#It's still the first chapter and I'm laughing

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Twenty-One

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, stress + anxiety, strong language, lots of big brother max

Notes — I'm making a moodboard for their apartment as we speak.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

Chapter 21 (Italy—Sochi)

The hotel room was still dark, the light being kept out by the heavy curtains, when he slipped back inside after his morning run with Jon.

She was exactly where he’d left her; curled up on the bed, her knees tucked under her chin, arms wrapped tight around herself. Like she was trying to fold herself down to nothing.

Lando kicked off his shoes without a word. He climbed onto the bed fully dressed, crawling up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing his forehead to the curve of her spine. His body was warm, grounding.

“I’m here, baby,” he whispered, voice barely more than a breath. “You’re okay. I’m okay.”

She exhaled, shaky and thin, and Lando tightened his arms around her, one hand splaying wide across her stomach, the other slipping under her hoodie to find the bare skin of her hip. Skin to skin. Just breathing together for a while.

She didn’t say anything. 

Time blurred, slow and syrupy around them. When she finally rolled over to face him, he shifted back just enough to meet her eyes. She pressed her hand to his chest, right over his heart, feeling the steady rhythm of it. Real and alive.

“I hate this part,” she muttered, voice rough from disuse.

Lando smiled. That quiet, steady smile he only ever gave her. "I know, baby,” he said, voice low but sure. “But it matters, yeah? It’s part of you, so we take care of it. No questions."

Her throat went tight, but she nodded anyway.

Then, almost shyly, he shifted, reaching for something under the bed. "I was gonna show you after media day," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, a little sheepish. "But... maybe now’s better."

She blinked, caught off guard, as he pulled his helmet out and held it out to her.

At first glance, it looked the same; the familiar colours, the design she knew better than the back of her own hand. Green and blue, his logo on the side. 

But as she tilted it in her hands, the light caught something new, tucked just beneath the visor line, subtle but unmistakable.

A tiny, hand-drawn ‘Amelia’. Barely visible unless you knew where to look.

Her breath hitched.

“I, uh...” Lando’s voice cracked a little, and he gave a helpless little shrug. “Wanted you with me. Even when I’m out there alone.”

Amelia pressed her lips together, hard. She could already taste the salt of her own tears.

She traced the tiny letter with a fingertip, reverent. “You’re not allowed to crash anymore,” she said thickly, trying for a smile.

He gave a breath of a laugh, forehead dropping to hers. “Deal.”

They lay like that for a long time. He puts the helmet back on the floor. She closes her eyes and lets herself feel it — Safe. Together.

— 

Lando followed a strict diet plan.

That plan did not involve pancakes, especially not the kind drowning in syrup and butter.

Amelia, on the other hand, followed no such diet, and all she wanted was a towering stack of them. Golden, fluffy, dripping with syrup, maybe even a pat of melting butter sliding down the sides.

She sat at the little table in their hotel suite, staring at Lando with a deepening frown, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

Was it rude?

Cruel, even?

To crave his favourite breakfast food right in front of him, knowing he couldn’t have any? 

He caught her staring, raised an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

She hesitated, dragging her spoon around the rim of her empty coffee cup. “I really want pancakes,” she mumbled.

A beat. Then Lando laughed, soft and disbelieving, reaching across the table to tug at her sleeve. “Get them then, babe. I don’t mind.”

She shook her head a little too quickly. “No. You can’t have any. Feels mean.”

His smile faltered, confusion creasing his brow. “Amelia, it’s not mean. I swear. I’m fine.”

But she still looked miserable, like she was stuck in a fight with herself she couldn’t win. Her hands twisted in the hem of her hoodie, and her chest rose in a tight, frustrated breath she couldn’t seem to let go.

Lando’s heart ached at the sight of her, working herself up over something as silly as pancakes.

He stood up, coming around the table, crouching down in front of her. His hands found hers, stilling their nervous fidgeting.

“Alright,” he said gently. “No pancakes. Let’s go get smoothies instead before we head to the track. Just me and you.”

She nodded wetly, blinking hard. “Okay.”

“Good girl,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Go get dressed. I’ll call the concierge service.”

—

At the track, she was still holding her berry smoothie, tight between both hands, when she wandered into Max’s garage.

Max turned to look at her, a familiar gruffness to his expression, but something softer beneath it. In his hands, he was holding a takeout box.

“Your boyfriend thinks I’m a breakfast service now,” he said, deadpan, lifting the box a little. The scent of pancakes hit her almost immediately. Warm. Sweet. Comforting.

Amelia blinked. “He— what?”

Max huffed a quiet laugh, not sounding mad at all. “Told me you wanted pancakes. Said if he couldn’t get them for you himself, he’d get me to do it.” He shoved the box at her, almost awkwardly. “Here. Before they get cold.”

Amelia blinked down at the box, then back up at Max.

She opened it carefully, the smell of syrup and butter blooming up to meet her. Her throat tightened again, but this time for a completely different reason.

Max caught the wobbly look on her face and groaned. “Don’t cry,” he said, gruffly. “It’s just pancakes, meisje.”

She laughed, watery and embarrassed, and Max rolled his eyes like it was all terribly inconvenient for him, but he nudged a stool toward her with his foot anyway.

“Sit,” he ordered. “Eat.” When she hesitated, he gave her a look. The one he usually reserved for the engineers when they said something particularly stupid over the radio. “I didn’t carry them all the way through the paddock for you to just stare at them.”

She giggled, sliding onto the stool, picking up the fork tucked into the side of the box. She took a bite, chewing obediently under Max’s piercing watch.

Only then did he seem to relax, folding his arms across his chest.

There was a long moment where neither of them said anything. Just the low background noise of the garage coming to life, the clatter of tyre trolleys and the buzz of chatter. Finally, Amelia set the fork down, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand.

“I’m not just crying over pancakes, you know,” she said quietly, not quite looking at him.

Max tilted his head, like he already knew but wasn’t going to make her say it unless she wanted to.

She sniffed.

“It’s just...” Amelia tugged at the sleeve of her jacket, her voice low and strained. “After Lando’s crash, and yours, and…” She trailed off, pressing her lips together, trying to make the words line up properly in her head before they left her mouth. “I don’t believe in luck.” Her tone was almost reverent in its certainty, like she was reciting a law. “It’s not real. It’s just a human attempt to impose meaning on random variables. A way to feel like we have control when we don’t.” She sucked in a breath, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve again. “But even knowing that... it still feels like we’re running out of it.”

Max was quiet for a beat.

Then he sighed and knocked his elbow gently against her arm. “You’re allowed to be anxious. After everything.”

She gave him a weak smile.

“I feel weak,” she admitted.

“You’re not,” Max said immediately, firm enough that she almost believed it. “You care. That’s not weak.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing around like he didn’t want to make a big deal of it. “We’re all a little fucked up about it, Amelia. You just show it more. That’s not an awful thing.”

She blinked hard, willing herself not to cry again.

“Eat your pancakes,” Max added, gruff again. “Otherwise I’m telling Lando you’re wasting his favourite food, and then he’ll be the one crying.”

Amelia laughed, properly this time, and picked up the fork again.

Max looked pleased with himself in that deeply annoying older brother way.

— 

Amelia sat cross-legged on a bench in the paddock, arms folded as she watched Lando and Daniel make fools of themselves in front of the McLaren social media intern. They were filming some ridiculous challenge; Lando was pretending to dodge invisible obstacles, flailing around in his usual dramatic style while Daniel egged him on.

It didn’t take long before her dad appeared next to her, raising an eyebrow as he looked over at the two drivers. “What are they doing?” He asked. 

Amelia glanced up at him. “Pretending to be professional athletes.”

Zak shook his head with a quiet laugh and leaned back against the bench. His eyes softened as he looked at her. “How’s the move going?”

She shrugged. “Good. Slow. We’ve got the keys, so the place is ours, but back-to-back races make it difficult to find time to actually get there and sort everything out.”

He nodded, listening intently. “You had the decorators in?”

Amelia gave him a quick nod. “Yeah. And the furniture’s all set up. It’s ready to move in, but… I don’t know. I feel like I’m going to want to move some things around, you know? Maybe air it out before we spend the first night there.”

“Hows the rent?” Zak asked, his voice taking on that dad-like curiosity.

Amelia blinked. “Rent?”

Her dad looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “Yeah, honey. I was going to ask if you needed any help—”

She cut him off with a small, exasperated laugh. “No. No rent. Lando bought it.”

Zak froze, blinking at her like he hadn’t quite heard right. “Wait, what?”

Amelia gave him a look, more confused than anything. She was sure she hadn’t mumbled. “I said, Lando bought it.”

“I heard you.” Zak’s voice shifted, a sudden tension in his expression. “Did you… did you split it?”

Amelia let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “As if. I paid for breakfast the other day and he properly went off at me. He hates it when I spend my money. He knows that I have money — Max pays me really well, but it doesn’t seem to matter.” She shrugged. 

Her dad let out a long breath. “Well… I’m happy for you, honey. I’m glad you’ve found a place to call your own, even if you’re gonna be living in a different country.”

She nudged him with her shoulder. “You can visit. And we’ll still be at the same races most of the year anyway.”

Zak glanced back at her, eyes flickering between Lando and her. “I didn’t realise it was this serious between you two,” he said quietly. “I mean, I know Lando has money, but… buying an apartment? That’s...”

Amelia met his eyes with a gentle, knowing smile. “Yeah, it’s serious, Dad. It has been a while now, almost two years.” 

Her dad’s expression softened, though the anxiety in his face lingered. “I just want to make sure you’re both okay. That’s all.”

“We’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry about us. We’ve got this handled.”

“Yeah, well… I’m still your dad.” He pulled her into a side hug, his voice softening. “Just make sure he takes care of you.”

“He does,” she replied simply.

“Good.” He nodded, then winced as his drivers collided in a heap on the ground. “Jesus.”

Amelia made a face. “He’s getting better at the whole ‘responsible adult’ thing. This... this is just a relapse.”

Her dad chuckled. “If you say so. Just—promise me one thing.”

“What?” She blinked at him, curious.

“Don’t elope. You’re both,” he winced. ”Way too young to get married.” 

