you couldn’t place him immediately. He stood with a kind of earnestness that was hard to fake, his hands clasped in front of him, suit slightly rumpled like he’d run here from the train.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, offering an apologetic smile. “You probably don’t remember me. I was one of...uh..your husband's students.”

Something gentle shifted in your chest.

“I… didn’t want to intrude,” he added. “But when I saw you, I thought—well, I hoped I could say hello.”

Your throat tightened. You tilted your head and smiled softly, gesturing toward a nearby bench nestled between two hanging pieces—one of them a landscape Minho had once painted after a rainy drive through the mountains. “You’re not intruding,” you said. “Do you wanna sit?"

He seemed almost surprised at the offer, but nodded. You watched him ease into the seat beside you, clearly trying not to take up too much space.

“What’s your name?” you asked gently.

“Jihoon,” he said. “Lee Jihoon. I took one of his electives in my final year. Painting, beginner’s level. I was…awful at it.”

You laughed quietly, a real sound. “He’d argue there’s no such thing.”

“That’s exactly what he used to say.” Jihoon grinned. “Said ‘awful’ just meant you had somewhere to go. I always remembered that.”

There was a pause, full but comfortable.

“I didn’t really know him that well,” Jihoon admitted, his voice softening. “But he remembered my name. Every single week. Asked about my projects. My mood. Even told me once that the colors I picked made him think I saw the world kindly.”

You blinked.

“Not a lot of people say things like that,” Jihoon murmured. “Especially to someone like me. I was a chemistry major—out of place, anxious, tired. Had no idea what I was doing with my life. Until I came across his class, of course."

“That’s so beautiful, Jihoon." you said, the words catching slightly on the edge of your breath. “He always did have a gift for reminding people of their light.”

Jihoon nodded. “I don’t paint anymore. But I kept the last thing I made in that class. Just a mess of color on canvas, really. But sometimes I look at it and think—he saw something in it I didn’t.”

You smiled, blinking against the warmth flooding your eyes. “He had a habit of doing that.”

Another beat passed. The murmur of the gallery swelled around you like background music scored too gently for something so profound.

Jihoon looked over at you, his expression shifting into something fragile, more careful. “I’m really glad I got to meet you,” he said. “I don’t think he ever stopped talking about you in that class. Said if we ever wanted to get him any snacks, bring lemon bars." His face lit up with a quiet smile. “He said you liked lemon better than chocolate.”

You nodded, stunned by how clear the memory was now that it had been stirred. “I did.”

“Still do?”

You lifted a shoulder, the corner of your mouth tilting upward. “Some things never change.”

Jihoon smiled at that—wide and boyish. "That's nice to know." It was gentle, the way his presence sat beside you—like he wasn’t just honoring Minho, but also everything that had grown from knowing him.

Then Jihoon exhaled, slow and almost awed, eyes drifting back across the expanse of the gallery, gaze moving reverently from frame to frame, like each canvas demanded a certain kind of silence. “This gallery… it’s really something. And it’s a beautiful thing you’ve done, putting this together.”

Your heart flinched at that—touched, yes, but instinctively you shook your head.

“Oh—no. It wasn’t me.” You paused, glancing toward the crowd again. Your gaze moved past familiar faces, past wine glasses and framed brushstrokes, until it landed on the person you had, without realizing, been looking for since Jihoon sat down.

He stood just a few feet away, near the long window where the light curved in golden arcs across the floor. He was finishing a quiet exchange with someone in a charcoal suit—one of the critics, you guessed, or perhaps a gallery curator. His posture was easy but alert, as if one part of him remained in every corner of the room at once. His sleeves were still rolled, his collar slightly unbuttoned, and you could tell just by the slight shift of his brow that he was already scanning the crowd for you again.

Of course he was.

You raised a hand and waved, catching his eye. His face lit up—not in a bright, extravagant way, but in the way only people who’d been waiting to breathe could look when they finally did.

He made his way over without hesitation.

You turned back to Jihoon as Jungkook approached, gesturing gently. “That’s who did this,” you said. “That’s Minho’s younger brother. Jeon Jungkook. He’s the one who made all this happen.”

Jihoon blinked, clearly surprised. “That’s his brother? I didn’t know he had one.”

“Not many did,” you murmured. “They were close. Complicated. But close.”

Jungkook reached your side just then, eyes flicking briefly from you to Jihoon before settling somewhere in between—calm, but attentive.

“Hey,” he said to you, his voice a quiet tether. "Everything okay?"

You smiled. “Yeah. Jungkook, this is Jihoon."

Jihoon stood up immediately, offering his hand. “Lee Jihoon, sir. I was one of Minho’s students—back in my undergrad days.”

Jungkook took the hand, gave it a firm shake. “Nice to meet you, Jihoon. I'm Jungkook."

“You too. I was just telling ma'am…” Jihoon glanced toward the paintings on the wall, his expression shifting to something a little more awed, a little more raw. “This place is really special. You’ve honored him in a way that… well, I think he would’ve loved it.”

Jungkook’s jaw tensed almost imperceptibly, but his nod was deep. “He gave us so much,” he said. “This was just… the least I could do. Thank you for coming."

You watched as they stood there, just the two of them for a moment—two people connected only through love for the same person. Different kinds of love. Different shapes. But still, deeply rooted in retention, in ache, in admiration.

Jihoon dwelled for a moment after the handshake, shifting slightly from foot to foot like there was something else he was holding on to, something not yet said. His eyes moved once more over the room—past the guests murmuring quietly before landscapes of borrowed light and rain-drenched rooftops, past the gleam of gallery sconces and the soft ripple of music weaving beneath it all. Then he turned back to you, gaze steadied by something freshly lit.

“Would it be alright,” he asked, voice tentative, “if we—if someone made a toast?”

You blinked at him, surprised.

Jihoon cleared his throat, not quite sheepish, but aware of the weight of what he was suggesting. “I know it’s not that kind of event,” he continued, “and maybe this is out of turn, but… it just feels like we should. I mean—everyone here came because they loved him. Or learned from him. Or knew someone who did. I feel like he deserves that much.”

You were quiet a moment, absorbing that. Your fingers brushed against the hem of your sleeve. Behind you, Jungkook stayed still, close but not pushing. Letting you hold this decision.

Then you smiled—softly, achingly—and looked to Jihoon. “I think he would’ve liked that.”

Jihoon let out a small breath, and for the first time since he introduced himself, his shoulders eased.

Jungkook stepped in then, his voice low as he looked between you both. “Let me get someone to quiet the room.” His hand grazed your lower back briefly before disappearing again as he made his way toward the center of the gallery, where the natural dip in sound could be coaxed into pause.

You and Jihoon watched him go.

Jihoon straightened, cheeks slightly flushed, suddenly shy. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to overstep. It was just a thought.”

“You didn’t,” you said quickly, reaching to squeeze his wrist with a gentle, grateful hand. “It was a good one.”

The lights dimmed ever so slightly in a way that pulled attention without demanding it. Conversations tapered. A curator tapped gently against the side of her glass. Heads turned.

Jihoon glanced at you again, seeking silent permission.

You gave a small nod.

And then he stepped forward, clearing his throat once. “Hi,” he said, voice steadier than you’d expected. “Sorry to interrupt.”

The small squleche that followed was expectant—not cold. Rather, waiting.

“My name’s Jihoon,” he continued, “and I was one of Professor Jeon’s students. I didn’t know him as well as some of you might have. But I think—I think that’s what made him so special. You didn’t have to know him long to feel like you did.”

A few murmurs of agreement. A rustle of someone dabbing their eye with a tissue.

“He taught one class,” Jihoon said, “and I carried the things he said with me for years after. He made you believe you were capable of softness. Of seeing the world differently. Of being part of something even when you didn’t feel like you belonged anywhere.”

You pressed your fingers lightly to your lips, blinking against the sudden sting at the corners of your eyes.

Jihoon looked down, then back up again. “So if no one minds, I’d like to raise a glass. To Professor Jeon Minho. For all the ways he made us see color in places we didn’t know to look.”

There was a quiet chorus of glasses being lifted.

“To Minho,” Jihoon said.

“To Minho,” came the soft, scattered reply.

There was a sereness after Jihoon’s final words. Not silence, exactly—but the kind of quiet that settles after something sacred has been said aloud. For one suspended moment, all you could hear was the soft creak of someone adjusting their stance, the distant clink of a glass set gently onto a tray. A man nodded solemnly, his gaze fixed on the frame nearest him—one of the softer pieces, all dusk and ripple.

And Jihoon just stood there, blinking slowly, like he was still surfacing from whatever place inside him those words had come from. And when he turned toward you, there was something unreadable in his expression. Not pressure. Not expectation.

Just… offering.

He held it out—gentle, like it might break if he wasn’t careful.

“Would you…?” he asked, voice low. “I mean—you don’t have to. But if anyone should…”

Your breath left you all at once.

A soft, dizzying rush.

As if the floor tilted beneath your shoes, and suddenly you were thirteen again, being called up to the front of a school assembly. Your palms itched. The back of your knees tensed. Your first instinct—your strongest—was to shake your head. To step away. To dissolve into the crowd and pretend you were just another guest, just another echo of Minho’s story, not the one who shared the ending.

You hadn’t spoken about him like this. Not out loud. Not in public. Not since—

Not since the funeral.

And even then, the words had been written on a crumpled sheet of notebook paper you never managed to unfold.

You swallowed, blinking past the sudden blur in your vision.

The gallery was full. Packed. Shoulders bumped. Wine was held, not sipped. People who knew you only in tangents were watching now—waiting, not rudely, but with a kind of esteem that made the room feel tighter than it was. Their gazes weren't demanding. But they were present. And that was somehow worse.

Your feet didn’t move.

Your spine stiffened instinctively, not out of pride, but fear. Fear that your mouth would open and nothing would come out. That your voice would catch on the years you spent trying to say his name without crumbling. That they would all look at you and see not a woman still grieving—but a woman trying too hard to prove she still was.

Jihoon seemed to realize it too late.

His hand faltered slightly, his brows lifting in the smallest, guilty apology.

You inhaled through your nose, sharp and steady, the sound of your own breath loud in your ears. Your heart was racing. Thundering. The edges of the room blurred just slightly, like the light had leaned in too far.

This wasn’t how you imagined tonight.

You didn’t imagine standing beneath spotlights with every gaze tipped toward you like glass waiting to crack. You didn’t imagine saying Minho's name aloud in a room full of strangers who only knew the brushstrokes, not the man.

He was yours once. That memory still felt private. Sacred. Could you really put it on display like this? Wasn’t the art enough?

Your eyes darted to the floor. To your palms. To anything but the sudden attention.

And you thought—how does one speak about a person who once turned their love into art and left you with the aftermath of their absence? How does a person speak of someone who still walks the halls of their memory like the floorboards remember his weight?

But eventually, the words would come. And they would be something like: Tentative. Threadbare. But real.

“Hi,” you'd say the word small, too soft for the space at first. You cleared your throat gently. “Um. Sorry. I—I wasn’t planning to speak tonight.”

That would get a quiet laugh from someone.

“Minho wasn’t someone you really planned things with, either,” you'd add, your lips pulling into the barest shape of a smile. “He was… spontaneous. Kind of a whirlwind, honestly. He’d forget his keys three days in a row, but remember a stranger’s birthday after overhearing it in a coffee shop.”

The room would shift slightly—leaning in.

You took a breath. Let it settle.

“My husband wasn’t just a man who painted,” you said. “He was someone who watched the world the way some people listen to music. Closely. Devotionally. He noticed things most people didn't. Messy things. Especially those, I think."

You'd managed a laugh, more breath than sound. And you'd admit, for the first time out loud that grief is messy. It’s changed shape every day. Some days it’s a stone. Some days it’s a fog. Some days it’s a balloon with a string you can’t catch.

You'd pause and you'd tell yourself it's obviously not for dramatic effect. "But tonight is different. Because of all of you. Because you came."

You looked out then, gaze landing softly on Jihoon, on your mother, on Mira’s coppery hair now stilled in the far corner. You saw faces that had once lived only on the edges of memory, now lit by gallery lamps and the weight of shared knowing.

Your eyes, though painted a picture perfect of one man alone in the crown. Found comfort when they found him only.

Standing just behind the crowd now. His hands folded calmly. His head tilted, watching you like you were the only voice in the world. And maybe, for him, you were.

"And this was possible only because of one person."

Your voice would shake—just a little. But not from fear now.

“This was made possible by someone who loved him too. Someone who saw what he meant, not just to me, but to the world. Someone who held my hand when I thought I’d never feel anything but the absence. Someone who…” A unconscious smike would tug at your lips—tired, grateful, breaking gently at the edges. “Who also happens to be my boyfriend.”

And that's the thing about adrenaline.

"Thank you, Jungkook."

Or maybe it was longing, maybe it was just exhaustion wearing a braver face. Maybe it was the ache of having stood on a ledge for so long that when your foot finally moved forward, you mistook the fall for flight.

You didn’t mean to say it.

It had curled out of your mouth before you even registered the gravity of it, like a word said often in thought but never aloud. A word with teeth and color and something terrifyingly irreversible to it. A word that had lived only in backseat glances and unspoken tendernesses, in private touches and the quietness of shared nights.

And for a moment, everything inside of you would go still.