She paused, the thought of Lando giving her a ring, of wearing a silky white dress, of saying ‘I do,’ and being his in every way, even in the eyes of the law, flashing in her mind. No more waiting for permission to visit him in medical. “Okay. Sure.” She said. 

— 

Max was pacing back and forth in the motorhome, the floor creaking slightly with each heavy step as he muttered to himself. His hands were clenched into fists, and his jaw was tight with frustration. Amelia sat at the small table, quietly watching him. 

She knew him well enough to understand that this was just his way of processing things. He needed to burn through the fury before he could think clearly again.

“—can’t believe him,” Max grumbled, stopping momentarily and running a hand through his hair. “He’s such a hypocrite. Acting like he’s the only one who can race, like he’s the only one who understands the rulebook; as though I haven’t studied it front-to-back every year since I joined this sport.”

Amelia reached for her tablet, pulling up their strategy sheets. 

“Just because he’s been around longer, he thinks he can say whatever he wants and get away with it. Ridiculous,” Max continued, his voice rising a little. He threw his hands in the air, making a frustrated noise. “I’m done letting him get away with it.”

Amelia didn’t look up from her screen, though she was still listening. 

Max continued to rant, his voice growing softer but still tinged with that simmering anger. He was still venting about Lewis and the press conference, repeating things he’d already said. It was the same thing, over and over, but Amelia didn’t let it distract her. She was focused. 

Finally, Max stopped in his tracks and stared at her, eyes narrowed. “You’re not even listening, are you?”

Amelia blinked, surprised by the question, her attention snapping back to him. “Of course I am. You’re still complaining about Lewis, right?”

Max snorted, a sound somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “You’re unbelievable.”

Amelia gave him a half-smile. “You just needed to get it out,” she said, shrugging. “You’ll be fine.”

“You always say that,” Max muttered, his voice softer now, tinged with a quiet frustration. “But it just... gets to me sometimes, you know? He knows exactly how to get under my skin.”

“I know,” Amelia replied, her voice low and steady. “Mind games.”

Max rubbed the back of his neck. “It feels like he’s trying to bait me every time we cross paths. It’s like... I can’t win. He knows how to push all the right buttons.”

Amelia nodded, her eyes flicking back to the tablet as she continued to mentally calculate the tire strategies. “I get it. He’s good at it, and it’s easy to let it get to you.”

Max exhaled through his nose, running his hand through his hair. “It’s just... it makes me so angry.”

She looked up at him then, her gaze steady, almost sympathetic. “I know. But you’re not going to beat him by doing something stupid. You’ll beat him by doing what you do best—racing.”

Max paused, processing her words. For a moment, he seemed to calm down, his anger losing some of its heat as he absorbed her advice. 

He gave a small nod, the fire in his eyes shifting toward something she couldn’t quite place. “Right. Racing.”

Amelia stared at him, trying to work out what that new intensity in his gaze meant. It was different; darker, sharper. More focused.

And it didn’t look friendly.

She frowned, but before she could ask, Max turned his back to her, grabbing a bottle of water and opening it with a sharp twist.

— 

Amelia stood quietly at the edge of the F2 podium celebrations, her eyes focused on Oscar as he soaked in the victory, the Australian flag draped behind him. 

Oscar’s attention flicked over to her, and a small smile passed between them. He waved briefly, and she waved back. 

—

“That’s what happens when you don’t leave the space.”

Amelia’s jaw was clenched so tight it ached as she stared at the broadcast. Her eyes flicked to Jos, who stood behind her, just as pissed.

“Idiot.” One of the mechanics spat from the corner of the garage.

Amelia’s eyes flicked to him. Without hesitation, she snapped, “Hey. Shut up. Lewis turned in on him. What was he supposed to do? You want to talk shit, do it somewhere else.”

The mechanic blinked, caught off guard by the uncharacteristic sharpness of her voice, before he stormed off, muttering under his breath.

She turned back to the screen, chest tight with anger, fists clenched at her sides. 

Jos moved to stand beside her. “He was angry before the race.” 

Amelia shook her head, trying to convince herself. “He wouldn’t have done that on purpose.” But even she could hear the uncertainty in her voice.

Jos tutted in frustration. “I’ll talk to him. You will, too.” He gestured angrily at the replay of the incident. “Preventable. Doesn’t matter what anyone says. Today, he could’ve scored points, but now he won’t even see the flag. Idiot.”

Amelia’s gaze stayed fixed on the screen. Lewis’ car had been pinned under Max’s, and she couldn’t help but feel a brief flicker of concern for him, wondering if he was alright. But that thought quickly shifted as her mind refocused on Max.

She knew he had been aware of the situation; he was a numbers guy, a good strategist. Max would’ve seen Lewis coming out of the pits, on an arguably better strategy and known.

Advantage Hamilton. 

— 

In the end, Amelia celebrated McLaren’s 1-2 finish as if it were her own. Her ear defenders muffled the roar of the crowd, but she could feel the energy pulsing through the air.

During the Australian national anthem, Lando caught her eye and winked. Her smile was so wide it hurt, but she didn’t care.

Max, suitably chastised, stood a few steps behind her like a loyal guard dog, his presence a steady anchor as she cheered and shouted beneath the podium. Daniel, Lando, and Valtteri were drenched in champagne, spraying each other as the crowd erupted in cheers.

Her dad was a few meters ahead, his pride and excitement palpable. He was beaming, radiating pure thrill at this unexpected result.

Amelia turned to Max once the boys disappeared behind the podium. “Take me to him?” she asked, her voice full of quiet excitement.

Max gave her a curt nod, his hand sliding around her waist to pull her close. Without hesitation, he carved a path through the crowd of competing teams and loud tifosi. 

— 

With a week off between Italy and Russia, it was finally time for them to head back to Monaco.

Walking into the apartment felt... off. It was their home, technically, but it was still so unfamiliar. The walls were too quiet, the space too pristine — a show house rather than a home. 

After an hour of restless pacing, Amelia couldn't stand it anymore. She had to make it hers. She started moving things around, adjusting the placement of Lando’s trophy case, taking all her soft furnishings out of the still-packed moving boxes and draping them over the furniture. She fluffed cushions, rearranged the rug, and shifted the vases on the coffee table, making it all feel more... real. More them.

Lando stood by, a soft, patient smile on his face, letting her direct him with quiet instructions as she floated around, making little adjustments. She caught glimpses of him while she worked, seeing how relaxed he looked. He didn’t mind this, didn’t mind how much it mattered to her.

They went to a furniture store next, the kind with well-worn chairs and tables with character. They found a patio set for their balcony, just big enough for the two of them to sit outside in the mornings, watching the world go by. It was perfect. 

Later, they found the bakery, a tiny place just a five-minute walk from their building. The smell of their fresh pastries wafted all the way to their balcony. They served panini at lunch.

Amelia made sure to carve out a walking route that she felt safe doing alone in the mornings when Lando couldn’t be with her. It was a small thing, but it mattered. The little streets, the way the sun reflected off the harbour, the quiet hum of the morning.

Late in the afternoon, Charles FaceTimed Lando, laughing loudly because he could see them from his window. They looked up just in time to see him hanging halfway out of it, waving enthusiastically. He wa grinning from ear to ear.

"Oi, what are you doing, spying on us?" Lando called up, his voice teasing. Charles only waved harder, an exaggerated motion.

“He looks ridiculous,” Amelia said. She still waved back. 

“We are truly neighbours!” Charles celebrated.

Later, they drove across town to Max’s place for dinner. The familiar, comfortable rhythm of the evening soothed Amelia, who sank into the couch, letting Max’s cats climb all over her. She pet them absently, laughing as they curled up, purring loudly. She showered them with kisses, not caring how ridiculous she looked.

Lando watched from the other side of the room, his arms crossed, his expression a mix of mock annoyance and genuine jealousy. He pointed to one of the cats sprawled across her lap, then to himself. "Seriously?" He said. 

Max didn’t miss a beat. "Pathetic," he judged. 

— 

Sochi was… painful.

Lando had been on top form all weekend. He was leading the race with a perfect drive, fluid, controlled, his tire management a thing of beauty. This wasn’t just a win in the making. It was his win. Every corner, every straight, he owned it. 

Then rain appeared on the radar, and Amelia’s heart clenched. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the pit tracker, every second ticking by as she silently pleaded with the McLaren crew to bring Lando in. If they called him in before the others, he’d have a huge advantage. He’d be the only one with proper grip on the track, a chance to pull away while the rest struggled. It was a strategy that could’ve sealed the win.

But they didn’t.

Lando stayed out. He held his lead. And then the rain came down harder.

She watched, helpless, as he aquaplaned two laps from the end of the race. Her stomach dropped. Every muscle in her body tensed, as if trying to reach out and stop the inevitable. The track seemed to swallow him whole as he slid, losing traction, losing everything. First place to seventh in the blink of an eye.

She closed her eyes, the sting of frustration searing through her. She wanted to scream, to tear something apart, anything to dissipate the ache gnawing at her chest.

And then Lewis crossed the line in first place. His 100th victory.

The statistic felt empty to Amelia. It didn’t matter. Not when it came at the cost of Lando’s maiden victory. 

— 

Lando was pacing, hands running through his hair with barely concealed frustration. His words were a jumble of self-recriminations, and Amelia could barely keep up with them.

“I should’ve found a dry spot. I should’ve seen it, felt it. I was right there, so close. God, I—” He stopped mid-sentence, shaking his head, his breath coming in short bursts as if the weight of the race, the rain, and his mistake were all too much.

Amelia was sitting on the couch, watching him with a mixture of patience and concern. “Lando,” she started, her voice sharp enough to cut through the tension. He didn’t stop pacing, but he did glance over at her. “It was the perfect drive. Perfect tire management. You led for most of the race. It wasn’t you who messed this up.”

He scoffed, throwing his hands up in frustration. “It was me. I had it in the bag, and then— that stupid fucking corner—”

“Stop saying that,” Amelia interrupted, standing up now. “We’ve been through this. You made the call with what you had in the moment. There’s nothing more you could’ve done.”

He shot her a look, and there was a bitter bite to his words. “I don’t need a pep talk, Amelia. I need to figure out what I did wrong.”

She took a deep breath, trying to keep her own frustration in check. “I’m not giving you a pep talk.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. At this point, all I care about is winning. I need it, Amelia. Daniel got it in Monza, why—” He choked on the words, frustration so thick he couldn’t even talk through it. 

Amelia crossed the room, standing in front of him. “It wasn’t your fault.”

For a moment, his anger flared, his eyes flashing with it, his body tense. “It should’ve been my time. It’s always so damn close, and I can’t—”

She cut him off again, her voice much quieter now, almost a whisper. “You don’t need to do this. You were that close. And you will be again. But right now, I need you to stop beating yourself up. It's not going to help you, and it doesn’t change anything.”

He stared at her, chest rising and falling with each breath, his anger slowly dimming. And then he sighed, the weight of his frustration deflating like a balloon. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice softening. “I know you’re right. I just… I wanted it so badly, baby.”

Amelia stepped closer, touching his arm gently. “I know. And I’m sorry too,” she said, looking up at him with a hint of vulnerability in her eyes. “That you lost it.”

He nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.” He pulled her into a quick, tight hug, pressing his face against her hair for a moment. “I’ll get it next time. I swear.”

She kissed his neck. “I know.” 

NEXT CHAPTER

[stylesispunk]

"Blind faith" part vii

priest!Joel Miller x dancer!reader

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

summary: Joel and you are heartbroken because of each other. You crave his touch and he craves yours. w.c: 6,7k warnings: age gap (joel is in his late 40 and reader late 30s), angst, violence, a broken finger, mentions of death, manipulation, mentions of politics, mentions of exile. Reader is latina and english is not my first language and i'm stupid. a/n: I know I said I wouldn't make Joel suffer anymore because i'm still grieving and crying for him. But this story has angst and i'm sorry. Everything will be better soon. Thank you for all your love and I hope you enjoy it somehow.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

"Yes, and two cups of coffee, please"

His voice this close to your ears felt like a punch to your gut. It disgusted you, the thought of being this close to him, to smell the reeking scent of his cologne, it made you want to vomit.  

the waitress wrote down the order while asking directly at you, "something else?"

Gabriel lifted his gaze, locking eyes with you, “waffles? Do you love them”

"I don't want anything, thank you." you replied, in a monotonous voice, fidgeting with your fingers under the table. Your hands were still stained with Joel’s blood and your heart constricted.

“Bring them anyway” he said to the waitress. You could hear the sound of the pen writing down the order in the paper, but really nothing mattered to you right now.

You sat in a booth by the window, pale morning light spilling over the table, highlighting the dried, still darkening stains on your hands. No matter how many times you’d scrubbed them raw in that cracked porcelain sink, it clung to you, under your nails, in the creases of your skin.

Gabriel sat across from you, posture too casual for what he'd done, for what you’d both lived through. His jacket hung from the back of the seat, his sleeves rolled up, his hands pristine.

"Stop with that face and that fucking attitude. The priest didn’t die.” He said, “Besides, you made me look like a monster."

You finally raised your eyes to him, a dull, dead stare. “You are.”

His jaw clenched. “No. I’m not.”

“What you do makes you one.”

“I risked my own life for—”

“How many people have you killed, Gabriel?” your voice cut through the air like glass. “How many have you tortured these last months? How many more because someone told you to? Because you wore that damn soldier uniform and it let you believe you were untouchable?”

He opened his mouth, a retort rising in his throat. “You’re a—”

“Am I what?” you interrupted, pushing him to his own limits, your voice breaking, raw and unsteady. “A fucking burden? A communist? What am I to you, Gabriel?”

Gabriel’s mouth snapped shut, his jaw flexing, words hovering unsaid on his tongue like they’d burn him if he spoke them aloud. His gaze darkened, something mean and ugly flickering behind his eyes — and for the first time in months, you weren’t afraid of it. You were too tired, too hollow, too scraped clean of anything but rage and grief. Grieving a life, you couldn’t go back to.

He looked away then, out the window where the pale morning light spilled over empty streets, over a town that wasn’t home to either of you. His hand gripped the edge of the table, knuckles pale.

“You were… the only thing that made any of this bearable,” he muttered. “And you ruined it.”

A humorless, bitter laugh clawed out of your throat. “I ruined it? You ruined it. You ruined the moment you lied to me. When you used me. You sold me out to the same people who murdered my friends, who would’ve killed my family, and you’re sitting here, in this fucking café, drinking coffee like any of that can be undone.”

The waitress passed by, hesitating for a second at the tension thickening the air around your table, but neither of you noticed.

“I risked my life to get you out,” Gabriel snapped.

“For what?” you fired back. “So you could drag me back in again? So, you could play savior one day and executioner the next?”

He leaned in, voice low and tight. “I was trying to save you from yourself.”

“No, Gabriel,” you said, finally meeting his eyes again. “You were trying to save your place. Your pride and ease the guilt you must feel every damn night.”

And for a split second — just one — you saw it crack in him. The anger. The guilt. The truth of it all. And you hated that a part of you still recognized the boy you’d once loved in that face.

“I want to kill you.” He spoke.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even blink.

“I know,” you whispered, voice steady in a way that surprised even you. “And some days, I wish you would’ve done it that day.”

The words hung there between you like smoke, choking, heavy, impossible to take back. His expression faltered, something bleak and tired flashing through his eyes, and for a moment he looked like a man who’d lost every war he’d ever fought, including the one inside himself.

“I wake up every fucking day wanting to forget you,” Gabriel said, his voice rough, frayed at the edges. “But I can’t. You haunt me.”

“Good,” you murmured. “I hope I do.”

Your heart pounding in your ears, stomach twisted into something tight and ugly.

“I moved names for you,” he said, softer now, like it mattered. Like it would made you less frigthened “I bought your family’s freedom. Paid for it with my life, my rank. You’ll never know what that cost me.”

“I didn’t ask you to.” You replied, “You knew what kind of person I was and I am. You were aware of my beliefs and my values.”

Gabriel’s jaw tensed, his hand curling into a fist on the table between the untouched cups of coffee. The silence stretched — thick, suffocating — before he finally spoke again, his voice low, bitter.

“I knew,” he admitted. “I knew you were fire and danger and a thousand things that could ruin me. And I didn’t care. I just… I wanted you. Even if it meant burning for it.”

You shook your head, a broken, hollow laugh catching in your throat. “That’s not love, Gabriel. That’s possession. You wanted me like people want land, or power — to claim, to own. Not to protect.”

He looked at you then, really looked — and for the first time, you saw it: the wreckage of a man he’d become. A soldier stripped of his command, a traitor in his own uniform, carrying ghosts in his chest that no war could bury.

“You’re right,” he murmured. “I ruined everything.”

A lump formed in your throat, your eyes stinging with tears you refused to let fall. “You didn’t ruin me,” you said quietly. “I’m still here. Despite you. Because of me.”

You pushed your chair back, the legs scraping against the worn floor. “I don’t owe you gratitude, Gabriel. Not for saving what you tried to destroy.”

“Will you ever forgive me?”

For a moment you forget the man in front of you was the same one who lured you into a fairy tale love story. Through lies he had braided himself because he knew you. He knew what you thought, what you did, what you love and what you hate. He knew your name and what you fought for, and as if you were a witch he tried to hunt you.

But he fell in love with you.

You paused, a breath hitching in your chest, before shaking your head without meeting his gaze. "For what? For killing my friends? For sending your soldiers friends to follow me? or do you want me to forgive you because you are the reason I'm exiled from my home?"

“I wanted to kill you,” he admitted, bitter and broken. “Every day since you ran. I told myself I would, when I found you. That I’d put a bullet in your head between those soft eyes of you and I would bury every part of me you ever touched.”

Your throat felt tight, a war raging in your chest between anger and the ache of remembering the boy he used to be, the one who had lured you, before you met the man in the uniform, before the orders, before blood stained both of his hands.

“But I couldn’t,” Gabriel said, quieter now. “Even with the gun in my hand last night when you looked at me like I was a monster. I couldn’t fucking do it.”

You swallowed hard, blinking fast, heart pounding in your ears.

“You were my ruin,” he breathed. “You still are.”

And for a long, terrible moment, the silence stretched between you like a wire pulled taut.

Gabriel let out a sharp, humorless laugh, the kind of sound scraped raw from a man unraveling. He leaned back in his seat, eyes dark, exhausted, something hollow flickering in them.

“What am I going to do to you now?” he repeated, voice like splintered glass. “I should drag you back. Deliver you like they wanted. Let them finish what I couldn’t.”

Your fingers tightened on the edge of the table, pulse hammering. You forced yourself not to flinch.

“But I won’t,” he said, quieter now. “I don’t even know if it’s mercy or cowardice. Maybe both. Maybe I’m more afraid of what would happen to me if I stop knowing you existed.”

You stared at him then — really stared. At the man you once thought you came close to love. The boy who’d once sworn he’d never become one of them. And yet here he was, uniform or not, lost in a war of his own making.

“I don’t want your mercy,” you told him, voice low but unyielding, like a cut that didn’t bleed right away but hurt all the same. “And I don’t want your guilt. I don’t need your ghosts following me around to feel the weight of what’s already been taken.”

Gabriel’s jaw clenched, the flicker of something — grief, fury, longing, maybe all of it tangled together — crossing his face before he looked down at the table, fingers curling into fists.

“You were my ruin,” he murmured again, as though the words themselves might explain away the things he’d done. “I wake up every day wanting to hate you, and I can’t. I wanted to kill you… I still want to. But more than that, I want to disappear inside you. And that’s the worst thing, isn’t it?”

Your throat tightened. The room felt smaller, the air thick with everything unsaid, everything shattered between you.

“Then disappear, Gabriel,” you said, looking away, the rays of sunshine filtering through the window felt like the hand you should take to in order to escape. “But do it far from me.”

“And letting you to go back to that priest that easily?” he asked, making you freeze.

The words hit you like a stone to the chest, sharp, sudden, heavy. You froze, hand still on the edge of the table, the brittle morning light spilling in around you. Your heart twisted at the mention of Joel; at the blood you’d scrubbed from your hands but still felt beneath your nails.