You'd wait—rigid, breath tucked in your chest—for the ripple of it. For someone to count the months, do the math, raise an invisible hand and say what you’ve been saying to yourself every night. The inevitable shift. The stiffened gazes. The whisper sliding across someone’s tongue like a question dressed up in disapproval before they decided how to create into the dirtiest scandle.

No collective sound of gasps would come but the silence would skin you down anyways. It would echo in your blood like something impossible to take back, something that forced you to run from everyone.

You locked the stall door behind you with trembling fingers.

The click of the latch echoed too loudly in the tiled silence, as if the world wanted you to know—yes, you were alone now. Yes, you had done that. Yes, you had said it. Out loud. In a room full of Minho's memories and the people who used to call you his.

You braced your hands against the walls of the stall, palms flat against the cold tile, eyes squeezed shut.

Your breath came shallow.

God.

You were so stupid.

It played again in your head—your voice, too soft and yet entirely too clear, threading through the quell of the gallery like silk cut on glass.

Boyfriend.

You had said boyfriend.

You had said Jungkook’s name and attached boyfriend.

And though none of the terrible things you thought in your head made it out loud, silence, when it’s thick enough, is just another kind of thunder. And now it was echoing between your ribs like a bell toll.

You sank down onto the toilet lid, coat bunched beneath you, elbows on knees, forehead in your hands. Your fingers against your temples like you could keep the shame from spilling further down your face.

What had you done?

You could still feel the phantom warmth of the spotlight on your face. The taste of exhilaration clung to the back of your tongue, sharp and coppery, like you’d bitten into a secret and couldn’t spit it out fast enough.

Why hadn’t you stopped yourself?

Knowing everyone who had been there. Your parents were probably standing near the back, holding a flute of wine with both hands like they always did when trying not to look worried. fingers curled too tight, probably, lips pursesd in a expression you would recognize too well.

And Mrs. Jeon. God.

What must she be thinking?

You had loved her son. Loved him through every phase of boyhood and manhood and married years. You’d sat across from her at too many dinners to count, brought her lemon cakes on Sundays, once helped her fix her shoe in the middle of the grocery store.

And now she’d watched you turn toward the brother. Heard you name him something tender. Watched you stitch that word between your anguish and your present like you hadn’t torn anything in the process.

You had handled it fine up until then. You’d spoken about Minho. You had kept your voice steady, even when your hands had trembled. You had said the hard things—the soft things. The beautiful things. But that one word had been too much. Too fast. Too soon.

Why did you always go too far when it came to him?

And worse—why hadn’t he stopped you?

Why hadn’t he looked away when you’d looked at him?

Why had he stood there, taking it, breathing it, accepting the title like he’d been waiting for it all along?

You had thrown him into the light. You’d stepped outside the one rule you’d both kept tucked beneath your skin since this thing started.

You were so stupid.

You'd undone months of silence in one breath.

And you hated yourself for the part of you that didn't want to take it back.

Because that was the cruelest truth tucked beneath your chagrin. The real reason your stomach twisted and your heart beat so wildly it felt bruised from the inside out that maybe you hadn’t meant to say it. But you had meant it.

And now you couldn’t hide from either.

Did they think you moved on too quickly?

That you had let love grow again in the ruins?

You had wanted so badly for tonight to be about Minho.

About the way he painted loneliness like it was light filtering through stained glass. About the way he had lived—not just the way he had left.

And instead, you had made it about yourself.

About you and Jungkook and the impossible thing that bloomed between the wreckage.

You could already imagine it. The murmurs. Soft as oil and sharp as glass.

“Did you know?”

“So soon?”

“Well, he was her brother-in-law…”

Your hands curled into fists against your knees. You hated that you could hear them before they spoke. Hated even more that a part of you feared they were right. That some version of yourself had always been selfish enough to want to be held again, even if it came in a contours you weren’t supposed to take comfort in.

Even if it wore your husband’s last name.

You pressed your forehead to your palms and breathed in through your nose, sharp and careful.

You didn’t know how longer it would take for your breath to even out or more importantly, how long will it before you find the courage to step inside, face everyone.

Time slowed in the tile-slick silence. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears, thudding out some rhythm of regret. Beneath the thin fabric of your blouse, sweat cooled over your spine, a second skin of discomfort. Your coat, wrinkled beneath you, smelled faintly of rosewater and nerves.

You stared at the hinge of the stall door like it might open on its own. Like someone would find you here and drag you gently into sense, or kindness, or forgetting.

But no one did.

Not for a while.

Not till there was a knock.

You froze instantly.

Just one. Light. Then another, softer this time, like maybe they realized what this was. A retreat. A rupture even.

You opened your mouth, voice caught in the wires of your throat, about to say—occupied—or sorry—or please go—but the voice that came next was not one you expected.

“Sweetheart?”

You blinked.

Your spine went taut, then loose, as if the air itself sighed through your bones. You pressed your palms flat against the stall wall again, steadying yourself against the name.

Not Jungkook’s. Not your mother’s.

Mrs Jeon. Oh Jesus.

You closed your eyes.

Her voice didn’t come again, but you heard the gentle scuff of her heel shift just once, as if she didn’t need to knock again. As if she already knew you were on the other side, already knew what you were doing in there. As if she had once stood exactly where you were, though not in a gallery bathroom, not in navy silk, but somewhere private and full of guilt of her own.

She didn’t rush you.

Didn’t tap her fingers against the wood or call your name again like some well-meaning warning.

Just asked for confirmation. "Are you in there?"

You lowered your hands slowly, tears unshed but dangerously close, and stared at the small strip of her shadow beneath the stall.

You wanted to bolt.

You wanted to speak.

You wanted to rewind time.

Instead you dared again and answered. "Yes."

Your voice ragged and small cracked through the silence like a thread fraying loose again.

“…Did you hear it?”

There was a long pause.

“Yes.”

Your stomach flipped.

Another breath drew.

“Do you think less of me now?”

It took her a moment. But when she answered, it was without hesitation.

“No.”

She didn’t say it’s okay. She didn’t say I understand. She didn’t reach for platitudes or soft versions of a dejection you both carried like broken mirrors. She simply answered what you’d asked. Somehow that was what made your throat cave in.

“I was twenty-four,” she said, almost conversationally. “When I said something like that."

You blinked.

“It was a dinner party. The first one I attended. I said it too easily. Laughed like it meant nothing. But it did.”

Another pause. Then:

“I threw up in the bathroom afterward. Swore I’d never go to another dinner again.”

You felt your lips twitch—wet with something like a laugh, but broken at the edges.

“Did you go to another one?”

She hummed softly. “Eventually. You do things again. Not because you stop feeling, but because feeling changes. Becomes something you live with, not something you live inside.”

The silence that followed didn’t hurt the same way anymore.

When she spoke again, her voice was nearer to the door, like she had leaned just slightly in.

“Come out when you’re ready, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

Then her heels clicked softly against the tile, retreating with the same grace she always wore.

And for the first time since stepping into the bathroom, your breath moved all the way through your chest.

You weren’t sure how long you sat there after her footsteps faded.

A minute? Five? The kind of silence that doesn't tick, but swells. It filled the corners of the room, the hollow just beneath your ribs. You listened to it. To your breathing. To the subtle shift of water in the pipes behind the wall. You focused on the small things, the mundane ones—just long enough to believe the larger ones might not crush you once you stood.

Eventually, your knees cracked softly as you rose.

Your coat shifted around your hips. Your hands reached for the lock. A breath before the click. Another after. You opened the door slowly, stepped into the stillness of the restroom like someone learning how to inhabit her own skin again.

The light outside the stall was unforgiving, but Mrs. Jeon was not.

She stood a few steps away, hands folded gently in front of her, her shoulders soft with patience. And when her eyes met yours, she didn’t search your face for shame or answers.

She only opened her arms.

And you stepped in like a child too old to be held, but still needing to be.

The smell of her perfume—something floral and faintly spiced—wrapped around you like memory. Her arms didn’t grip. They gathered. And somehow, the simple weight of that embrace unspooled something inside your chest that panic hadn’t quite broken yet.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean any of it. I swear, I was trying so hard to be careful. I know how it must look. I know—”

She pulled back just enough to see your face, her hands still resting on your arms.

“Honey,” she said, voice quiet, eyes impossibly kind, “you’re talking like you’ve committed a crime.”

You flinched. “But I—God, I've been keeping this from you and everyone for so long. That doesn't feel fair."

“People who already knew,” she said gently.

You blinked. “What?”

She gave you a look—dry, fond, just the tiniest bit wry. “Darling, please. You think none of us noticed the way my son looks at you like he’s one second away from his heart bursting?” She squeezed your arms. “You said it. That’s all. You didn’t invent it tonight.”

You bit your lip. Shook your head like it might keep the tears from cresting again. “I thought I heard someone say something. A woman—by the back wall. She said something like… like it didn’t take me long.”

“Oh, that,” Mrs. Jeon said lightly, brushing your hair back as if to say not worth it. “You mean the one in the red shawl with the loud opinions and the knockoff purse?”

You blinked, stunned by the precision.

“She said something awful,” you whispered.

“I’m sure she did,” she said. “Right before Jungkook told her if she so much as muttered another syllable in his girlfriend's direction he’d personally make sure her husband’s antique store on Fifth lost its foot traffic forever.”

Your mouth parted. “He—what?”

Mrs. Jeon gave an elegant shrug, smoothing the sleeve of her jacket. “He was polite about it. But it was... unmistakable.”

You blinked again, and the breath that escaped you was half-laugh, half-sob. “Of course he did.”

“He’s terribly protective,” she said, glancing at you with a smile that was a little too knowing. “Gets that from his mother.”

It took you a moment to laugh—really laugh—but when you did, it broke through like sunlight behind thunderclouds.

“I just… I don’t want people to think I forgot Minho.”

She tilted her head, her hand coming up to smooth your hair behind your ear. “Sweetheart. No one who’s ever known you could think that. Least of all me.”

You looked down, voice low. “I didn’t want tonight to be about me.”

“It wasn’t.”

You met her eyes.

"What about my parents?" you asked quietly, your voice catching on the question like it had been waiting there all along. “Did they look mad? Disappointed?”

Mrs. Jeon gave a soft sigh, the kind that came from years of reading rooms, faces, silences. Her hand smoothed down your arm like she was pressing a wrinkle from cloth, calming you in increments.

“They’re planning to talk to Jungkook,” she said simply, brushing invisible lint from your shoulder. "Having a word with him, to be exact."

Your breath caught. “Oh god.”

Mrs. Jeon gave a small, amused shake of her head. “Don’t worry. I'm sure they're just making sure he treats their daughter right." She paused. “They’re not angry. I promise you that. A little surprised, perhaps. But not angry. No one's angry with you."

She staryed again.“I told her I’d beat her to it,” she said simply. “Can’t have him thinking he’s off the hook just because he's all grown up in a suit."

Your mouth opened, then closed. “You’re serious.”

“As a heart attack.”

You nodded slowly, absorbing it, but your hands still clutched the edge of the sink like they needed something real to tether you.

A silence passed between you, then two. You tried to swallow the knot forming at the base of your throat, but it was impossible to hide the flush rising in your cheeks. Your voice came small, hesitant. “You’re… really okay with this?”

Mrs. Jeon looked at you in that particular way only someone who’d known you through every winter and every spring could. She reached forward and took your hand. Held it firmly.

“You tell me something,” she said, and her voice was quieter now, careful in the way it stepped into the softest parts of you. “Are you happy?”

Your eyes met hers.

The word hovered in your chest, terrified and blooming all at once.

You bit your lip, shoulders curling in, and nodded—small at first, then a little more certain. “Yes,” you whispered.

Mrs. Jeon let out a slow breath, like she’d been waiting to hear it for longer than she let on.

“Then that’s all that matters.”

You looked at her, eyes glassy.

“It was about time,” she said, smoothing a strand of hair away from your face again. “About time you finally put that poor boy out of his misery.”

You groaned in exasperation. "Mom!"

She laughed, not cruelly, but full of something knowing and warm. "What? Not my fault he was so obvious before he even knew how to spell your name properly.”

You smiled again. Free and a little stunned by how light your chest suddenly felt.

“Come on,” she said, smoothing her skirt with one hand and tugging your arm with the other. “Let’s go rescue him from whatever emotional purgatory he’s pacing through in that hallway.”

You let her pull you forward but you don’t get to rescue your boyfriend. You're rather met with a very heartbroken Mira who demands answers and pulls you away before you can even get the chance too.

She stepped back, pulled out her phone, and dialed with the urgency of a 911 operator.

“Hobi?” she said when the line picked up. “Yeah, hi, I know you’re probably making out with your date or something, but this is an emergency.”

You blinked. “What are you doing?”

She gave you a look. “You said you needed a drink, right?”

“…I did, but—”

“Well then.” She turned slightly away. “You’re not going back anywhere tonight until you explain everything to me in the proper setting, which is clearly a bar with sticky menu. Hobi? Yeah. Bring your wallet."

You watched her hang up and start marching toward the coat check like a woman with a mission. And you followed because this was the girl who’d held your hair back and fed you soup in silence the first week after Minho died. The one who knew when to fight, when to joke, and exactly when to say nothing at all.

The bar Mira chose was exactly what you needed and absolutely what she promised: questionable neon signage, vinyl booths held together with decades of duct tape and bad decisions, and a jukebox that alternated between early 2000s heartbreak anthems and ABBA on repeat. The air smelled like lemon-scented cleaner that didn’t quite mask the ghost of spilled beer, and the lighting was so dim you could’ve sworn everyone wore built-in Instagram filters.

You slid into the corner booth, coat still damp from the walk over, cheeks raw from wind and embarrassment, and Mira slid in across from you like she was preparing for a high-stakes interrogation.

Hoseok arrived moments later, hair wind-swept and cheeks pink from the cold, looking far too good to be in a place with this much wallpaper peeling off the walls. He dropped into the booth beside Mira with the chaotic energy of someone who had just abandoned a very flirty date and wasn't over it.

“Boyfriend?" he said in lieu of hello. "Why am I not suprised that Mr firm hands is the boyfriend?"

You gave him a look. “Are you… judging me?”

“Oh no,” he said, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Not judging. Just trying to understand how I didn’t know this was happening.”

“You were busy dating someone named Seulgi who calls you ‘sunbeam’ and posts about her salads on Instagram,” Mira shot back, flagging down a waiter with a sharp flick of her fingers. “Now respectfully shut up and let her talk.”

You stared down at the menu, even though it was mostly beer stains and crossed-out prices. Mira reached over and gently pulled it from your hands. “You don’t need this. You need fries, something fried, and probably a little tequila.”

“Tequila?” you murmured.

“Don’t argue with the doctor,” Hoseok added, even though Mira was most definitely not a doctor.

The drinks arrived fast—too fast, which meant they were going to taste like regret—and a bowl of over-salted fries landed in the middle of the table with a satisfying clatter.

You sipped your drink slowly, felt the warmth of it bloom at the back of your throat, and only then let yourself exhale.

“It wasn’t—God, it wasn’t like that,” you said, palms out now, defensive and pleading all at once. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you. It just happened. And then it kept happening. And then suddenly it felt like telling anyone would break it. Ruin everything.”

Mira stared at you, all righteous betrayal and mascara-smudged emotion. Her voice cracked just a little when she said, “But me?”

You let out a shaky exhale, your voice breaking into something small, something that couldn’t be smooth no matter how you tried. “I didn’t not trust you. Please don’t think that. I was scared.”

“Scared of me?”

“No,” you said softly, “of saying it out loud. Sorry, it sounds pitiful."

Mira studied you for a long breath. Then, like she’d squeezed all the anger out of her in one long sigh, she deflated a little. She still looked hurt, but her eyes softened.

“I should’ve told you,” you said quietly. “I just didn’t know how.”

She stared at you for a long moment, then slid her glass aside and reached across the table. “I’m still mad,” she said, “but I love you. And I’m glad you didn’t end up in a fling with those dates they used to send you on. Yikes! At least you picked Jungkook. Who clearly worships the ground you walk on.”

“Oh, I bet.” Hoseok added, “don't know him much but oh, I bet."

You winced or flushed but you wouldn't like to use that word. “That’s not—”

“He does,” Mira said, crossing her arms. “He did. Everyone saw it. Except you, apparently. Until now.”

“look,” you said defensively. “I just… I didn’t think it’d become anything.”

Mira made a sound that was equal parts sympathy and exasperation. “Yoongi told me years ago,” she said, picking up a mozzarella stick and pointing it at you like a weapon. “Said something like, ‘Your friend’s maybe as oblivious as she pretends. But my cousin’s a lost cause.’”

"Your husband speaks?" Hoseok snorted into his glass.

That earned him a punch to the side. He groaned so dramtically the five people in the space turned around. You wrapped your fingers around the base of your glass and stared into the fizzing surface. God, you loved them.

“I just didn’t want it to look like I was replacing him,” you murmured, not looking up. “Minho.”

Mira’s teasing stilled. Hoseok’s posture softened.

“You’re not,” Mira said, and her voice was quieter now. “And anyone who thinks you are can choke on their free gallery wine.”

“I’m serious,” you said, twisting the glass between your hands.

Mira tilted her head, one of her hands coming to rest gently over yours. "So am I. I almost dropped my canape when you said it. I even grabbed the old lady next to me.”

"That sounds very serious." Hoseok expressed.

You laughed, reluctantly. “I’m glad,” Mira said, serious again. “Even if I hate that you didn’t tell me, and I will absolutely be holding it over your head until the day we die. I’m glad. Because you’re here. Laughing. Smiling."

You reached for a napkin and dabbed at your eyes. “Thanks.”

And after that—after the napkin had soaked up the last streak of guilt, after Mira’s hand squeezed yours a little tighter, and Hoseok slid a second shot glass in your direction with all the pomp of a coronation—the night began to dissolve in that peculiar, beautiful way nights do when something heavy has been named and nobody lets go.

You drank.

And even that seemed like a understatement.

Not to forget anything but to remember yourself. The version of you that wasn’t shadowed by what you were afraid people would say. The one who dared to call someone hers in a room full of ghosts and memories and didn’t completely fall apart after.

It was baffling.

It was miraculous.

And, God, it was exhausting.

The drinks made everything blur—delightfully at first, then in a way that made your friends exchange glances. You heard Mira say something like “She’s cut off after this one,” and Hoseok immediately counter with “Let her live,” and then you couldn’t hear them anymore because the bar’s speakers erupted into some throaty love song.

Your cheek pressed against Mira’s shoulder for a while, though you couldn’t recall when it landed there. She’d draped your coat over your knees like a blanket and was scrolling through photos on her phone with Hoseok, both of them whisper-laughing, passing the screen back and forth like teenagers.

You looked at them, and something inside you melted—not from the alcohol, not from the bar’s molten heat though that was quiet unbearable too—but from the simple fact of being held.

A feeling you hadn’t known two nights ago, two years back. The universe hadn’t cracked open and swallowed you whole. The chandelier hadn’t fallen from the ceiling. No one had thrown wine at your face or cornered you near the shrimp cocktail with cruel questions about the morality of love.

Instead, the world pitched ever so slightly to the left every time you blinked. The jukebox had moved on to Fleetwood Mac now—some slow, melancholy guitar that wrapped around your temples like gauze. You couldn’t feel your legs. Or maybe you could. They just didn’t want to move.

The fry basket had long since turned cold, and your drink—whatever remained of it—sat abandoned in front of you, a wedge of lime floating like a lifeboat in stormy water. You blinked down at it and considered saying something. Couldn’t remember what.

“Okay,” Mira said, voice low but distinctly not subtle, “that’s enough for her.”

You lifted your head, eyes heavy-lidded. “Wha—? No. M’fine.”

“Sure you are,” she muttered, already pulling her phone out of her coat pocket. “And I’m the queen of France.”

“I am fine.” You sat up straighter, blinked hard at her, as if that proved something. The booth spun gently. “Mmmfine,” you mumbled. “Jus’ warm. Floor’s doing a little… wavy thing.”

Hoseok’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s not the floor. That’s your tequila tangoing with the bad decisions.”

Mira gave him a look before pulling her phone out of her purse.

“Noooo,” you groaned, pawing at her wrist with absolutely no coordination. “Don’t. I’m fine. I’m just… appreciating...”

“You’re appreciating everything too much,” Mira muttered, unlocking her phone with her thumb. “He deserves to know.”

You blinked blearily. “Who?”

She didn’t answer you. Thumbs tapping furiously. You tried to grab her wrist, missed by a margin you weren’t proud of. Just pressed the phone to her ear and stood from the booth, pressing one finger into her other ear to muffle the noise of the bar.

You slumped back, staring at your half-finished drink like it had betrayed you. Hoseok reached over and silently took it away.

“Miraaaa,” you called, dragging her name like a scarf behind you. “She’s being… dramatic. Over…reacting. I could walk home.”

Hoseok said, “you just mistook a fork for your phone.”

You stared at the table. “...Did I?”

He nodded solemnly. “Twice.”

“Jungkook,” Mira said sweetly into the phone now pressed to her ear, “hi. Yeah, she’s—no, no, she’s alright. We’re at that little dive near the station. You know the one with the broken neon cactus sign? Yeah. She’s, um…” A glance at you, hunched like a tragic poet over the tabletop. “She’s had a night.”

You sat up with all the indignation of a drenched cat. “A night?” you hissed.

Mira patted your shoulder. “Don’t worry. He said he’s on his way.”

You blinked, your voice in unison with Hoseok’s. “Already?”

"Already." Mira echoed.

You groaned and buried your face into her shoulder again. “Noooooo.”

“Yes,” she cooed. “Yes, ma’am."

You let out a slow, melodramatic exhale, sliding lower in the booth, your face half-buried in your coat. “This is humiliating.” You didn’t say anything after that. You couldn't and you didn't think you could even hear when the door to the bar creaked open. Not really.

The world had dulled to a low, sluggish hum, softened by liquor and dim light and the weight of your own mortification. But Hoseok glanced up, muttered something under his breath about “the cavalry,” Mira lifted her head, glanced over your shoulder, and then tilted her chin in that way that always meant: look sharp.

Not that you could.

You barely had time to blink before you caught the scent of him.

Jungkook’s cologne always managed to find you first—cedar and lavender, dusk and heat. Then the weight of his presence settled behind you like gravity, and before you could lift your head or find your voice, his shadow stretched over the booth.

His eyes found Mira first. A curt nod. Grateful. Barely spared Hoseok a glance. Hoseok looked almost grateful for it.

“Thanks for calling,” he murmured.

Mira didn’t flinch beneath his seriousness. “Thanks for coming,” she replied simply, standing up and gathering your coat like a reflex.

You stirred at that, blinking up at the blur of black shirt, rolled sleeves, and the soft fall of dark hair just slightly wind-tousled. He looked unfairly beautiful for someone who'd just found you curled into a booth like a regretful blanket. His jaw was set tight, you really hoped it was not anger.

He didn’t glance around. Didn’t blink against the tacky lighting or the low thrum of music. Just made a beeline toward your side of the booth, and for one breathless moment, you thought maybe he’d try to coax you out gently.

Instead, he looked down at you—your ridiculous half-hunched self curled in a coat that had long since become your second skin—and without preamble or ceremony, he scooped you up. Just like that.

Just a sure, practiced ease, like he’d been doing this for lifetimes. Like the world made more sense when you were in his arms and he didn’t have to guess where you were anymore.

You yelped.

He didn't say anything, just adjusted your weight slightly and wrapped his coat tighter around you.

But you felt the slow exhale he gave through his nose.

Not a sigh. Something closer to relief.

He tilted his head to Mira again when she spoke.

Mira’s expression had softened. “Don’t forget to make her eat something. And maybe—y’know—hydration?”

“I’ve got it.”

You were already half asleep against him.

Half awake.

All warmth and clumsy enegry, with your head tucked beneath his chin, the wind nipping at your cheeks while your fingers curled into the front of his shirt like some last-minute apology stitched into cotton. The air outside the bar was bitter enough to bite the inside of your lungs, and it sobered you in slivers—slow, fogged pieces of clarity threading through the haze like dawn slipping between window blinds.

But neither of you said anything.

He didn’t look down at you.

He didn’t speak.

Only the faint sound of his boots hitting pavement filled the space—cadenced, unbothered, maddening in its calm.

You let your cheek fall heavier against his chest, where his heart should’ve been louder. But it wasn’t. It was steady. Frustratingly so.

Your lips brushed against the fabric of his collar. You felt his heartbeat pick up. It felt charged now, as if both of you had bad thoughts trying to form, pushing through the quiet in crooked shapes and half-decisions.

You wanted to say something.

You wanted not to say something.

Your mouth tastes like tequila and fear and bad timing. God, you were all about bad timings today, weren't you?

You turned your head slightly, breath catching on the scent of him. The movement made your stomach sway, but you managed.

You swallowed. "Koo?" You asked in a voice barely above the wind. The nickname slipping out thick and syrupy from your mouth. The sober you would have winced at yourself the second it did.

Good thing you were not.

Before there was an audible response, you heard the sound of his breath catching. Muttering a incohered curse under his breath. "Yes, angel?"

You fiddled with the fabric of his shirt where your fingers rested. “Y-You mad at me?”

He didn't answer at first. His jaw tensed once, twice, the movement as familiar as the sound of your voice laced with slur and shame.

His eyes stayed forward. Watching the parked cars blur past like it mattered more than the conversation pressing in the air between you. Watching the lines in the concrete like they might give him something to focus on other than the pounding of his pulse.

Because your question so slurred and soft and soaked in all the wrong kinds of courage had landed somewhere sharp in him. Not painful, exactly. But startling. Like someone tapping on glass that had long since been sealed shut.

“Are you asking me that because you got drunk?"

"I'm not too drunk-" You mumbled, trying to line your spine straighter and immediately regretting it when your vision swans. "I mean, yeah, okay, I'm a bit- I mean I drank but that's not what I meant.

"What did you mean?" He asked, not unkindly. Voice low, like he already knew but needed you to say it again anyway. Needed to hear it from your own clumsy, slurred lips.

“I meant—fuck.” You groaned, dropping your forehead against his collar. "for what I did. Back there. At the gallery.”

It had rung through him with the violence of something gentle. And that was the worst kind, wasn’t it? The soft truths. The ones you didn’t brace for.