Slowly, you turned, meeting Gabriel’s gaze. His face was a ruin of its own now, anger and bitterness, some frayed thread of old love barely hanging on.

“He has nothing to do with this.” you said, though your voice betrayed you, cracking at the edges. “Don’t bring him into this.”

Gabriel huffed a humorless breath, leaning back like he needed the distance or he might reach for you. “Isn’t it?” he asked. “It seems to me like he is the one thing you don’t want me to touch now, but he still betrayed you.”

Gabriel stared at you, and for the first time, he looked tired. So fucking tired. “Did you seduce him with lap dances? I mean, the priest?”

Your fingers curled into your palms, nails biting into skin as you fought the heat behind your eyes.

“I don’t have to dance for someone to care about me, Gabriel,” you said, your voice low, steady despite the crack threading through it. “Not everyone sees me as a fucking possession or a fucking prize.”

His jaw clenched, something flickering behind those dark, exhausted eyes. The veneer of anger, of bitterness, peeled back for the barest second, and you saw it — the grief beneath it. The part of him that would rather destroy you than admit he never stopped loving you.

“Don’t lie to yourself,” Gabriel said, his voice rough, unraveling at the seams. “You think he’s any different? You think he won’t leave you to rot the moment it stops being forbidden, the moment you become a liability?” He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “At least I was honest about who I was.”

You shook your head, the ache in your chest too deep, too familiar. “You were a lying coward,” you whispered.

For a moment, the world felt painfully, terribly still. The cold air from the open door brushed against your skin like a warning, like a promise you hadn’t made yet.

Gabriel swallowed, his throat working around words he didn’t say. And then, finally, he managed “I should kill you.”

The words should’ve made you flinch. But they didn’t.

You held his gaze, your chin high. “Then why don’t you?”

The room hung on the knife’s edge of that question. Gabriel’s stare didn’t waver, his voice a low, brutal rasp. “Because you’re already dead.”

The words didn’t land at first. Not fully. But then he added, with a cruel, quiet finality,

“Your family. They killed them.”

The air left your lungs in a single, sharp gasp, the room tilting, blurring at the edges. You staggered back a step, your fingers tightening around each other like it was the only thing keeping you upright. You searched his face, desperate for a flicker of a lie, for some crack in the story — but there was nothing. Just Gabriel, emptied out, a graveyard of a man delivering another death sentence.

And he wasn’t done.

“So, you’re lonely in a foreign country,” he went on, the words like daggers dressed in velvet, “with a forbidden lover who traded you the first chance he got. It seems to me like you’re already fucking dead, mi amor.”

He smiled then, if it could be called that. A grim, bitter thing.

“You have nothing left.”

The silence that followed was a kind of violence all its own. You couldn’t feel your hands anymore. Couldn’t hear anything past the roar in your ears.

But you wouldn’t let him see you break. Not here. Not now.

You straightened, the ache in your chest molten, teeth clenched so tight your jaw ached.

“Then bury me, Gabriel,” you said softly, venom threaded through the tremor in your voice. It was breaking but you still keep going, “but you’re too much of a coward to do it yourself.”

“But you don’t get to touch Joel,” you said, and your voice was steady now. Dangerous in its quiet. “He had nothing to do with this. With you. With the rot in your heart, you keep trying to pin on everyone else.”

Gabriel’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking there. For a moment, you almost thought he’d strike you. Or scream. Or crumble.

But instead, he laughed. A soft, empty sound.

“That’s where you’re wrong, mi amor,” he murmured, though his voice cracked on it. “The moment he touched you, the moment you looked at him like with love in your eyes, he made himself a part of this.”

You shook your head, “You’re still so desperate to make this about you,” you said desperate “What else do you want from me?” you sobbed.

His hand twitched against the table, a flicker of something — violence or grief, you couldn’t tell.

But you didn’t wait for the next venom-laced word.

“I swear to whatever gods are left, Gabriel,” you whispered as you point your finger towards him, “if you lay a single fucking finger on him—”

but you didn’t get to finish before a crack made your vision white out for a split second.

A strangled cry ripped from your throat as pain shot up your arm, blinding and immediate. Gabriel didn’t even flinch, his grip iron around your now broken finger, his face a mask of something monstrous and unrecognizable now.

“You don’t get to threaten me,” he hissed, his breath hot and sharp against your face, voice low and trembling with barely leashed fury. “Not after everything I did for you. Not when you made me like this.”

Tears stung your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Not for him. Not for this.

“You were always like this,” you spat through the pain, your words shaking but vicious.

For a moment, something in his expression faltered, that flicker of the boy you once knew, the one who’d whispered promises against your skin in another life, in another world. But it was gone before you could name it.

He let your hand drop, your broken finger throbbing as it hung uselessly at your side. “Run, mi amor,” Gabriel murmured, almost gentle now, and it made your skin crawl. “You can run if you want but I know where you are.”

Joel's eyes fluttered open, but the world around him felt too bright, too harsh. He blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of what he was seeing — sterile white walls, the faint beep of machines in the background, the scent of antiseptic heavy in the air.

For a moment, he just lay there, his mind tangled in confusion. Where was he? What had happened?

The dull ache in his head pulsed like a reminder, a warning. He shifted his body, but the pain stopped him, sharp and insistent. He groaned, wincing at the movement, his eyes darting around in a frantic search for something, anything that could give him clarity.

The beeping intensified, and a nurse came into view, her face kind but impersonal. She smiled at him. "You're awake," she said softly, though there was something about her voice that seemed distant.

"Where am I?" Joel's voice was hoarse, as if it hadn’t been used in days.

"You're in a hospital," the nurse replied, checking his IV. "You’ve been unconscious for a while, but you’re stable now."

He swallowed, trying to process her words. "What happened? Why… how am I here?"

She hesitated for a second, her eyes flickering with something unreadable.

“You were shot in the leg.” Carmen said, stepping inside the room. Her face seemed tired, full of anger, but also sadness covering her features. "You lost blood and ended up passing out. Billy and Mr. Langdon brought you here."

Joel's heart skipped a beat at the sound of Carmen's voice. His eyes flickered to her, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. His thoughts were still a jumble, but her presence brought a mix of relief and dread all at once.

"Billy and Mr. Langdon?" He repeated her words, confusion furrowing his brow. It was like his memory had been wiped clean, leaving him only with fragments of names and faces that didn’t fit together.

Carmen nodded; her face tight. "We were with you at the church."

He looked at her, his gaze searching, but her expression was guarded. She seemed distant, like there was something she wasn't saying. He wanted to ask more, about what happened, about her, about everything, but his mouth felt dry, and the weight of her gaze made his chest tighten.

"What about her?" His voice cracked, the question slipping out before he could stop it. He hated how weak it sounded.

Carmen’s eyes flickered to the side, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I don’t know where she is, father.”

The words hit him like a slap.

"What do you mean?" His pulse quickened, panic rising in his throat. "How many days…?"

Carmen shook her head slowly, her eyes avoiding his. "Five.” She breathed, “No one does where she is. There’s no sign of her. No trace.”

Joel felt his heart drop, his breath becoming shallow, like someone had knocked the wind out of him. Five days? It felt like the world was spinning out of control, slipping through his fingers. You’d been gone for five days, and he’d been lying here, helpless, trapped in his own body while you wherever you were—were out there out of his reach.

His chest tightened, the hospital room feeling smaller, suffocating. He wanted to push the covers off, to stand up, to search for you, but his leg, wrapped in bandages, screamed in protest.

"Where did he take her, Carmen? Where is she?” His voice broke, desperate, raw. His mind raced with images of her—her face, her eyes, the way she looked at him before everything had fallen apart. She couldn’t be gone, not like this.

Carmen’s gaze softened for a brief moment before she looked away, taking a step back. "I don’t know, father," she repeated, her voice quieter now, holding a weight of its own. "We’ve looked everywhere, but there's nothing. Just... nothing."

He could hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears, the pulse of panic growing louder with each passing second. "I need to find her," he muttered, more to himself than to her, but Carmen was already shaking her head.

"You’re in no condition to do anything right now." Her tone was sharp, "You can barely stand. You need to rest. Let us help."

"Help?" His eyes blazed with frustration, though the pain from his leg and body was a constant reminder of his own weakness. "I was helping. I—I failed her. I need to fix this, oh my—Carmen. I have to find her."

His hands gripped the sheets tightly, and his gaze darted around the room, as if the walls themselves might give him an answer. There had to be something he could do. He couldn’t just lay here.

Carmen sighed, a long, deep exhale that carried the weight of everything she’d been holding in. She moved closer to him.

“How did Gabriel find her?” she asked, sternly.

“Do you know about him?”

She nodded, “I do, but that’s not what I asked. I asked how?”

Joel’s throat worked around the knot forming there, his pulse a jagged, uneven thing beneath his skin. He looked up at Carmen, her face hard but her eyes carrying something heavier than anger — fear.

“I—I. He came to me t one night, to my office at the church telling me he was looking out for his fiancé who ran from the wedding,” he rasped, though the words felt like a lie the second they left his mouth. His hands trembled as he dragged them through his hair. “I thought “poor guy” you know?”, for a moment he stopped, ashamed of himself,” Then he showed me the picture of the woman and it was her. I just felt so—"

Carmen didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stared at him like she could peel his words open and find the truth inside but that was enough for Joel to stop talking.

“I never knew he was a bad guy.” Joel said, his voice cracking, breaking open in a way he hated. “I was trying to help him.”

“By trading her as she was a fucking object?” Carmen asked quietly but mad enough.

Joel’s stomach twisted. A horrible, creeping thought clawed at the edges of his mind.

“Shit,” he whispered, his heart sinking.

Carmen’s eyes sharpened. “You better pray to whatever God you’ve still got left, Joel,” she said coldly. “Because if she’s dead because of you… I’ll finish what that bullet started.”

And for the first time since waking, Joel didn’t try to argue. He just closed his eyes, jaw clenched so hard it hurt, and whispered your name like a prayer.

“What do you know about this?” He asked. Heart breaking at the thought of you being in danger.