He had spent so long keeping this thing quiet; out of respect, out of fear, out of the twisted need to protect what didn’t yet have a name. He had convinced himself it was better that way. That if he never said it out loud, he couldn’t lose it. That the world couldn’t break what the world didn’t know existed.

And then you’d just carved him into your life liturgy. The only that he'd felt was unhooked.

God, how were you still scared of that? How could you not see it still?

Your hair smelled like lemon shampoo and something warm. sugar, maybe. Your breath still carried the ghost of tequila and lime and the kind of boldness people only conjure up when they don’t think they’ll remember it later.

He felt you pick nervously at the seam of his collar, like maybe that was safer than looking at his face.

You didn’t know that he’d replayed your voice a hundred times already.

Didn’t know that when you said it. His entire body had stilled. Had gone hot, then cold, then weightless.

You didn’t know that it had taken everything in him not to walk across that gallery and kiss you in front of everyone. The urge was so strong, the relief was so overwhelming that it had nearly leveled him.

And still, here you were fearing the thing he had dreamed of.

He finally spoke.

“Angel,” he said, voice low, careful, “I have been yours for a long time. I thought about it. Dreamed of hearing you call me that for longer than I’ll ever admit. Over dinner maybe. But I don't care where it happened."

You went still in his arms.

He tilted his head, just enough to brush his cheek against your hair.

“I’m not mad,” he said again, softer now. "I'm fucking elated." He rasped low, one hand tightening on your thigh, the other cradling your back like a secret. "And I'm just trying not mess it up."

Before you could make more of the latter, his parked car came in view.

The door clicked open, leather and warmth spilling into the night. He placed you into the passenger seat like you were made of glass—though that was nothing new. He always held you like that. As if the ache in you had a physical symmetry, and he was the only one allowed to carry it.

And maybe it was the night, or the alcohol still warm in your veins, or the sheer disbelief that your world hadn’t crumbled after your confession. But you believed him.

You slumped into the seat, curling into the warmth of his coat that he hung around your shoulders, the hem pooled at your lap like a blanket.

“so…you still wanna be my boyfriend?”

He laughed—really laughed this time, soft and low, one hand bracing on the top of the car door. Then he leaned in, pressed a kiss to your temple, and whispered.

“Forever, if you’ll have me.”

When he finally closed the door and climbed into the driver’s side, the cabin filled with that muted, in-between silence. The kind where things weren't okay yet—but maybe on their way.

The heater came on with a soft whir, chasing off the cold from your knees. You barely noticed it, half curled beneath his coat, one boot unbuckled and heel slipping off as your foot tucked up against the seat like you had no intention of looking composed.

Outside, the streetlights blurred through the window. Pale yellow and blinking, like they couldn’t quite keep their eyes open either. The windshield fogged a little from your breath, everything smudging into something dreamlike and quietly unreal.

You didn’t speak for a moment. Just watched the haze of the window, your cheek nestled into the fleece of his coat collar. But your chest was loud. Restless.

Because for all the softness he wrapped you in, for all the peace you should’ve felt, you couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that if tonight hadn’t gone like it did, you might still be pretending you were just shadows again. That this wasn’t real.

Your fingers clenched gently at the hem of his sleeve where it had fallen across your lap. You sat there like that for a while, quiet and too full of all the wrong questions. Only to repeat.

"Koo?"

Your voice, thick with exhaustion and treacly from the weight of everything you’d drunk and everything you hadn’t said.

He hummed, fingers flexing against the steering wheel, gaze flicking toward you but not quite leaving the road yet.

You turned your head slowly toward him, your forehead creasing a little as the warmth from the heater tangled too hot against your cheek. “I… I don’t wanna go home.”

The words were blurry. Fumbling. Like they’d been handed to you in pieces and you hadn’t had time to stitch them back together.

But they were true. That they were.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just glanced at you from the corner of his eye. A muscle in his jaw ticked, and you watched the careful tension in his knuckles where they wrapped around the wheel.

You bit your lip. “Not—not forever. Just. Y’know. Just not… tonight."

You sniffled once, rubbing at your nose like a child, embarrassed by the confession but too drunk to walk it back. “Please don’t take me home.”

Jungkook exhaled softly. A sound that felt too much like relief for someone being asked for something so heavy.

“Good thing,” he said at last, turning the car down a different street, his voice curling warm and dry like smoke in your ear, “I’ve got a habit of taking you anywhere but.”

You sighed, relaxing deeper into the seat. “You’re not real,” you murmured. “You're… like. A fever dream. With like really... good cologne.”

Jungkook chuckled lowly, eyes flicking to your profile again, this time longer. “Drunk you’s a menace.”

“I'm sensitive,” you corrected, slurring. “Be nice.”

He reached across the console and found your hand without even looking. Threaded his fingers through yours and held it there like it was always meant to be.

“I am,” he said. “Always.”

“Your nose,” you whispered, studying him like you were discovering the shape of him for the first time. “It’s really pretty. Like. Like you paid someone. But you didn’t, did you? That’s just you.”

He bit back a laugh. “That’s just me, angel.”

You poked the tip of it with the gentleness of a feather. “Insulting.”

“Deeply.”

And then you kissed it.

Quick. Clumsy. The faintest press of lips to the slope of bone. Like you were branding him with your approval.

“Drunk,” he murmured, but he didn’t sound annoyed. If anything, he sounded like he was retaining you.

You nestled your face into his neck again, legs wrapped tight around his torso with his palms supporting your weight hanging off of him. Docking you to him the moment he slipped the car into some underground garage and stepped out without a word, circling to your side. Didn’t even wait for permission. Apparently when you flinched with a tiny sound, then whined when your limbs refused to cooperate was reason enough. You were up in his arms again before the cold could touch your ankles, the world tilting briefly before settling against his chest. You had blinked, dazed, then turned your face upward. “Warm,” you replied.

Jungkook made a noise that was halfway between a laugh and a sigh, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re trying not to fall even deeper in love than they already have.

You hummed a note of agreement, then leaned forward and pecked the tip of his nose again like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Boop.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, and kept walking, a little faster now.

The lobby was sleek and quiet, lit low with ambient light that glittered off the marble floor. A sleepy doorman nodded as Jungkook passed. You didn’t even ask where you were until the elevator opened directly into a hallway with only one door, black, modern, heavy. You blinked as he shifted you gently in his arms and pressed the keypad. The soft chime of the lock sliding open echoed too loudly in your ears.

“Where…” You blinked again as he nudged the door open with his shoulder. “Where are we?” This wasn’t your apartment. This wasn’t his parent's place. Did'nt exactly look like a hotel or if it was it was a really expensive one. This wasn’t anything you knew.

He set you down slowly—like a ribbon being untied—and turned on the light with a quiet flick of his fingers. Warm, dim lighting spilled into the room, softening everything to velvet edges. The floor beneath your boots was heated tile. The couch in the center of the room was oversized, draped in soft gray throws. There were no bright colors. No screaming art. Just low lines of furniture, oak and ash tones, clean details that whispered instead of shouted. You could see hints of habit: a stack of books with bookmarks poking out crookedly near the couch. A worn mug sitting on the edge of a console table. A leather jacket flung across a chair like it belonged there. Which it probably did.

There was a piano by the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Of course there was a piano.

You stood still, swaying gently in your own boots, the air too warm against your skin now after the chill of the street. You stared across the space with wide eyes, lips parted, trying to absorb the fact that you’d never stepped foot in this place, and yet… there was something terribly intimate about it. About all of it.

It looked like somewhere important people lived. Or people who wanted to be left alone.

You moved forward carefully, shrugging out of his coat and draping it over the arm of the couch like you were afraid to wrinkle anything. The floors were silent beneath your boots, and the air had the clean scent of lemon balm and something else you couldn’t name something earthy. Sage, maybe.

You turned toward the open kitchen across the loft just in time to catch the warm flick of the fridge light opening. Jungkook stood there sockedfeet now, sleeves still rolled, a glass in one hand and the other pushing aside a cabinet door.

And your eyes stuttered. Not at him. (You’d long since gotten used to the way he looked like sin and salvation in dim light.)

But at the contents of the cabinet. You swear you just got a peak of dozens of tea boxes. Not just one brand or two—but everything from supermarket bags to specialty tins, chamomile to lavender to citrus blends. Lined like he’d been collecting them, like someone who maybe didn’t even drink tea but wanted to be prepared in case someone who did ever stayed the night.

He poured the water.

Set the glass down.

And only then turned to you.

You were still staring.

His brow lifted slightly, but he didn’t speak.

You felt suddenly too sober. Or maybe just drunk in a different way now. “What… is this place?”

Jungkook stilled.

It was a half-second pause small, almost imperceptible but you caught it. The way his hands slowed, the way his eyes darted once toward the far window before coming back to you.

He wiped his palm on a dish towel, came around the counter, and set the glass gently in your hands. You took it, grateful for something to focus on. It was cool and smooth and anchored you just enough.

"it’s… it’s really…” You looked around again. “Expensive-looking.”

Jungkook ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the strands at the back then the same hand reached out to steady your elbows like he didn’t trust you not to float away. His voice, when it came, was low. Soft in that Jungkook way like gravel dragged through silk.

“I bought it,” he said. “Next day after the night at Kim's."

Your brows pulled together slowly.

“It was impulsive,” he admitted. “Probably stupid. But I couldn’t sleep. I felt like I needed to make space for something that might never happen." He needed to make space for the possibility of you. Because who was Jeon Jungkook if not the most hopless of case when it comes to you.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“I didn’t know if I’d ever get to bring you here,” he said, eyes not quite meeting yours. “But I bought it anyway.”

You blinked slowly, piecing the words together. Your fingers lifted to press against your lips, as if trying to feel the echo of what you’d confessed there.

“This is yours?” you asked, like it still didn’t quite make sense.

He only said the simplest of truths. "It can be ours."

It felt too big for the room and too small at the same time.

“ours?” you repeated, tasting it.

He gave you a crooked smile, faint and self-conscious. “Well. That was the hope.”

Your heart tripped somewhere in your chest.

You looked around again, slower this time. Noticed the wine glasses above the sink, still drying. A photo frame faced down on the side table like it hadn’t been ready to be displayed yet. A stack of takeout menus in the corner, one with a smudge of sauce on it. A blanket draped over the back of the couch, creased like someone had slept there recently.

“Have you… stayed here?”

He nodded once. “Sometimes. When I needed to breathe." When he wanted to imagine you in here.

He didn't plan to tell you that part.

The truth of how often he came here, and you were in every corner of it.

He watched you now, standing there in the soft yellow glow of pendant lights, barefoot on the tile with your hair a little wild, your eyes flicking from one piece of furniture to the next like they were giving away secrets. And Jungkook—God, Jungkook had never known what it meant to wrench quietly until he imagined you here for the first time. Until he watched you exist in a space he had once only filled with feasibility.

He had picked that couch because it looked like it could hold two people who didn't mind tangling legs. Had stood in the kitchen and wondered if you'd drink your coffee by the window. Had stared at the second drawer by the bathroom sink and thought, that’s where she could keep her earrings.

He didn’t say any of that.

Didn’t confess the way he’d lain on that very couch more than once, staring at the ceiling and trying to imagine what your laugh would sound like bouncing off these walls.

He hadn’t wanted to jinx it. But he’d wanted it.

He still did.

“Were you gonna tell me? About this place?”

He smiled a little—wry, sheepish. “Eventually.”

“Why wait?”

“Because,” he said, stepping closer, “I didn’t want to give you something you didn’t ask for. Not unless you were ready to want it, too. Was'nt that right?"

Then, without meaning to, you took a small step forward and wrapped your arms around his waist. Clung. He didn’t hesitate. His arms were around you in a second. One hand cupped the back of your head, the other pressing gently against your spine.

You buried your face into the soft black cotton of his shirt. “I feel… dizzy.”

“From the alcohol?” he asked, a barely restrained urgency in his voice.

“No.” You turned your cheek against him. "This is just..really dreamy. Yeah. Really dreamy."

He heaved out a breath and started started rocking you back and forth against him in an missable motion. "Sure, angel? You like it?" He asked for confirmation. He didn't bother hiding his need for reassurance in front of you. And you don't mind giving him so. You nod with confidence.

He huffs a soft chuckle. "You haven't seen the half of it. Maybe you won't like the colors. We can change them if that's what you'd like. Add plants." His voice spilled low against the crown of your head. An offering disguised as a list of design choices. But you knew what he meant. You heard it tucked between every carefully placed word.

Let’s make a life here.

Let’s try. Together.

Your face pressed to the slope of his chest, listening to his heartbeat carry the words he didn’t yet say aloud. Your arms looped tighter around his waist, fingers bunching the back of his shirt like you might fall through the floor otherwise.

"We can do whatever we want." he murmured, then exhaled like something eased in him. "All the little, big things. Do you ever wanna get a pet?"

You bobbed your head with far too much enthusiasm. "Absolutely! We could get a dobermoon! You once said you always wanted that!"

"I did." He smiled gently.

Your mouth twitched, and you didn’t mean to smile—but you did. It bloomed slow and sleepy across your face, the kind of smile that couldn’t be helped. “And what else?”

He was still swaying you—slow, steady movements, his hands warm at the small of your back. It took you a moment to realize what he was doing, what the motion even was. You blinked, nose brushing the side of his neck. “Wait,” you whispered, a soft snort cracking loose. “What are you doing?”

Jungkook tilted his head down, eyes meeting yours, glittering a little under the golden pendant light. “I just realized,” he said, and his voice was so low, so unbearably soft, you almost didn’t catch it, “I never got to dance with you at your wedding.”

You blinked, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with that dizzy kind of drunk only heartbreak and hope could cause. “You left before the music started.” You pouted against his chest.

“I know.” His hand found hers. “Can I have one now?”

You burst out laughing, giddy and golden. The thought of so that's how your laugh sounds bounching around the walls came paired with If he could have bathe in the sound of it he would for the rest of his life. “There’s no music.”

He tilted his head. “There’s you.” With a theatrical sigh, you let him slip all around you. It was unsteady, like gravity had forgotten you tonight, yet just like gravity; the way you fit against was a contradiction. All too well. All too comforting.

He moved you slowly, in wide, meandering arcs, like your bodies weren’t bound to tempo or beat, just to each other. You stepped on his toes once. Maybe twice. Your sock slipped on the smooth floor and you cursed under your breath. He caught you, hands tightening with the kind of tenderness that made you want to cry.

“Oops,” you muttered.

“You're Graceful,” he murmured, voice fond.

“You love it,” you countered.

“I do.”

He twirled you then. Not properly God, no, but with that not so perfect grin that made your ribs ache and your stomach flip. You stumbled a bit, laughing into the fabric of his shirt, and he caught you again like he’d been born to. You buried your face in his shoulder. The air around you felt velvet-rich, the heat of his skin, the soft whirr of the heater, the scent of coffee grounds faint from the sink and your perfume still lingering on his collar. The world felt like something you could carry in your palm tonight.

Your cheek pressed right above his heart, where it thudded steady, solid, yours.

Your cheek pressed on right above his heart. “We’re not very good at this,”

“I don’t care,” he murmured into your hair.

You sighed. “My feet hurt.”

“We can stop,” he offered, easing to a gentle halt.

“Mhm." You leaned back to look at him, blinking up through your lashes, voice cotton-soft. You pressed your hand against it absentmindedly, right over the steady beat of his heart, fingers splayed like you could read it in Braille.

He watched you.

Watched the curve of your mouth. The warm glassiness in your eyes. The way your thumb moved without rhythm against his shirt.

You sighed out a thought. “Thank you,” you said.

He tilted his head, brushing a piece of your hair back behind your ear. “For what?”

“For this.” You squinted a little, like you were trying to remember something and only barely catching the edge of it. “For everything. I love you."

You hadn’t even flinched when you said it. You were smiling. Loose-limbed and lidded and not the least bit rattled, still swaying in place like the words had meant nothing more than a sweet note scribbled in a thank-you card.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe for a second. Could only feel the way his heart kicked against his ribs so hard he thought maybe you could hear it. hear the sound of it clawing toward your name.

His mouth opened slightly, but no sound from that came. The function of his body when he was around you, especially, this you was beyond him.

You just looked at him, lashes heavy, lips curved soft. “Hmm?”

“What did you just say?” he asked, voice rough around the edges.

You blinked. Tilted your head. “Thank you?”

“No, not that—fuck, angel." A deep chuckle rumbled out of chest. "Fuck."

But you were already pressing your cheek back to his chest, humming something tuneless, eyes drifting shut.

He swallowed hard. Tugged you closer to him and pressed his lips hard against your head. "I love you too."

Because what had once started with a love so rooted will end with a love that will survive an eternity.

It would always end in "I love yous."

SERIES TAGLIST: @ashslight @wannaghostbts @amatun28 @tteokbokibyjk @kelsyx33 @rexana19

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floristusa · 5 months ago

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jtargaryen18 · 3 months ago

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The Arrangement ~ Chapter 8

Series Masterlist

Words: 10.4k (I'm SO sorry)

Pairing: Thomas Shelby (Peaky Blinders) x Reader F

Warnings: Angst, shaming someone with religion, oppressive historical views on women, pregnancy, arranged marriage to a stranger, references to depression, more angst, references to graphic violence, reference to arson and slaughter.

The stage has been set for your wedding to a farmer you've just met and you're on the edge of despair. Will Rory show up to save you? Will anyone?

You hadn’t slept in days. Even now, standing in the cold little room at the back of the church, you weren’t entirely sure you were awake. Everything felt insulated, blurry around the edges. Like you were watching it all happen to someone else. Just a few short weeks ago you were back at home, working for your mother and just trying not to get on the bad side of your stepfather’s temper.

Your wedding dress clung heavy against your skin. It was adeep burgundy satin, carefully fitted and it did nothing to hide your swelling belly. It had been deliberately chosen. It was burgundy, not red. No, that would be too bold. It was deep and dark, a shade chosen deliberately, like a stain you weren’t allowed to wash away. Your mother had made you a flower crown of wild flowers with a small bouquet to match, tied in white ribbons. It was small but you were grateful for that small sign of dignity she’d given you.

Your uncle said it was appropriate and it suited a girl with “experience.” Mature. He said white would’ve been mockery.

You’d wanted to be sick.

But you weren’t arguing. You were too tired and ill to fight much anymore.

But as your shaking hand slid around that slight bump of your tummy, you took a deep breath. You would fight for him or her. If you did nothing else with the rest of your life, you wanted to see to it that your son or daughter came into this world to do more than have a miserable existence. Especially if it were a girl. You were being married off to a farmer and expected to bear him sons and help work the land. How would he treat the child of a gypsy? The child of a gangster?

As sad as it made you, you would almost consider trying to get a word to Polly if the day ever arrived that your new jailer said a harsh word or raised a hand to your child. You’d give your child to the Shelbys and be parted from them if you knew they would be safe and loved. And they would be. You had thought more than once that Polly would likely kill someone she caught harming a child. And Tommy…

No, you couldn’t think about him right now.

Your hands trembled as you adjusted the hem of your dress in the mirror, your reflection gaunt and unfamiliar in the small, cracked mirror. Was this really happening?

Feeling dizzy again, you took a seat on the edge of the chair, your stomach churning. You hadn’t been able to eat. You hadn’t even kept water down that morning. The nausea hadn’t let up in weeks, but this was something else. Panic, or maybe despair. Looking back, night of the wager didn’t seem so bad compared to this. You’d do that all again if you could be spared this wedding you didn’t want. And…

No, I can’t think about Tommy… Now you knew for certain he was done with you.

There had been no word from Rory. No note or knock on the door. Nothing. You’d thought he’d come. You’d honestly believed, with everything in you, that your brother would find a way to save you.

But as the morning slipped away and the minutes blurred together, those thoughts came back to prey on your mind… Did Rory tell Tommy? And if he had, did Tommy forbid him from coming? You wouldn’t have been surprised. Not with how things had been left between you. He’d said it was your choice, but maybe he’d meant it like a punishment. Maybe this was the cost of walking away from him. It was all your own fault.

You swallowed the tightness in your throat and smoothed your hands down the front of the dress.The deep red caught in the light, casting shadows across the room like old blood. You would walk yourself down the aisle because your uncle refused. He said he wouldn’t escort a fallen woman. He said it would “send the wrong message.”

As if any of this sent the right one.

You were blinking back tears when the door creaked open softly, and your mother slipped inside. She didn’t say anything at first, just closed the door behind her and looked at you, eyes full of quiet worry. Looking up into her eyes you saw that same heartache you were drowing in. You stood when you saw her, hands still trembling slightly at your sides. She crossed the room and took them gently into her own, her thumbs brushing over your knuckles like she had when you were little and scared of storms.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said softly, for what felt like the hundredth time.

You closed your eyes. “Uncle’s not going to stop it, nor let me out of it.”

She didn’t argue because she knew you were right.

“I tried,” she whispered. “I begged him. Told him this wasn’t the answer, that this wasn’t you. But he wouldn’t hear it. He said what’s done is done, and this is how we make it right.”

“Make him feel better, you mean,” you muttered.

Her mouth pressed into a sad line. “Yes.”

You stepped away from her just enough to breathe. Your dress felt too tight suddenly, the room too small. It was hard to breathe.

“I don’t know if I can walk down that aisle,” you said, your voice breaking. “Not like this, and alone.”

She stepped closer again, brushed a hand over your cheek. “Maybe you won’t have to,” she said gently. “Maybe Rory will come yet.”

You looked at her. “Do you think Tommy told him not to?”

Her eyes softened with something like pity. “I don’t know. But I know Rory and so do you. And if there’s a way to be here, love, he’ll find it.”

You looked away, trying to hide the sting behind your eyes. “Feels like the world’s already made up its mind about me.”

“No,” she said, cupping your face, her voice trembling now too. “Just the wrong people. That’s not the same.”

You tried to hold onto her words. You were losing hope that someone, anyone, might still stop this. But the minutes kept ticking by and you were still wearing burgundy. You may have well just pinned a a scarlet letter to your dress to complete the look.

"Did you see him?" your mother asked.

And you knew who she meant. The farmer. You nodded.

You’d seen him, just briefly. A huge, burly man with rough, callused hands and a weathered face that made him look closer to fifty than the thirty-two your uncle claimed. He’d smelled like earth and pipe smoke, nodded politely without meeting your eyes. And all you could think was those hands were meant for labor, not tenderness. Not for you. Not for anything you still had left to give.

She hesitated. “He’s… polite enough, I suppose. Looked like he was trying very hard not to look at you.”

You glanced at her, and she gave a faint, apologetic smile. “He’s nervous. Said very little. Just nodded when your uncle introduced you. Didn’t even try to make conversation.”

You felt your chest tighten. “That’s the man I’m supposed to marry.”

She didn’t try to correct you nor did she tell you it wasn’t too late. She didn’t offer hope she didn’t have. She just reached for your hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I don't get the impress he’s a cruel man,” she said softly, “but he’s not for you.”

That single sentence hit harder than all the rest. You already knew it and you weren’t walking toward a new life.You were walking toward containment.

And suddenly, that burgundy dress felt like a prison.

Your mother Mary had only meant to slip off to the water closet before everything began. One last moment of calm before the storm she couldn’t stop claimed her daughter. But when she turned the corner, nearly bumping into someone tall, she gasped softly and froze.

“Rory?”

Her son looked like a ghost and a stranger all at once. Not the boy she’d kissed on the forehead a few nights ago, but a man in a fine dark suit, shoulders squared, eyes sharp. His overcoat was rich wool, something expensive, protective. And his cap--

Her breath caught. It was a Peaky cap. And yes, there it was. That glint because of the razors sewn into the seams.

Rory saw her staring, and gently grabbed her hand, guiding her into a quiet alcove behind the coatroom, out of sight.

“Mum,” he whispered, eyes scanning the hallway. “Listen to me. I don’t have much time.”

She blinked, her hand still caught in his. “What on earth--”

“She can’t know I’m here. Not yet. Not until it’s time.”

That stopped her. Mary was trying to keep hope from blooming in her chest. Today, she didn't really think she could handle more disappointment.

“Rory--”

“I’ve already been through uncle's house,” he said. “Packed what was hers. Yours too. It’s in the car. All of it.”

Mary just stared at him.

“We’re going home,” he said. “To Birmingham. Tonight.”

"Is he here?" she had to ask.

Rory knew exactly who she meant, answering that with a single nod.

Mary's knees almost gave out. She had to grab the doorframe to stay upright. Her free hand pressed over her mouth, and her eyes burned before she could stop them.

Rory faltered. “Wait, are you crying?”

She laughed. It was one of those helpless, trembling laughs that sounded half broken and half like music. “Rory,” she choked, “thank God.”

He blinked. “I thought...” He looked at her, truly looked. “I thought you’d have a hard time with it. Me being a Blinder. With your daughter going back to the Shelbys.”

... your daughter going back to the Shelbys.

The way he worded it got her attention. It was very much in the style of the Peaky Blinders, claiming what they wanted, however they had to get it. It was how all of this begin. Just now, she didn't have a problem with it at all. On top of everything, the man had come here to stop the wedding and take her daughter back. And for once in her life, she was just fine with it. Her daughter was far better off with a man who actually loved her, even if she didn't feel the same. But honestly, Mary was pretty certain she did have feelings for him. She'd come around to it.

She stepped forward, cupped Rory's face like she had when he was a child.

“Son,” she said, her voice thick, “after the hell we’ve lived in? After what your sister’s been through? Thank God you’re one of them.”

And just for a moment, Rory’s mask cracked. Not because she was disappointed. But because she was proud.

You moved like your body belonged to someone else. Your arm wasn’t looped through anyone’s. Your uncle refused to walk you down the aisle. Even the groom didn't offer you an arm which was just a hint about your life to come. So you followed the groom alone, head bowed, hands clenched so tight around the small bouquet in your fingers that your fingernails dug half-moons into your palms. The deep burgundy dress whispered against the polished stone floor with every step, trailing shame and expectation behind you like a veil of smoke.

The music rose with organ pipes thundering gently overhead. The small church was lit with mid-day light, but you felt none of it. Just the weight of the stares. The murmur of judgment all around you. You didn’t look left or right. You weren't about to acknowledge any of their faces. Not the women who’d whispered behind their hymnals, probably about the fact that you'd just begun to show. Not the men who wouldn’t meet your eyes, but would surely talk about you over ale by sundown. The pews were lined with people who didn’t know you and they didn't care to know. They’d heard enough to believe what they wanted.