Carmen’s shoulders dropped, the weight of it pressing down on her, like she’d been waiting for this moment, for him to finally ask.

She pulled the chair closer, sitting down beside his bed. Her fingers tapped against her thigh, jaw tight, eyes distant like she was staring through the walls of that hospital room and into a past neither of them could outrun.

“I wasn’t supposed tell you this,” she said quietly. “But when you care about someone… you pay attention. You hear things you’re not meant to. See things people don’t think you’ll notice.”

Joel opened his eyes, turning his head to her, silent.

“Well, you know the part she is a ballerina dancer.” Carmen went on, voice low and steady, “She was a really good one, but she also was a really well-known activist too.” She went like she was reciting a ghost story she didn’t want to believe. “You know, things got dangerous for people like her or people who got another belief.”

Joel’s stomach twisted, his pulse roaring in his ears.

“Gabriel was a soldier, well he is.” Carmen whispered. “He was ordered to haunt her, to silence her, so he lured her somehow, but when she found out the truth, she escaped the country and she ended up here.”

Joel’s throat felt raw. “Jesus Christ…”

“And you know what’s worse?” Carmen’s voice cracked, anger bleeding through. “He didn’t just leave her with nothing. He told everyone she was dead. She’s been running ever since. Hiding in places like this, with people like us, because there’s nowhere left for her to go.”

Joel felt sick. All those moments, the way you never talked about your past, how you flinched at certain things, how sometimes your eyes went far away like you were seeing ghosts.

And him? He had just trade you over jealousy.

“She didn’t tell me all of it,” Carmen admitted. “But she didn’t have to. I could see it. And then you showed up… and I saw the way she looked at you. Like maybe… maybe you made her forget for a second.”

Joel let out a shaky breath, guilt gnawing at every part of him. “I never meant to—”

“I know,” Carmen cut him off, softer now. “But meaning doesn’t matter. Not to men like Gabriel. And if he’s got her now…”

Joel’s jaw clenched. “He won’t.”

Carmen met his eyes, a flicker of something like fragile hope in hers. “You are sinner but not for the reasons you think, Joel. You allowed your jealousy won and that doesn’t make you better than him.”

Joel winced like she’d struck him clean across the face. Because she wasn’t wrong. God, she wasn’t wrong.

The truth of it settled in his chest like hot lead, heavy and unmovable. He thought of every moment he’d let anger fester, every time he’d imagined you and Gabriel in the same room and let the bile rise in his throat instead of trusting you. How easy it’d been to believe the worst, to let jealousy twist him up until it swallowed everything else.

“I know,” he rasped, voice breaking on the words. “I know, Carmen.”

She looked away, her hand scrubbing tiredly over her face. “Then fix it,” she whispered. “You owe her that much.”

Joel nodded, jaw tight, his leg throbbing like hell but his mind already racing past the pain. Past the blood. Past the hospital walls.

“I’ll find her,” he said, more to himself than to Carmen. “I swear to God, I’ll find her.”

Carmen stood, the weight of grief and fury still clinging to her like a second skin. But there was something else too, the smallest thread of trust, like maybe, despite it all, she believed he could.

“She’s stronger than either of you deserve,” Carmen muttered, heading for the door. “She is better than any of those people in town.”

Joel’s eyes burned, but he didn’t look away. He couldn’t. Not now. Not after everything.

“I know,” he said quietly, the words barely carrying in the stillness of the room. “I always knew.”

Carmen paused at the doorway, one hand on the frame, her shoulders tight and stiff beneath her jacket. She didn’t turn, but her voice reached him one last time.

“You’ve got one shot at this, Miller,” she said, low and rough. “If you’re gonna bleed for something, make sure it’s for her.

Then she was gone, leaving him with nothing but the steady beeping of the monitors and the unbearable weight of his own regret.

Joel leaned his head back against the pillow, his pulse hammering in his ears. He didn’t have a plan yet. Didn’t know how the hell he was gonna stand on his own leg, let alone go toe to toe with Gabriel. But none of that mattered. Not when he could still hear your voice in his head, the way you used to say his name.

He wouldn’t let it end like this. Couldn’t.

It felt like a lifetime, and somehow no time at all. You’d lost count of the hours, of how many times Gabriel’s hand had closed around your wrist, your jaw, your throat — not always in violence, but always in control. He hadn’t let you out of his sight, not even when he slept. Not even when he pretended to.

The motel room was suffocating. Peeling floral wallpaper, a humming air conditioner that barely worked, and one single window you weren’t allowed near. It wasn’t chains that kept you here, it was him — the way his presence filled every inch of the space, leaving no room to breathe.

He barely spoke unless it was to taunt, to remind you of what you lost, or of what he thought you owed him. Sometimes he’d just stare at you in silence, sitting in the chair by the window with a glass of whatever he could steal or buy, his eyes glassy and distant like a man already halfway dead.

You didn’t beg. You didn’t scream. Not after the first night.

Instead, you waited. Counting every blink, every time he closed his eyes, every time his hand went to the bottle, every time his guard dropped a fraction.

Because you knew one thing: no one — not even a monster like Gabriel — could keep this kind of storm at bay forever.

And when he did sleep, it wasn’t peaceful. He murmured things in Spanish, names you didn’t recognize, curses, threats. And sometimes… yours.

The motel TV played old static-flickering movies in the background — westerns, cheap thrillers. You’d started tuning them out. The real horror was in this room.

But no matter how much you tried to steel yourself, to lock away the softer parts of you that Gabriel hadn’t managed to carve out yet — his name still found you in the quietest moments.

Joel.

You told yourself you hated him. That you had to. That after what he’d done, after the way his jealousy had made you a pawn in Gabriel’s hand again, there shouldn’t be a single piece of you left that ached for him.

But in the dim hours before dawn, when Gabriel was passed out in the chair and the flicker of the TV cast restless shadows on the walls, it was Joel’s face you saw.

Not in the way you last saw him, bloodied and broken in the church when it all went to hell. Not in anger, not in betrayal. But in the way he looked the night he let you fall asleep with your head against his shoulder for the first time. The way his calloused hand brushed a loose strand of hair from your face like it meant something for the both of you.

Like you meant something important. And perhaps you’d been a fool.

Maybe in his weakness you made him sin and he despise you.

But you’d still clung to that warmth like a drowning thing, holding it close when the world wanted to rip it from your chest.

Even now when you should’ve wished him dead, should’ve cursed his name and vowed to forget him. It was Joel’s voice you heard in your head, rasped and rough. I got you. I swear. I love you.

And God, you didn’t know if he was okay.

Didn’t know if he was coming to save you from this.

Didn’t know if he even cared anymore.

But you still hoped. And that was the cruelest thing of all.

Because it was easier to survive when you believed no one was coming. When you told yourself you were already dead.

You pressed your face into your hands, the rough skin of your palms catching against the salt of your tears. The room stank of cheap liquor and sweat, of unwashed sheets and stale cigarette smoke, and the air felt so thick you could barely pull it into your lungs.

The sobs came in fits, shuddering, ugly things you’d tried to choke down for days. But tonight, tonight it all broke.

You cried for them. For your family.

For the mother who used to hum lullabies in the kitchen late at night, for the big brother who used to chase fireflies in the yard with you, for the father whose stern words somehow meant safety.

Dead.

They were dead and you wouldn’t get the chance to know see them or ever say goodbye.

Gabriel’s words had cut through you five days ago like a blade, and you’d pretended it hadn’t shattered something vital. Pretended you could outlast it, just like everything else. But it had festered inside you, a raw, gnawing grief that clawed its way to the surface now.

You cried for yourself too. For the girl you used to be, for the future you’d started to imagine, the one with stolen moments of peace and maybe, just maybe, love. A future that had Joel in it.

And you cried for your hand. Because somehow that stupid, broken, swollen finger felt like a final insult. Gabriel hadn’t taken you to a hospital. He hadn’t even wrapped it. Just left it to throb and pulse and turn shades of bruised purple and blue, a small, constant ache to remind you of what he could do.

The bone grated against itself when you moved it, and it made you dizzy with pain, but you clung to that pain. Because it meant you were still here.

Still alive.

And maybe that was the cruelest thing of all too.

You curled in on yourself on the edge of the bed, knees to your chest, trying to make yourself smaller than the grief, smaller than the hatred in Gabriel’s eyes, smaller than the crushing weight of being so utterly alone.

“I miss you,” you whispered into the dark. You didn’t know if it was meant for your family, or for Joel.

Maybe both. Your chest ached, the kind of ache that felt endless, like it might outlive you.

A soft, broken sound left your throat. You didn’t know if it was a laugh or a sob.It filled the stillness of the room, and you didn’t even have time to swallow it down before you heard the scrape of Gabriel’s chair against the floor.

His voice came from the corner, low and coarse. “Why are you crying, cariño?”

You didn’t answer at first. Couldn’t. Your throat felt like it had been scraped raw, and your face was wet, the tears burning your skin. You just sat there, staring down at your lap, your good hand cradling the one he’d broken days ago.

The pain had changed over the last five days. It wasn’t sharp anymore, it was a steady, deep, nauseating throb that never really left, radiating up your wrist, making your whole arm feel useless and heavy. The bruising was worse now, swollen and dark, the shape of your finger misshapen.

You lifted your hand, showing it to him without a word.

The light from the old motel lamp caught on the mangled joint. The swelling, purpling skin. Your hand shook as you held it up, but your gaze stayed on him.

For a moment, Gabriel didn’t say a thing.

He just stared at it. At you.

And something flickered there, something too tangled to name. Regret, maybe.

“That why you’re sniffling like a little girl?” he asked, voice dry, like the whole thing bored him.

He took a drink from the glass in his hand, the ice clinking against the sides.

You didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

“Are you gonna fix it?” you asked hoarsely, your voice a scrape of gravel.

His brow twitched. He set the glass down on the nightstand with a heavy, deliberate thunk and stood. The room felt smaller as he crossed it, each step measured and unhurried.

He crouched in front of you, too close, smelling of whiskey and smoke and the sickly tang of sweat.

His hand came up, fingers brushing your wrist like a threat disguised as tenderness.