The priest began the Introductory Rites, his voice solemn, echoing through the still church. There was no joy in the occasion and no warmth at all. Just formality, structure, and most importantly, containment. The groom, silent and massive beside you, didn’t even glance your way as you stood before the priest.

You heard words about faith, and union, and forgiveness but none of them applied here. You thought about Rory, your mother... Tommy. And for one aching moment, you wished he’d lied. That he’d broken his word and that he’d come looking for you. Your throat was tight, and you were struggling to breathe. Your knees shook as you stood before the altar. And just as the priest’s voice moved into the Rite of Marriage, just as he asked the groom to step forward the church doors slammed open. The sound cracked like thunder, cutting clean through the liturgy.

Heads turned throughout the church as gasps echoed around you. The groom stiffened. And you turned slowly, heart hammering so loud in your ears it nearly drowned everything else out.

There he stood, framed in light.

Thomas Shelby.

His coat was flaring behind him like the wings of something unholy. His shoulders squared, boots echoing across the marble. You saw Arthur and John marching behind him, faces carved from stone, eyes scanning the pews with the kind of stillness that made people forget how to breathe. They were flanked by other men, each one built like they hadn’t come for prayer. Caps low. Posture deadly. A wall of calm, silent threat moving through a house of God like they owned it.

And behind them, Rory. Dressed like them. A fine dark coat hung from his shoulders, the Shelby cut unmistakable. His cap bore the same stitch of razor-threaded menace, and his steps fell in time with the rest. He didn’t look like the boy you’d grown up with, not in that moment. He looked like someone else now. Someone dangerous and respected.

But when his eyes found yours, everything softened. That familiar warmth cracked through the armor, just for you. His lips curled up in the smallest of smirks, and he gave you a wink, sharp and sure and quiet as a promise. Your mother was right, he hadn’t let you down after all. He never would.

You didn’t feel so alone. Not anymore.

The priest faltered and the room froze. The only movement you saw was Polly, she was here too, walking up to where your mother sat and stopping by her side.

But you? All you could was stare. Because Tommy’s eyes weren’t on anyone else. Only you. You couldn’t breathe. For a second, you forgot how to breathe and the world tipped sideways. The pews, the altar, the candles... it all faded into nothing.

Because it was him. Not a dream or a memory. Not in some fevered hope you’d barely allowed yourself to hold on to. And he stood in the doorway like the storm you always knew he was. All you could feel were his eyes on you, all heat and truth and reckoning. Your knees nearly buckled, but somehow you managed to stay upright.

And all at once, the words from weeks ago came rushing back to you. If you walk away, I won’t stop you... But if you stay, you’re mine.

You had walked away. But he came anyway. And now you stood shaking, waiting like everyone else to see what he was here to do.

Tommy Shelby didn’t knock. He walked into that church like he owned it. Because today, he did. The moment the doors flung open, silence rippled through the nave like a shot across no man’s land. Heads snapped toward him. Mothers gasped. The priest stuttered and froze mid-blessing.

He walked straight down the aisle, slow and measured, boots echoing across the stone, every step a promise. A warning. His brothers were behind him, so was her brother and more Blinders, walking like men who were ready to raise hell in a house of God. Liam stayed by the doors, to make sure no one was leaving. Not until he said so.

Tommy’s gaze never left her.

She stood like a statue at the altar. His girl, wrapped in burgundy, shaking like a leaf in a storm. Her eyes were wide, rimmed red from sleepless nights. Even from here, he could see the dark hollows beneath her eyes. And the dress--Christ. That fucking color. Like shame sewn into silk.

Tommy felt something claw up the back of his throat. Not nerves or hesitation. Rage, cold and poisonous. This was very fucking personal. What the fuck had they done to her? Her shoulders were drawn tight like she was bracing for a blow. Her lips were parted slightly, too stunned to speak. She looked like someone had drained the life right out of her and dressed her up for a burial instead of a wedding.

Her hands clutched the bouquet like a lifeline, and as he watched, one hand dropped, slow and unthinking. It came to rest just below her ribs. A soft, protective curl of fingers over the slight swell of her belly. His child. It was instinct. She didn’t even realize she was doing it. But to him, it was louder than any vow or confession. It was truth and undeniably beautiful. And it split something wide open inside him. A fierce, unshakable need to get her out of this fucking church and make sure nothing and no one ever touched what was his again. Later, he’d reckon with the rest of it -- what it meant, what they’d lost, what they still had to fight for. But right now? She was standing there, carrying everything he never thought he’d have, and she hadn’t run yet.

Tommy was here to deal with them. Her uncle, the bloody farmer. Anyone who looked at her sideways. He was here for her, and nothing else up to heaven and down to hell mattered in this moment.

They tried to stop him. The farmer stepped forward, puffing up like a man about to claim something he thought was his. The uncle rose from the front pew, already barking, indignant bluster spilling louder with every breath. And just behind him, the priest looked appalled, his lips pressed into a thin line of silent disapproval, as if the very presence of Tommy Shelby and his men had defiled the sanctity of his church.

Tommy just kept walking, shoulders squared, heart pounding like war drums beneath his ribs. He reached the front of the church and turned, slowly, to face them all. “This wedding’s not going to happen.”

The farmer muttered something and Tommy cut him off with a glance sharp enough to slice bone. "You paid,” Tommy said coolly, “to marry a woman who doesn’t even know you. A woman carrying my child.”

The gaps and murmurs were almost comical and he caught Polly's smirk when his gaze found hers, standing next to his girl's mother. The priest turned white as his chausible.

The uncle blustered, “This is my church! This is my--”

“That’s your niece, not your property,” Tommy said coldly. “And yet you still put a price on her. Took money from a man she’s never met and sold her like a broodmare to clean up your own shame.”

“Is this true?” the priest asked, breaking the silence. His voice, once a calm guide through sacred vows, now trembled with righteous fury.

Tommy looked to the side--not at the priest, but at the uncle. “Tell him,” he said.

The uncle's lips parted, but no words came. His his eyes went wide, fists clenched, the veins in his neck straining under pressure he hadn’t expected.

“You accepted money for a sacrament?” the priest said, stepping forward now, eyes narrowing. “You lied to me and you lied before the Almighty.”

The groom took a step back, as if distance might save him from the weight of the scandal crashing down. People in the congregation were rising from their seats.

“Father, I--” the uncle finally stammered. “It’s not. It was a gesture of goodwill. A dowry of sorts.”

“A dowry requires consent,” the priest snapped. “From the bride. Did she consent?”

All eyes turned to her. Tommy didn’t. He already knew the answer. Her silence was the loudest sound in the room.

Tommy turned back to the uncle now, one hand in his coat pocket like he was debating something. “I’ve seen men do despicable things to protect their reputation,” he said calmly. “But selling your own blood? That’s a new kind of cowardice.”

The uncle opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Tommy stepped forward, just once, and the man stepped back without even realizing it.

Tommy let the silence stretch, the words settle like dust. Then he gave a slight nod to his men. "Take him.”

Two of his men moved instantly, Arthur and Rory, razor-laced caps winking in the light. The congregation flinched as they passed, but no one dared interfere.

The uncle sputtered, backing toward the altar. “I... I am a man of God...”

“No,” Arthur said flatly, gripping his arm. “You’re just a man. And you're leaving this house of God.”

They grabbed him by both arms, dragging him down the aisle past the rows of stunned wedding guests. His feet scraped along the stone, his protests loud at first, but weakening with every step. When he started pleading with his nephew, Rory didn't even acknowledge him. The priest stepped aside then without a word.

And as the heavy wooden doors swung open to blinding daylight, the sound of them slamming shut behind him was final. Like a judgment.

Tommy shifted his attention to the groom, keeping his gaze sharp and emotionless. “And you. Paying to marry a pregnant woman,” he said, voice low, almost polite. The kind of polite that made men sweat.

The farmer stood frozen just beyond the altar, thick hands clenched awkwardly at his sides. His face was flushed, not from shame, but from fear. Tommy took a step closer, voice low and cold. “You didn't care that she didn't consent.” Another step. “And you still showed up to claim her like a prize pig.”

The farmer opened his mouth, but thought better of it.

Tommy didn’t blink.

"I suggest you return to your farm. Immediately." Tommy just wished he could be there to see the man's reaction at seeing his home and barn in ashes, his livestock slaughtered. “If I ever lay eyes on you again,” Tommy leaned in slightly, “I will make sure you lose more than you already have.”

There was a spark of fear in the man's eyes because he caught the hidden meaning in Tommy's words. Tommy looked past him, toward John, who stood at the ready with a straightened spine and knowing nod.

“Escort him out.”

John grinned. “With pleasure.”

The farmer didn't resist when John moved forward. Not when two other Blinders flanked him.They didn’t drag him like the uncle. He walked out on his own.

When the door opened and closed a second time, a hush fell so deep you could hear the creak of the old wooden pews as the people sitting shifted in place, unsure if they were supposed to stay or run. The rest were on their feet.

Tommy's hand remained in his coat pocket. He didn't have a gun there, but they didn’t know that. A few men flinched and a couple of the women looked near tears. Tommy smiled.

“You can all sit,” he said, voice like velvet over steel, “or you can stand and pray that God Himself can pull me off whoever gets in my way.”

Nobody moved. So Tommy turned back to her.

“You walked away from me,” he said quietly, the fight drained from his voice, leaving only something raw and real. “And I meant what I said. I didn't stop you. I didn't come after you.” He paused, his gaze didn’t leave yours. “But then your brother came to me. Told me what was happening. What they were planning.” Another beat. “And I couldn’t ignore that."

He stepped forward, slower now, voice low enough that only you could hear. “So tell me… do I leave this church with you, or without you? You know my terms.”

Tommy offered her his hand. That was it. No more threats or speeches.Just one choice and it was hers. He wasn't going to break his word now no matter how much he wanted to. He stood there, hand outstretched. Waiting along the rest of the church and it was silent. For the first time in a very long time, he didn’t know what would happen next. She hadn’t moved or spoken. Her hand was still pressed to her stomach, but her eyes were locked on his with a thousand emotions crashing behind them.

Tommy Shelby, the man who always knew the next move… waited. Waited for her to run. Waited for her to turn away again, to choose safety or shame or silence over him. He wouldn’t stop her this time either. If she didn’t take his hand, he’d walk out of this church, let the door slam behind him, and bury this like everything else that had ever carved him hollow.

Jesus Christ… he didn’t want to bury it. He wanted her. Even now, in that awful dress, looking as shattered as she did. He wanted her in his house, in his bed, under his protection and sharing his name. He wanted his ring on her hand. He wanted to be there when she woke up sick in the morning, to see the curve of her belly grow, to know--really know--he hadn’t lost everything he wanted so badly.

He’d never begged. Not once in his life. But right now, he was praying like a soldier under fire.

Her fingers moved, trembling and uncertain. She reached for him and when her hand touched his, just as timidly as she'd taken his hands the night he claimed her for the wager, the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding left him in a quiet, broken rush.

She looked up at him, eyes glassy, knees buckling, and just as his other arm moved to catch her she fainted. Right into his chest. He caught her before she hit the floor, one arm around her back, the other under her legs, pulling her up against him as gasps rippled through the room. She's so much lighter and she's pregnant.

The priest started forward. Her mother did too. But Tommy just held her, gently cradling her. She’d chosen him.

He didn’t need permission, or to offer an explanation. Tommy didn’t look back. He just turned and marched straight out of the church with her in his arms.

Tommy slid into the back seat beside her, careful not to jostle her as Arthur closed the driver’s door and started the engine.There wasn't a spot of blood on him which meant Rory had the honor of removing his uncle's tongue and hands. He'd speak to him about it later. John was in the passenger seat up front, already lighting a cigarette, both of them quiet now that the tension had finally broken.

She still hadn’t stirred, even when he'd pulled her into his lap. Tommy’s eyes never left her as he adjusted his coat around her, brushing his knuckles lightly across her hand. She looked so frail... but she was safe now, and now she could get better.

His rear door opened again, and Tommy was suprised when her mother appeared, standing by the car. The woman's face was calm, though her eyes shimmered with quiet emotion.

Tommy looked up at her. He straightened instinctively, unsure if she was about to slap him or sob. Instead, she met his gaze and said, “Thank you, Mr. Shelby.”

He held off saying anything until he knew where this was going.

She glanced briefly at her daughter, then back to him.“For dealing with my brother. And for the other one, too.” She blew out an exhale. “My second husband was a cruel man. I don’t mourn him. Not after what he did.”

Tommy watched her carefully.

She’d looked like hell at the safehouse, frail, bruises hidden under layers of pain and forced dignity. But now? She looked much stronger. Clear-eyed and grounded. The resemblance between mother and daughter was unmistakable.

Mary noticed him looking her over.

"She took care of me. Nursed me back to health." She reached in to trace her daughter's cheek. "But now she needs the same chance."

"She'll have it," Tommy finally said. "Anything she needs."

"Thank you, Mr. Shelby."

Tommy shook his head. “Tommy.”

She smiled. “Mary.”

Mary continued, voice quiet but steady. “I'm going back home with my son.” Her mouth lifted, just a little. “It’s time, I can start working again.”

Tommy nodded once. “It’s under my protection now. You’ll never have to worry about safety again.”