He smiled at you, “Okay, I’m taking you to the hospital.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The words sounded like a trick, like something sharp wrapped in silk. He smiled when he said it, but it wasn’t the kind of smile people wore when they meant to help.

It was the kind predators gave right before they sank their teeth in.

“Why now?” you rasped, the words catching in your throat. You hated how small you sounded; how desperate you felt to cling to any scrap of hope and how sick it made you at the same time.

Gabriel’s smile stayed, but his eyes flickered, something colder, something careful.

“Because if I don’t,” he murmured, fingers grazing up your wrist toward your swollen hand, “you’ll lose it.” he shrugged, that easy, cruel nonchalance he wore like a second skin. “I figure you’re not much good to me all busted up like this.”

You swallowed hard, bile burning the back of your throat. It wasn’t mercy. It wasn’t guilt. It was practicality. You were his, a possession, and even a broken thing had to be kept in working order.

“Get your shoes,” he said, standing up. “We leave in five.”

You didn’t argue. Didn’t waste words. You just moved stiffly toward the corner where your worn boots sat, forcing your uninjured hand to tie them while your broken one throbbed in your lap. Every movement made your vision swim, but you bit down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out.

Gabriel pulled on his jacket, grabbed his keys, and opened the motel room door, letting the stale night air rush in. The moon hung low and thin in the sky; the parking lot empty except for his beat-up truck he had rented.

“You try to run, I’ll break the other one,” he said casually, like it was nothing.

You didn’t reply. You just stepped out into the night, the cold hitting you like a slap, and followed him toward the truck.

But something in your chest stirred, a flicker of defiance even under all the fear and grief.

Because five days was a long time to be kept in a cage.

The hospital lights were too bright.

After five days in that cramped, suffocating motel room, they made your head pound, made your eyes sting. The antiseptic smell hit you hard, thick with bleach and something metallic underneath. You kept your gaze low, shoulders hunched, following the line of Gabriel’s shadow across the faded linoleum floors.

A nurse at the front desk gave you a curious glance, her eyes lingering on the bruises you hadn’t bothered to cover, the way your left hand hung limp and swelling. But when she met Gabriel’s stare, cold and hard like a wolf daring her to speak, she looked away.

“Broken finger,” Gabriel grunted, shoving paperwork at her. “Get it done quick.”

You barely registered the words. Your mind was a storm of noise and memory, a face, dark eyes you still dreamed about even when you tried not to, a voice that rasped your name like a promise.

I swear, I got you. I love you.

Joel.

God. Joel. You thought about him the other night at the church. About his leg and if he was okay.

You could almost feel him in the walls of this place, like a phantom. A brush of breath down your neck, a tug in your chest that you couldn’t explain. Like somewhere close by, something you’d lost was reaching back for you.

But you didn’t look.

Hope was a dangerous thing, and you couldn’t afford it anymore.

Two floors up, Joel lay in a hospital bed he hadn’t allow to leave yet. Carmen had forced him to rest, but sleep wouldn’t come, not with his mind stuck in loops of.

what if, where is she, what have I done.

The steady beeping of monitors, the faint intercom calls, the distant squeak of gurney wheels.

And for one dizzy second, he thought. He thought he caught a scent he knew better than his own

The faint trace of your perfume, buried under smoke.

He turned his head, pulse kicking hard.

Nothing there.

Just a nurse walking past.

Just a shadow at the end of the hallway.

“You’re losing it, old man,” he muttered under his breath.

But he didn’t stop staring at the door, some instinct deep in his marrow telling him that you were close.

And you were.

Less than thirty yards away.

A different wing. A different hallway.

But fate was cruel, and timing crueler.

And the storm hadn’t broken yet.

You were in a cold hallway, feeling the coldness of the air freezing on your skin, the same one that still craves the touch of the same callused palms that welcomed you to daylight the moment you were looking for it the most.

You still crave Joel’s touch on your face, his fingers wrapped around your own.

You missed his eyes finding yours across the room, sharing a secret language only both of you could understand.

And you missed him despite all.

But his cold eyes sliced your heart in half and you still waited for the moment.

Under the same moon.

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[bosbas]

Chapter 9: in my defense, I have none

series masterlist previous part || next part

pairing: anthony bridgerton x fem!daphne's best friend!reader WC: 2.3k

Warnings: period-typical gender roles, idiots in love, we are getting somewhere!!, still a lot of pining ofc

Summary: At her wit's end after Anthony's multiple attempts to scare away her suitors, Daphne employs her best friend's help to keep her brother distracted while she tries to find a husband. It's a foolproof plan, except it ends up working a little too well. (or, a Bridgerton version of The Taming of the Shrew/10 things I hate about you)

December 18, 1812 - Tensions had been... high... in the Bridgerton household as of late, to say the least.

The holidays were looming, and with that loomed also the prospect of Anthony spending an entire week with you in his home in the countryside. So naturally, he'd been distracting himself by practically biting the head off of any family member who dared speak with him. A particular fury, though, was reserved for Daphne when she brought you up.

Such an argument happened to be taking place at this very moment. Anthony had made the grave mistake of revealing his plans to leave for Aubrey Hall a few days before the rest of his family in the hopes that it would provide a brief respite from the chaos.

"You're being ridiculous," yelled Daphne, grabbing a cushion off the couch and squeezing it in frustration. "You simply can't deal with your feelings like an adult and you're running away."

"I'm not running away," roared Anthony. "And I've dealt with my feelings plenty. I just can't be bothered to have this conversation for the hundredth time. You're boring, Daphne!"

"Don't you say that to me," the younger Bridgerton fumed, throwing the pillow in her hands at her brother.

Much to her chagrin, Anthony easily dodged it, and the condescending smile he gave her in response was enough for her to let out a strangled scream.

"I will as long as you keep bringing this up," Anthony snapped, nearing his sister and shaking her by the shoulders. "I've had enough of you meddling in my life once again. Let's not forget how it ended the first time."

"It only ended because you wanted it to end," growled Daphne, shoving her brother's arms off her shoulders. "You can't deny it, Anthony. It might have started as a ploy, but what happened after was entirely out of my hands. Is it really worth running away for?"

"For the last time, I'm not running away!" repeated Anthony, grabbing the pillow Daphne had thrown earlier and launching it in his sister's direction.

Unfortunately having been hit by the cushion, Daphne angrily fixed her hair as she looked at her brother. "Don't lie to yourself, Anthony. You only want to avoid Mama and me, who make you actually face your feelings. It's cowardly, just like you are."

But the venom in Daphne's voice didn't seem to penetrate her eldest brother. He'd made his decision, that much was clear, and hopefully, a couple of days of peace and quiet would help him prepare to see your eyes and hear your laugh once again without wanting to run straight into the Thames.

Ignoring his sister's insults, Anthony huffed and straightened out his coat, turning around to leave the room. "I certainly won't be speaking with her while she's at Kent if that's what you're trying to imply."

Daphne could've screamed out of frustration. She opted for something she knew would cut her brother to the bone. "Don't you think you've punished her enough?"

Anthony stopped in his tracks and blinked repeatedly, almost as if he'd been struck.

But Daphne continued. "She's miserable. She can't eat, she can't sleep, she's ridden with guilt and pales at even the slightest mention of you. I've never seen her like this. I haven't heard her laugh in weeks. Don't you think that's enough?"

Anthony turned around slowly to look at his sister, wanting to confirm what she was saying.

Daphne's eyes were clear, pleading.

"I had no idea."

"Of course you didn't. How could you? You leave the room if anyone even says her name."

"I-" tried Anthony, but no coherent sentence came out of his mouth.

"You've punished her enough," repeated Daphne, sighing deeply. "Not to mention how much you've punished yourself. You're allowed to have feelings for someone, Anthony. You're even allowed to pursue them after that. You'd be happier to realize that before you manage to completely ruin your chances with Y/N."

Once again, no words left Anthony's mouth. He was far too choked up to say anything that could have been deemed appropriate at that moment. So he stood there as Daphne pushed past him, standing in dumbfounded silence as he thought about just how much he wished he could go back to that May night when you first asked him to dance.

Perhaps he could have asked you to dance first. Perhaps it wouldn't have mattered. He supposed he'd never know.

---

Standing at the entrance to Aubrey Hall, the Bridgertons' country estate, you found yourself wringing your hands. You were anxious, though you'd never admit it aloud. You usually spent the winter at your own family's house, a tradition more rooted in habit than sentiment. But every Christmas, without fail, you took the short carriage ride to Aubrey Hall and stayed there for a week. It was your annual escape from the echoing silence of a holiday spent alone with your father, who, truthfully, preferred his ledgers to any kind of festivity. Holidays only seemed to remind him of your mother, and he coped in the only way he knew how: by pretending they didn't exist.

Daphne had repeatedly insisted that you were welcome this year. That nothing had changed. That you ought to come, just as you always had, and that everyone, including Anthony, would be happy to see you. You weren't entirely convinced, but you'd chosen to believe her. Or, at least, you were trying to.

The sky above was thick with snow-laden clouds, the air sharp with that particular stillness that came before a storm. It felt fitting, in a way– your thoughts were just as restless, your nerves just as unsettled. This was the first time you'd returned to a Bridgerton home since that night. Since everything. And while part of you thrilled at the familiar sight of Aubrey Hall, a quieter, more wounded part was dreading the possibility of seeing him.

Anthony.

And there it was again: that flutter in your chest you wished you could attribute to the cold.

Just as you were about to knock on the door, Anthony opened the door himself and you let out a startled gasp.

He, in turn, looked like he was seeing a ghost.

"Hello," you said awkwardly, not able to tear your gaze away from Anthony's wide eyes.

"I thought you weren't coming," breathed Anthony, completely ignoring your greeting.

"Excuse me? Daphne said-" you coughed, shocked that he wanted you out of his home that badly.

Anthony blinked, coming back to his senses. "I meant I thought you weren't coming today. The rest of the family decided to wait a couple of days for the storm to pass, I suppose I thought you'd do the same."

"They're not here yet?" you squeaked out, genuine dread filling you from head to toe as you realized you and Anthony would truly be alone in his family's country house.

He shook his head, looking at the sky as if to confirm the incoming storm.