Mary gave a quiet laugh, the sound low and knowing.“I guess not. Not now that my son’s a Blinder.”

There was no judgment in her voice, just acceptance. Tommy gave a small smile in return. “He’s a good one.”

Mary’s eyes softened. “Takes after his father.” She studied him for a long beat, really looking at him. Not like a gangster or a reviled gypsy. Not like the man who flipped her family’s life upside down. Just a man holding her daughter.

“I trust you’ll keep her safe now… properly safe.” There was no threat in her words, just the quiet, loaded plea of a mother who had already lost too much.

Tommy didn’t flinch. “With my life,” he said.

Mary's gaze moved to her daughter, resting so quietly now in his arms. "Let her know I’ll be by tomorrow.”

He gave a nod.

She didn’t linger. Just closed the door with a soft click, turned, and walked toward the second car where Rory and Polly were waiting. If Mary thought anything of the spray of blood on her son's crisp white shirt, she didn't react. They disappeared down the road seconds later, Arthur already pulling their own car into gear.

Tommy leaned back, eyes moving over the woman he held. And somewhere, buried beneath the weight of everything they'd experienced today... He actually felt hope. It was a fragile, flickering thing. But it was there.

The fire burned low in the hearth once they made it home to the mansion, throwing off the chill of the day and sending flickers of gold across the walls of the sitting room. The scent of smoke clung to everything--coats, skin, the air itself--like the aftermath of a battlefield.

Tommy sat back in the leather armchair with his shirt sleeves rolled up and the top button of his shirt undone. A glass of whiskey rested untouched in his hand, but for once, he didn't really feel like drinking.

Rory sat stiffly at the edge of the sofa, dried blood still dark on his shirt sleeve, his collar. It wasn't his own, Tommy knew, but it didn’t matter. His hands were clenched between his knees, elbows resting tight against his thighs like if he let go, something inside him might snap. He hadn’t said much since they got back. Just kept glancing toward the stairs, eyes flicking up every few seconds, like he was listening for a footstep, a voice, anything to tell him his sister was all right.

And Tommy understood. God help him, he understood. He wasn’t sure where the line between his worry and Rory’s began anymore. He only knew that the two of them were stuck in the same storm, both waiting on the same answer.

Arthur paced near the fireplace, still riding the high of adrenaline.“That priest nearly shat himself when we walked in,” he muttered, shaking his head. “And that poor sod of a groom. I’ve never seen a man go pale that fast without being shot first.” He huffed a dry laugh, but it lacked bite.

John was leaned against the sideboard, arms crossed, nodding slowly. “Felt good though, didn’t it?” he said, looking at Rory. “Giving the bastard uncle what was coming.”

Rory didn’t smile or smirk. Just looked back at John with steady, unreadable eyes. "He earned it.” His voice was flat, calm.

It was the kind of answer that didn’t ask for agreement or approval. It simply was.

Tommy watched him closely, a flicker of something shifting in his chest. Something final. There was no doubt now. The boy was gone. The man who sat in front of him -- bloody shirt, steady hands, sharp edges -- was a Blinder. Not by name but by nature. And Tommy knew exactly what that meant. Rory could do anything he asked of him now. Whatever it took. But he’d also have to live with it.

Tommy exhaled slowly, tipping his glass in Rory’s direction. "You did right by her.”

And maybe, for the first time in days, Rory allowed the faintest smile in return.

Footsteps on the stairs drew their attention. Polly appeared, her expression unreadable but sharp as ever. Ada was still up there.

"The midwife's having a look at her," Polly said.

Tommy straightened instantly. “Who?”

“Nadya,” Ada replied, gently. “I called her when we got home.”

That was all Tommy needed to hear.

“We figured you wouldn’t want a doctor,” Polly added.

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

He gave a sharp nod, no questions asked. If Polly had called Nadya, the situation had been taken seriously. The Lee midwife had a reputation stretching far beyond gypsy circles. She was trusted, capable, and silent as a grave. Exactly the kind of woman you wanted in moments like this. The kind Tommy trusted more than any bloody doctor in Birmingham.

Polly’s eyes landed on Rory, still perched at the edge of the sofa like he didn’t know how to sit still or breathe properly. His gaze stuck to the floor now, as if looking up might shatter him. She crossed the room slowly and placed a hand on his shoulder, light, but steady.

“She’s strong, love.” Her voice was quiet. “Takes after your mother that way. And she’s not alone, not anymore.”

Rory didn’t look up right away, but when he did, the fight in his eyes had softened. It wasn't gone, but it was banked.

Polly gave him a small nod, her hand squeezing once before letting go. “She’ll be alright.”

Then, as if nothing more needed to be said, she moved to the drinks cabinet and poured herself a brandy, business as usual. That was Polly’s way. Reassurance wrapped in calm certainty.

And in that moment, Rory sat just a little straighter.

Nadya came down the stairs a few moments later, the soft click of her boots nearly lost beneath the low rumble of conversation. Ada trailed behind her, arms folded, eyes locked on the midwife with an unspoken urgency.

The Romani woman’s face gave little away. It was lined with experience, calm in a way that only came from witnessing more pain and joy than most ever would. Her scarf was still tied tight around her dark hair, her hands scrubbed clean, but Tommy could smell herbs and smoke clinging to the folds of her coat.

She spotted Polly immediately. In Romani, quiet and clipped, she said: “I need to speak with you.”

The two women were heading for the side parlor. Tommy was already on his feet. Nadya’s voice was low, too low to catch through the door when he reached it. Polly’s murmurs rose once, then faded again. Whatever was being said wasn’t for him. That much was clear.

And Tommy wouldn't allow that.

Polly had barely shut the side parlor door behind them when Tommy crossed the hall and opened it without knocking. The hinges creaked like they wanted to stop him. They didn’t. Both women turned. Polly’s expression hardened in that way it always did when she was about to scold him. Nadya’s face didn’t change at all.

“This is private,” Polly warned.

Tommy closed the door behind him quietly. “There’s nothing about her that’s private from me anymore.”

That stopped Polly short, but not Nadya. The Romani midwife simply regarded him for a long, measured beat. Then she gave a small nod, as if she’d already known he’d come. She adjusted the scarf around her neck and folded her hands calmly in front of her.

Tommy didn’t sit. He stood there like a soldier at the ready, concerned about what he was about to hear.

“Then listen well,” she said in English this time, her accent thick but clear. “She’s underweight and exhausted.” She held his gaze without flinching.“In the shape she's in... there can be consequences. It can cause problems during the birth, if she makes it that far, for the mother and the baby. The child could be born early, be sickly.”

The words hit with the precision of a bullet. Tommy didn't hear much past if she makes it that far. He knew she wanted the baby. And if she lost it now, it would tear through her like a fatal wound. He'd do all he could to protect them both. But if something happened, they could have more children. He couldn't replace her.

So no, he didn’t flinch or panic. But every muscle in his body coiled tight as steel. “Tell me what she needs,” he said. “Whatever it is, she’ll have it.”

Nadya studied him for a long moment, testing the weight of his words, searching his face for even a flicker of doubt. She found none.

Her voice was quiet, but firm when she answered. “She needs nourishment, water, and deep sleep. No stress, no demands."

Tommy caught her meaning.

"I can visit each day," she offered. "Until she is better."

Tommy nodded. He'd pay her handsomely.

With that, Nadya gave a small nod and stepped past him without another word. Her boots made no sound as she disappeared down the hall, the door clicking gently shut behind her.

Polly lingered. She watched Tommy a moment longer, arms crossed, her eyes sharp but tired. “You heard her,” she said quietly. “Now do it. No lectures. No hovering. Just let her breathe, Tommy.”

His jaw ticked once, but he gave a nod.

Polly stepped closer, her voice softening just enough to cut past the steel. “You love her, I know that. But she’s not yours to fix. She’s hers to heal. Make room for that.”

He didn’t respond. But the silence said enough. Polly nodded once, then turned and left, her skirts whispering down the hallway behind her.

Tommy stood still for a moment longer, letting her words settle where they needed to. When he stepped out of the parlor, he caught a punch to his arm, small and sharp. Ada stood glaring up at him.

"Fucking idiot," she said before marching down the hallway to head home.

She wasn't wrong.

Tommy turned toward the stairs. Each step up felt heavier than it should have, boots pressing into polished wood like the weight of the world was still draped across his shoulders. He hadn’t even reached the landing when he heard it, soft footfalls behind him. He didn’t have to look back to know who it was.

Rory.

Tommy didn’t stop him. If the lad wanted to see his sister, needed to, Tommy wasn’t going to stand in his way. And so they climbed the stairs together in silence, both men carrying different burdens for the same woman. When they reached the top, Tommy paused at the door to his room. The soft glow of candlelight leaked from beneath it. He turned the handle slowly and stepped inside, letting Rory follow behind him without a word.

She was awake when they stepped into the room. The candlelight cast a warm, flickering glow over the space, softening the sharp edges of everything. She looked so small in his bed. Fragile, even, curled slightly on her side beneath the quilt. But her eyes met theirs the moment the door opened. And despite everything, the weight of the day, she smiled. Just a little.

Tommy’s chest tightened at the sight of it. Like the air had turned to glass inside him. He crossed the room slowly, not saying a word, just… He sat at the edge of the bed next to her. Making sure she was really there.

Rory followed, quieter still, lingering just inside the door like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

"Rory," her voice was a raspy, tired. "Come here."

Her brother stepped forward without hesitation, moving to the side of the bed. He came to a stop just next to Tommy, shoulders squared but eyes betraying the ache he carried with him.

Tommy didn’t say a word. Just sat there as her gaze moved over Rory, taking him in, like she hadn’t truly seen him until now. The fine suit. The blood on his sleeve, his shirt. The Peaky cap in his hand. She blinked, eyes glassy, but full of something deeper than fatigue. Recognition. Tommy could feel the moment she saw it, not just what her brother had become, but what he’d done to protect her. What he'd risked. Her fingers twitched slightly above the quilt, like she wanted to reach for him. But she didn’t yet.

And Tommy sat still between them, letting her take it all in, that fragile peace between them settling like dust in golden light.

“You look… grown up,” she murmured, smiling. “And handsome. But don’t let it go to your head.”

Rory shook his head. “Don’t worry. Tommy’s already made sure I don’t forget who’s boss.”

Her gaze shifted to Tommy and back. She reached out, her fingers brushing her brother’s wrist where he stood beside the bed. “Where’s Mum?”

Rory’s voice softened. “Back home. Getting ready to take in some sewing."

She closed her eyes for a moment. "We missed you," she whispered.

Rory nodded, his throat bobbing with the weight of everything they weren’t saying. Then, with a glance to Tommy: “Now, you'll never get rid of me.”

She looked between them, Rory’s hand still close, Tommy’s presence steady just beyond. “Will one of you do something for me?” Her voice was soft, but firm.

Tommy gave the smallest nod.

She exhaled slowly. “Burn that fucking dress.”

Rory huffed a laugh.Tommy’s jaw ticked just slightly, and he smiled. Not because it was funny, but because it was right. That dress had become a symbol of everything he hated about how she’d been treated. What he had done. Seeing her wear it in that church felt like watching her carry someone else’s shame.

But hearing her say it, demand it be destroyed, meant she wasn’t carrying it anymore. It wasn’t a surrender, but a choice. And Tommy, for once, didn’t want to control the outcome.

Gazing up at her brother again, her eyes were gentle. "Thank you for coming for me. For seeing me. For... everything."

Rory cleared his throat, rough around the edges.“You don’t have to thank me for that.”

Her hand squeezed his. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Rory hesitated before bending down and kissing her forehead. With a nod to Tommy, he quietly slipped out of the room, the door closing with a soft click.

The quiet pressed in, gentle but heavy, like the whole room had been holding its breath.

You didn’t look at him at first. You weren’t ready. Your fingers curled against the edge of the quilt you remembered, still looking and feeling like it was barely used. The lamplight cast flickering shadows across the walls, dancing in time with the pulse pounding faintly in your ears.

You could feel him. He sat next to you on the bed, still and steady.

Finally, you took a deep breath and turned your head. Met his gaze.

Tommy looked exhausted, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and hands clasped loosely between his knees. Not just from the day, but from everything. The months and the lies, and the cost of it all. And still, still--he looked at you like you were the only thing that made sense.

“I should’ve known,” you said, pleading in your tone. Tears were already stinging the backs of your eyes.

Tommy’s brow creased. “Known what?”

You let out a shaky breath. “That it was a lie. The maid and that message. Everything.” You blinked hard. “I walked right into it. Like a bloody fool.”

His whole expression shifted. Not in pity or disbelief. But something colder and dangerous. “The maid?” His voice was like gravel under ice.

You nodded slowly. “The new one. Fair hair, always nervous around you. I... I don’t even think she wanted to do it. She looked terrified when she told me. But she said… she said Mum was badly injured. She didn’t say how, just... gave me an address.” You swallowed, shame threading through every word. “I should’ve known better. After everything. I should’ve known not to trust someone.”

The muscles in his jaw flexed. “You’re not a fool,” he said, voice low. “But someone in my house is about to wish you were.”

The quiet in the room dropped another octave. His mind was already turning, you could see it behind his eyes. The machinery of his fury winding itself up like a slow-turning vice.