You rushed to explain yourself. "It's such a short carriage ride that I thought the weather wouldn't matter so much. I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking. I can go back, I'll just tell the driver-" you sputtered.

Anthony screwed his eyes shut briefly and then looked straight into yours. "It's alright," he assured you, almost reaching out to put a comforting hand on your shoulder but retracting it before making any contact. "The storm is about to start anyway, it wouldn't be safe."

You nodded, not quite sure how to proceed. This was the longest conversation you'd had with Anthony since he found out about... well, everything.

He cleared his throat. "Please, come in. I wouldn't want you to catch a chill," he said, stepping aside and offering to take your coat while motioning for his butler to help carry your bags inside.

Once again the two of you were stood, alone, trying to look anywhere but at each other. A heavy silence filled with things left unsaid made it almost impossible to hear your own thoughts, and you ached with the desire to reach out to Anthony for reassurance, much like you had done for a greater part of the summer.

"Well, I'd better be on my way," he said, not providing an explanation for why he was going outside when a powerful storm was clearly about to hit. "I'm certain you know your way around by now, but do let me know if you need anything."

His voice sounded detached, far away, and not at all like the warm tone he used to use when you were whispering together at a ball or sharing a funny story during a promenade. You were torn between wanting to continue speaking with Anthony, if only because it reminded you of how much you did love him, or if you wanted to get away from how cold he was being as soon as possible.

In the end, he made the decision easy for you by leaving without waiting for your response.

A painful reminder of just how damaged your relationship was. Perhaps it was beyond fixing now. It certainly seemed like it.

You sighed and made your way to your bedroom, already dreading the rest of your stay at Aubrey Hall. It was like the life had been taken out of you entirely.

Quietly reaching your door, you decided to stay away from Anthony as much as possible before the rest of his family arrived. It was the least you could do. It was already a burden being here alone with him, and you didn't want to make it worse by actually attempting to speak with him.

---

In the end, your plan failed miserably. It was the middle of the night, and you found yourself shivering from the cold in your bedroom, looking out at the snow swirling around outside. It would have been a beautiful sight if you were not chilled to the bone.

With every passing minute, your resolve to avoid Anthony at all costs was waning. You desperately needed another blanket– or three– and there was no one else you could ask at this hour. It was entirely too late to bother any of the staff, and you were far too exhausted to go downstairs anyway.

As much as you tried to hold off, burying yourself in your sheets and curling into a ball, goosebumps covered your entire body and your teeth were chattering loudly.

Finally, as you felt your feet grow numb, you decided you could wait no longer. Standing up and wiggling your toes, you exited your room to try and find somewhere a blanket might be (or Anthony, whichever came first).

You wandered around aimlessly for a few minutes, not quite thinking clearly. Eventually, you passed Anthony's study and found the light under the door still shining, and you breathed a sigh of relief.

Knocking gingerly, you opened the door slowly to reveal Anthony writing down some notes on his desk before he looked up to see you.

You felt uncomfortable under his gaze, underdressed in your nightgown. He'd seen you naked before, you reminded yourself, and you almost smiled at the absurdity. But it didn't help your nervousness.

"Is something the matter? It's the middle of the night," he said, looking you up and down without restraint.

You shook your head and remembered where you were. "Oh, yes, sorry."

"I wish you'd stop apologizing," he responded darkly and promptly looked back down at what he had been writing.

Your throat went dry, but you'd come this far, you might as well actually tell him why you were here.

Trying to keep your voice level, you explained, "I was just wondering if you had a spare blanket I could use. It's quite cold in my room."

Anthony paused for a second, looking back up at you and seeing you slightly shaking from the cold still. Finally, he nodded, gesturing toward the couch at the other end of the study which had a very thick blanket laying atop it.

You scurried over, wanting to get out of his study as soon as possible, but Anthony's voice stopped you.

"I'm nearly done, if you'd like to wait for a few minutes, I can walk you back to your room."

You sent him a questioning look, but he just shrugged.

"It's quite late," he repeated, as if that would provide an explanation, and promptly returned to his work.

To be frank, you were too tired to care, and you knew that Anthony would put up a fight if you disagreed with him, so you sat down anyway. Draping the blanket across your shoulders, you sat down on the couch and stared at Anthony. It had been months since you had the opportunity to just look at him, and you had forgotten how much you truly desired him.

Even as your eyes grew heavy and you sank deeper into the cushions, you couldn't help the warm feeling that came over you every time you thought about that night with him on the floor of your library.

The next thing you knew, you were in Anthony's arms as he lowered you gently on your bed.

"I didn't realize I had fallen asleep," you whispered, rubbing your eyes sleepily.

"It's no bother," he whispered back, pulling the covers around you and tucking the blanket up to your chin.

As he turned to leave you grabbed his hand, and though he could have easily kept walking away, he sat down on the side of your bed, looking down at you expectantly.

You were half asleep and fighting to keep your eyes open, but you wanted him to know. "I wish things could be different," you spoke softly.

Anthony smiled sadly at you, saying nothing but leaning down to plant a tender kiss on your forehead before he stood to leave. You fell asleep before he even reached the door. 

—

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[antonsbf]

Unspoken

chapter 2- once more to see you

⤷ summary: a slow-burn, emotional story about childhood friends torn apart by time and dreams—only to meet again years later as rising stars in the spotlight. Between secrets, past feelings, and second chances, they learn that some things never really fade.

⤷ pairing: idol/actor!ni-ki x actor!male reader

⤷ wc: 1.5k

⤷ warnings: heavy angst! slow-burn! secret feelings! yearning male reader! childhood friends!

⤷ read chapter 1

"it's not like i'm going to disappear. we'll still talk. i'll be back soon enough, i promise."

that had been the promise he swore he wouldn’t break. the one i clung to long after he turned and walked away that night by the creek. even when other words were spoken, and even after time pulled us apart, it was that single vow that stayed with me—the last real thing i had to hold onto.

he had been the person i grew up with. the one who had always been there, even when nothing needed to be said. the one who made me laugh through the rough patches and somehow always knew exactly how to push my buttons when i needed it. the one who, without even trying, felt like home.

and maybe that’s why it hurt so much—because even when everything else faded, that promise never did. not for me.

✦ ✦ ✦

five years later. five years and ni-ki had become a memory i tried not to touch too often.

life had a way of moving on even when you didn’t want it to. and somehow, without meaning to, i learned how to live with the space he left behind.

at first, it was little things, his contact slipping lower and lower down my favorites list. the empty spot beside me at the creek the summer after he left. the inside jokes that stopped making sense because no one else was there to laugh with me. the days where i'd reach for my phone without thinking, fingers hovering over his name, only to pull back and pretend it didn’t sting.

then bigger things, the day i realized i didn’t know what song he was obsessed with anymore. or whether he still cracked his knuckles when he was nervous. or if he even thought about me at all. whether he still missed the way our hometown smelled after it rained, or if he remembered the way we used to sneak out just to sit under the stars and talk about stupid dreams.

he had been chasing a dream, and i-i had been left behind trying to figure out what mine even was.

sometimes, when it got really quiet, i could almost imagine he was still here. that if i closed my eyes long enough, i could hear his laugh from down the hall. feel the familiar thud of his sneakers against the wooden porch steps. catch the scent of fresh grass and summer sweat and the cheap cologne he used to over-spray before every "big moment" in his life.

sometimes, i hated how easily i could still conjure him.

✦ ✦ ✦

acting wasn’t something i’d planned. it wasn’t like i woke up one morning and thought, hey, i want to be a bl actor.

it just... happened.

a friend dragged me to an open audition when i was nineteen. "you've got the face for it," they'd joked, shoving a script into my hand. i didn’t even take it seriously at first—just read the lines, half-laughing, not thinking anyone was actually paying attention.

but someone had been. someone saw something i didn’t even know i was showing.

the first role was small. background. hardly more than a name in the credits. but it led to another. and another. and suddenly, somehow, i was y/n, rising bl actor with a growing fanbase and a face that people started recognizing on the street.

funny how that worked. when i was a kid, i used to think the only way to matter was to stay next to ni-ki. now people screamed my name at fan meetings, shoved letters into my hands, told me i saved them without even knowing it.

i smiled through it all. smiled for the cameras. smiled for the fans. smiled for the interviews where they asked me about "first loves" and "inspirations" and i lied through my teeth because the real answer was someone who hadn’t even seen me become this person.

and yet... none of it ever really filled the space he left.

there were nights i would come home after a long shoot, collapse onto my bed, and stare at the ceiling, feeling like a stranger in my own life. nights where the applause felt deafening but the silence afterward was worse. nights where i wondered if he would even recognize me now.

✦ ✦ ✦

i wasn’t bitter. at least, that’s what i told myself. bitterness was too ugly of a word. i was just... realistic now. ni-ki was never coming back to the life we had. not really. fame changes people. time changes people. and maybe the worst part was that he wasn’t the villain. he hadn’t broken his promise on purpose. life just... pulled him too far away for promises to keep.

and me? i survived.

i built a life out of auditions and scripts and interviews where i smiled too brightly and told polished stories about my dreams. i learned how to cry on cue, how to fake laughter, how to pretend a love story was real when the cameras were rolling and forget it the moment they cut.

i was good at pretending. maybe too good.

✦ ✦ ✦

when my manager handed me the new script, i didn’t think much of it. another bl drama. another love story. another faceless co-star to pretend to fall for.

i flipped through the pages on the ride home, half-distracted, until i hit the name. the stage name at the top of the character list. a name i hadn’t heard in too long. but one that felt like it had been carved into my ribs.

nishimura riki. his real name. not a character. not a role. him.

at first, i thought i was hallucinating. or maybe someone else just had the same name. but a quick search confirmed it: ni-ki. idol turned rising actor. making his debut in the very same project i’d just signed onto. of all the projects. of all the people. of all the times.

life had a funny way of laughing at you when you thought you’d finally moved on.