No, you were apologizing, not trying to get someone killed. You reached for his hand, taking it in yours. He stilled, it was like you'd temporarily disarmed him.

“She was scared,” you whispered. “My stepfather was responsible. Maybe he threatened her. I don’t know. But she didn’t look like someone trying to hurt me. Just someone trying to survive.”

His eyes stayed locked to yours, and for a moment, neither of you breathed. “That doesn’t mean she’s staying.”

You let that point drop. You knew the look in his eyes that now meant that girl’s fate was already sealed. No amount of mercy from you could unmake the choices she'd made.

But what you had to say next sat like a stone on your chest. Your gaze drifted past him for a moment, to the window. The memory of what happened on the front step, the blood that stained the stone.

“I’m sorry,” you went on, the words barely above a whisper.

Tommy’s brow furrowed. “For what?”

“For the man who died.” Your voice cracked, and you forced the rest out. “He tried to stop them. He died because of me.”

Tommy didn’t flinch, didn’t deny it happened. He moved closer to you. “His name was Ellis,” he said quietly. “He was loyal. Brave. And he died doing what I trained him to do.”

You shook your head, tears threatening to spill from your eyes now. “That doesn’t make it better.”

His gaze met yours, steady and calm in a way that almost made it worse. “It wasn’t supposed to make it better,” he said. “It’s the truth. Every man who wears the cap, including your brother, knows what it means. They make a choice. Same as I did.”

His words were solid and final.They should’ve helped, but they didn’t. He lived with that weight by turning it into steel and control and fury.

You? You just lived with it. And now Ellis's blood would never be anything but your burden to carry.

Tommy saw it in your face, how it still sat in your chest like it belonged there, and he didn’t argue with you. There was just warmth and the quiet promise that at least you weren’t carrying it alone.

Tommy squeezed your hand once, firm but careful, before letting go. “You need rest,” he said gently. “We’ll talk more when you’ve had some.”

You nodded, even though you felt more tired than you'd ever been in your entire life. Your mind hadn’t stopped spinning since the moment he burst through the church doors. But he wasn’t just placating you. There was a quiet worry lining the edges of his expression, tension in the way he watched your every movement, like he didn’t want to crowd you, but couldn’t help checking for signs you might shatter again.

He saw you were struggling physically, more than you were letting on. You saw it in his eyes.

Before he could say it aloud, before he could give voice to the thing that had haunted your sleep and made you curl protectively around your belly in the dark, you said, “I know I'm not... well, right now.”

His eyes softened, but his posture didn’t shift.

You reached for his hand, took it back. Then your voice cracked again, the tears came on. “I’m so sorry I left.”

That made his brow twitch slightly, the only betrayal of how much those words mattered.

You took a breath. “I didn’t know about the baby. Not until weeks later.” You looked down, ashamed.“I left to take care of Mum. That was all it was. My uncle was… he was so insistent. And I thought I was doing the right thing, that it’d only be for a little while. That I could-- But I could have said something and I didn't...”

You stopped. Your throat clenched too tightly to finish.

Tommy reached up then, brushing his knuckles gently against your cheek. “You don’t have to explain everything right now,” he said, voice low. “But I needed to hear that.”

Your eyes flicked to his. “That I wasn’t trying to leave you?”

He gave the smallest nod. “That you didn’t choose someone else. Something else. Over me.”

You swallowed hard. “My mother was in horrible shape. I was scared when I started piecing things together. But... I never stopped thinking about you.”

His thumb rested against your jaw now, steady as ever. “Love, this is all on me,” Tommy said softly, firmly. “Not you.”

You started to protest, to say something -- anything -- to shoulder your share of the wreckage, but he silenced you with the faintest shake of his head.

“You blame yourself for what happened… but I built the house.” A pause. His voice was quiet, full of regret. “I opened the door. And I never should’ve let you walk into it blind.”

More tears as you watched him. Tommy let his thumb brush along your jaw again, like he could ease the ache building behind your eyes.

Your gaze searched his face. “Tommy…”

He looked at you instantly, alert -- but not impatient.

“The baby.” You hesitated. “Do you…”

His head tilted slightly, like he already knew where your mind had gone, but he let you finish anyway.

"Do you even want it?” Your voice was so soft it barely reached him. But the question stopped him cold.

Tommy stilled, eyes locked on yours. Not in confusion or hesitation.

“It’s mine.” His voice was low, certain. “I knew it before Rory said the words. I knew it before I saw you today.” His gaze drifted briefly to your stomach, then back to your face. “This child is mine. And so are you.” The words weren’t possessive, not in the way men like Sean O’Grady twisted love into something cruel. Tommy’s voice held something different. A vow, a truth spoken plainly, without theatrics. “Family is sacred. What you give your life for. What you build everything around. It’s not something you toss away because things didn’t go to plan.”

His hand clutched your just a little tighter.

“You gave me something I never thought I’d have. And now that I do, I’ll protect it, with everything I am.” Leaning forward, he kissed your forehead. “I want all of it. You. The child. The future we're owed, even if I burned the path getting us here.”

Your fingers curled slightly under his, not pulling away, but still unsure if it was real. Because people didn’t talk like that. Not to you or about you. No one had ever made you feel like you were anything special. Like your life -- your love, your child -- was something sacred. The ache in your chest swelled, sharp and unfamiliar. It burned, felt like hope.

You didn’t speak, couldn’t, not with your throat tight and your heart knocking against your ribs like it wanted to break free of your body. But your hand moved. You turned it under his and laced your fingers with his. It wasn’t a declaration, but it was something.

A beginning. A promise that just maybe, you were strong enough to try again with him. With all of it.

The silence between you then was thick, but not cold. Just… full. Like there were too many words and not enough room to let them out.

Finally, he spoke. “I’ve been thinkin’.” His voice was rough. “About how we got here.”

You didn’t interrupt, but your heart started flying.

“All of it started as strategy. One more play on the board. I told myself I was in control.” He gave a bitter, quiet laugh. “And I was. Until you.” He turned slightly to look at you now, the lamplight casting long shadows on his face.

“I never gave you a choice,” Tommy said quietly, eyes fixed on the space between you. “Didn’t expect to care as much as I did… but once you were here in my house, it stopped bein’ about power or vengeance.” He looked at you then, really looked. “Stopped bein’ about makin’ a point to Small Heath... It became just about you.”

He looked down at his hands for a beat, then back up.

“The war made emotions hard for me,” he admitted, like the confession itself was something fragile in his throat. “Expressing them harder. I made choices that left no room for softness. No time for honesty. Only angles and leverage. And I hate that it touched you, too.” He swallowed thickly. “But I’m not going to get this wrong again. Not with you.”

It wasn't just at the words, but the way he said them. Like they cost him something, scraped against old wounds just to reach you. Tommy wasn’t just apologizing. He was exposing parts of himself he never let anyone see. And for the first time, you realized… He wasn’t the only one who had been afraid. You’d both been surviving. But now, maybe, just maybe, you could start living.Together.

“I handled all of it wrong. I didn’t say the right things. Didn't give you truth when I should have.” A pause. “But I never lied about this -- how I feel about you. I didn’t know how to say it… so I tried to show it. Protecting you. Taking care of your mum. Bringing Rory in close.”

Your mother's words came back to you. The Thomas Shelby fell in love with my daughter.

He had done those things. Even now, as his voice wavered and steadied, you could see the pieces of it. Nothing had been done out of obligation or strategy. It was something much deeper. Love, your mother had said. You weren’t sure you could call it that yet. But maybe… maybe you were getting closer.

“You were never just a message, love. You were the moment the game stopped mattering... And I’d do anything to keep you from ever feeling like a pawn again.” The air hung heavy between you. “You’re not here because I won. You’re here because you chose to be." Some emotion flashed in his eyes. "And if you choose to stay… I’ll spend every day earning it.”

You held his hand tighter, just letting him get it out. He had to be able to hear the sound of your heart, racing, hoping.

Tommy drew in a breath, slow and uneven.“I’ve spent my whole life building walls. Men like me… we don’t get to be soft. We don’t get to want things, not really.” His eyes met yours -- steady now, but tired. “But I wanted you. I did the first time I laid eyes on you... And it scared the hell out of me, how much.”

A silence passed between you, heavy with things neither of you had ever been taught how to say.

“I thought if I kept it all tight, you wouldn’t see the cracks. Wouldn’t see what the war left behind...” His thumb gently brushed away a tear that slid from the corner of your eye. "No more lies. No more silence.” A breath. “I love you.”

It wasn't an admission or a calculated risk. A vow.

Tommy went on before you could respond, your heart melting as he poured his feelings out. And you listened because you knew you weren't likely to see him vulnerable very often, if at all after tonight. But now you understood him.

“You need to know,” he said, voice lower now, firmer.“I’m not easy. I won’t pretend to be.” He looked down for a moment, jaw working. When his eyes lifted again, they were clearer and his gaze locked with yours.“You’re as good as married to the devil himself. I’ve done things you’ll never want to hear about. I’ll make decisions that don’t always make sense to you. And I won’t be gentle all the time... But I will love you. And I will protect what’s mine.”

The hand at your cheek moved instinctively to your tummy, so carefully. Reverent. “You and this child… you’ll have everything I can give. Not just money or security, but respect. Legacy. A name no one will ever touch. But for that to happen…” he said slowly, “I need you to get well. Strong again. For the baby. For you. For what’s next.”

You swallowed, your throat dry. “What’s next?”

He didn’t hesitate. “A wedding.”

You froze at that word, especially given the day you had.

“Tommy...” The word came with instinct, with nerves, and the hundred doubts spinning inside your head.“What about… what will people say?” You glanced down at yourself, the tiny curve barely noticeable now under his hand, but soon it would be obvious. “I’ll be showing. Everyone will know.”

He leaned in closer, his voice low and resolute. “Good.”

Your eyes shot back to his.

“Let them see. Let them talk.” His gaze never wavered. “They should know exactly who you are... my bride. My family. And they should know what happens to anyone who even thinks about layin’ a hand on what’s mine. You'll show in your dress, love. And I’ll stand beside you like I’ve never been prouder of anything in my goddamn life.”

Tommy smiled. With a dry edge to his voice, he added. “And no fucking red dress. I’ll burn it myself, if Rory doesn’t beat me to it.”

You had to smile at that. Your brother would beat him to it.

A breath passed, and he softened slightly. “I know it’s the last thing you want to think about today.” His thumb brushed gently across your knuckles.“But it’s important. Not just for appearances. Not just for power or status or whatever they all think it means... It’s for us. For the life we’re going to build.”

His hand smoothed over your belly while your heart was crashing in your chest.“You won’t be hidden ever again. You won’t be whispered about. You’ll walk into that church like the woman you are, strong, beautiful, and mine.” He leaned closer, forehead nearly touching yours.“It won’t always be soft. But it will always be real. You have my word.”

You nodded, kissed him carefully on the lips. "Okay," you whispered. "And Tommy, I --"

His kiss cut you off, stopped you from telling him you loved him because he knew it was coming. "Not right now," he said meaningfully. "Tell me when you mean it. And I'll know it's true then."

For all that Tommy was, how did he know you weren't there now?

“Nadya’s coming back tomorrow. Every day, until you’re well.” His voice was quiet, but there was no room for negotiation in it. “And you’re to do whatever she tells you. No arguing. No trying to be strong when you’re not.”

You nodded without hesitation.“I liked her,” you whispered, meaning it. “She reminded me of Polly, a little.”

That earned the faintest ghost of a smile from him.“A bit more terrifying, if you ask me.”

“I’ll listen to her,” you promised.

Tommy leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering for a beat. “Good.” He paused before adding,“Your mother’s coming tomorrow, too."

You hesitated, eyes fluttering closed for a moment before reopening. “My mother’s house…” you began softly. “Will it be safe? Will she be okay there?” You looked up at him, worry flickering in your expression. “Will Rory he be allowed to keep an eye on things? After all this is… settled?”

Tommy didn’t hesitate. “The house and your mother are under my protection,” he said firmly. “So is the shop. No one will lay a hand on either without answering to me.” He let his thumb sweep gently across your hand before continuing. “Rory’s a Blinder now. He’ll keep watch over her. Over both of you. I’ll see to it.”

A breath you didn’t know you were holding slipped from your lungs. Relief, warm and quiet, spread through your chest.

He saw it, felt it. "You’ve done enough worrying,” he murmured then.“Get some rest, love.”

And this time, you thought maybe you actually could.

You were already asleep as he quietly stripped off his clothes, had one last drink of whiskey. Tommy slid into bed and curled up behind you. You were sound asleep, hands tucked under your pillow as your breath came in shallow whispers. You'd chosen him and you were back where you belonged. He slid one arm under your pillow, his other hand draped over what the two of you made, holding you both.

@outlanderuniverse @alyssajunelle @gothic-chinadoll @sparda1234 @mrsnms @alexakeyloveloki @theinheriteddutchess @wiseyouthingluencer @lovinglimerence @goldensunflowe-r @andydrysdalerogers @hellfirehopeless

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#The Arrangement #Peaky Blinders #Peaky Blinders Fanfic #Thomas Shelby #Tommy Shelby #Tommy Shelby x reader #Tommy Shelby x You #Arthur Shelby #John Shelby #Ada Shelby #Polly Gray #Angst #Redemption?

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