✦ ✦ ✦

the first day of filming felt like waiting for a storm you knew was coming.

i spent the morning getting my makeup done, my hair styled, my outfit prepped. i laughed when the staff joked. smiled for behind-the-scenes cameras. played the part of "friendly, easygoing y/n" so well i almost believed myself.

but under it all, my hands wouldn’t stop twitching. my heart wouldn’t stop pounding. i told myself it didn’t matter. that it had been five years. that he probably barely remembered me.

but when the director finally called for rehearsal and i turned around there he was.

ni-ki.

older now. taller. still awkward in the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot. still ni-ki in the way his mouth tilted into a half-smile the second he saw me.

he looked like someone i used to know and someone i hadn’t met yet, all at once. familiar and foreign and terrifying. and all at once, it hit me like a punch to the chest: all the years i spent trying to forget, trying to move on, trying to survive, none of it worked. because the second our eyes met, it was like no time had passed at all.

✦ ✦ ✦

"hey," he said, voice deeper than i remembered.

i swallowed hard. my mouth opened, but no words came out.

there were a thousand things i could have said. "you left." "you broke your promise." "i missed you." "i hate you for not missing me back."

but all that came out was, "...hey."

the director called us over before either of us could say anything else. we fumbled through the first rehearsal, stiff and awkward. the kind of awkward that had nothing to do with inexperience and everything to do with all the things between us left unspoken.

when the scene ended, ni-ki glanced at me. his mouth opened like he was going to say something.

but the staff swarmed us with notes and touch-ups and schedules before he could.

and maybe that was a mercy.

because i wasn’t sure if i was ready to hear whatever he had to say. or worse, what he wouldn’t.

✦ ✦ ✦

later, as i sat alone in the makeup room, wiping off the fake sweat from a fake emotional scene, i caught sight of myself in the mirror. i looked the same as always. polished. put together. exactly the way the world expected me to be.

but inside, i was thirteen again, knees scraped from climbing trees, laughing until i couldn't breathe while ni-ki teased me about losing another race. i was sixteen again, heart pounding too fast when his hand brushed mine under the summer stars. i was eighteen again, standing by the airport window, watching the boy i loved walk away, too scared to ask him to stay.

time was supposed to heal things. wasn’t it?

so why did it feel like the wound had just been ripped wide open all over again?

i leaned forward, resting my forehead against the mirror, letting the cool glass soak up the warmth of my skin. i told myself to breathe. to be patient. to remember that this was just another scene. just another project. just another co-star.

but no matter how much i lied to myself, the truth was simple.

he was here.

he was real again.

✦ ✦ ✦

taglist: @kaiyunsim @deliousberry @arequiem4u  @yourmaple17 <33 (leave a comment to be added for future chapters)

[ladylooch]

Wildest Dreams - [Mat Barzal]

Summary: Mat and his wife take turns worrying about if they're ready to be parents.

Word Count: 3.2k

Main Tropes: New Parents, Pregnancy, Established Marriage

Before I even open my eyes, I’m annoyed.

I know I haven’t been sleeping very long, can feel it in the way my brain is still running a mile a minute, churning in the darkness of mine and my husband, Mat’s bedroom. 

I never sleep well when Mat is on road trips and definitely not on the nights that he comes home to me. I get excited. Like it’s our first night sleeping together all over again. I hope that never fades, no matter how long we are together. No matter who else joins us in our place. 

As if to let me know he too is waiting for Mat, our son kicks his feet into my ribs. I let out a soft grunt, then put a palm over where I felt that. For feet that look so tiny on an ultrasound, they sure pack a hefty kick. After settling the baby as best I can with rubs and steady pats, I close my eyes again, willing the delicious tug of sleep to find me. 

Did I turn the oven off? I suddenly wonder. I made chicken nuggets and tater tots for dinner because that was all I had energy for. But now at- I turn over- 2:30am, I can’t remember if it’s been on since dinner time. I probably did, I assure myself. I force my eyes back closed, hugging my pregnancy pillow close to my body. Against my will, my brain continues to check in about the oven.

Are we sure?

Like sure, sure?

What if we aren’t sure and then we burn the house down?

Where will we bring the baby home to then?

“Damn it.” I hiss into the dark, throwing the comforter off my legs. I wiggle my way to the side of the bed, getting my feet grounded in the rug before I begin the journey out to the kitchen. On the way, I pass by our wedding pictures lining the hallway. They’re all stunning, black and white candids, exactly what we asked for. Mat’s smile is wide, nose scrunched, I can hear his laugh through the photo and that’s exactly why it is up in our home.

An amazing day, capping off an amazing chapter of dating and prenuptial bliss that eased us into a marriage better than we could have anticipated. A celebration of the decade, our families had announced the following day.

The celebration keeps getting better, even after a few years of being married. The honeymoon phase has stuck around, convincing Mat and I that it’s never going to end. This bliss is exactly why we decided to begin a leisurely journey of growing our family. After seeing a few of our friends and family members struggle to conceive, we figured giving ourselves a long runway to take off into parenthood would help cushion our expectations from disappointment. 

The universe had other plans. 

I was pregnant within the first week.

I'm 8 months pregnant now, but I can still hear every skipping inhale and exhale of Mat's lungs as we started down at the positive test together. 

"Okay. We are doing this." He had finally said then gave me a tentative smile. "I'm happy. Really happy. Just..."

"Surprised." I nodded in agreement. "Me too." He grabbed my upper arms, holding me gently. 

"Are you okay?” Worry lines creased his forehead and deepened his eyes.

"Yeah. I'm okay if you are?"

"Then we both are." He assured me before pulling me into a loving, secure hug.

There were a few more moments of shock and overwhelm in those first few weeks, but once we moved out of the first trimester, anticipation and wonder took over. We dreamed about our baby all the time. We gushed about all the experiences we wanted to share with them. We discussed what features of us we hoped they would get and which ones we hoped skipped them. We talked about what names we wanted to go by, not realizing how many different variations there were for mom and dad. When we found out we were having a boy, those conversations got even deeper as our baby began to form into a person like he was already Earth side with us. 

Telling our family was the best part. We waited until we knew the gender then I showed up packing a 19 week baby bump. My mom and Mat’s mom had fainted into each other. Liana had tackled Mat to the ground, literally. Then our dreaming because everyone’s dreaming. Baby boy Barzal can’t get here fast enough. 

A rustling of fabric from the next room over has my attention pulled off the picture of Mat and I grinning after eating pieces of our cake. I take a few cautious steps, then relax when I see the source of the noise.

Inside the baby blue nursery is my husband, wrapped awkwardly up in one of the gifts I received from the Isles ladies baby shower last weekend.

"For fucks..." Mat trails off, turning to the side with one end of the wrap in one hand. The other sweeps along the floor as Mat spins in a circle trying to gather it up. I can't help but giggle. It starts off silent, only moving my shoulders, then gets louder as he spins faster as if that will help. Mat stops abruptly, looking wide-eyed at me in the doorway. "Uh..." He looks to the side then grins sheepishly.

"What are you doing?”

"Practicing." 

"Mhm." I murmur, pushing off from the door jam to meet him on the fluffy rug in the shape of the sun.

"The directions are in Spanish." Mat insists when I go to grab the white paper tossed on the changing table. This is why my dad built the furniture for the baby's room. 

"Babe..." I trail off, flipping the booklet over.

"Oh." Mat stares down at the paper in my hands but doesn't take it. His eyes trail up to mine and I can see the turmoil. "I'm scared." He blurts out. “What if I’m not good at this? What if I’m not what he needs?”

“Mat-” He shake his head vigorously, not allowing me to say anything more.

“Baby, you have to say nice things about me. The guys laughed when I told them you were pregnant! Laughed! Their asses off! What if they know something I don’t? That I’m going to be so bad at this people will want to take him away from me… from us!?” His hands rush through his black hair, forcing it to spike out in various directions. 

“Mat, I was there. They were laughing in excitement for us.” I assure him, running my left hand up his arm. I trail the right over his other arm, locking my fingers in place behind his neck. My belly bumps into his abdomen, drawing Mat’s eyes down to it. 

“This is so out of my wheelhouse.” He sighs, resting his forehead against mine. “And I know you’re going to be so good at raising our son. You deserve a partner who knows what the fuck to do.”

“I have one of those.” I drag my face up, letting my lips find his by feel instead of sight. “This kid is so damn lucky to have you as a dad. You’ll be there for him. You’ll love him. You might not be home every night to tuck him into bed, but he will know how to much you want to be. That’s a great dad.” 

“I don’t know how to change a diaper.” He reminds me with a heavy sigh.

“That’s why we are going to class.” I chuckle.

“I sucked in school.” He huffs. “Pretty sure I can’t even read.” He flicks the paper directions for the wrap.

“The team needs to start winning soon. I can’t take this version of you much longer.” I tease, kissing the corners of his mouth as his lips turn into a knowing smile. “You were fine before the team went 1-4 on this road trip.”

“I should be better there too.”

“I love you.” I say, shaking my head in wonder at his constant desire to improve and evolve. He doesn’t see it now, but that is what will make him an amazing father. That isn’t something I can tell Mat; he will need to learn and experience it from his own perspective.

“I love you too.” 

“You’re actually not that far off from this.” I say, tugging at the wrap around him. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.” I stick my tongue out in the corner of my lips then work the fabric until it is snug. I walk over to the shelf where a few of our son’s stuffies rest, waiting for him to arrive. I grab the white one with red hearts for paw pads then walk back to Mat. I stick it into the wrap, adjusting the material as I do so the bear is fully supported. “There! See! You’ve got this.” I smile at him. Mat looks down, then runs a hand down the back of the bears fur. He sighs heavily, hopefully releasing some of his worries with it. 

“I need to be good at this. For you. For him.” He quietly admits. 

Being something that matters this much to Mat is special. Soon our son will know what that means too. 

+++

8 lbs, 6oz has never sounded so angry. 

At 12 days old, Bennett Barzal has lungs louder than a missile.  

The increased noise has my tired brain frantically trying everything it can to remember what the hospital and baby books said to do to soothe him. The Isles are on the road and without Mat, I feel lost and out of sync with what to do with our baby. This is the second night out of three that I have had an impossible time getting his down to sleep after 11:00pm. He wakes up for his feeding and everything is going well except for when I try to put him back into his bassinet. All he wants is me and as adorable as that sounds, it’s also extremely overwhelming. 

Mat is on his way home and I’ve been desperately trying to get Bennett back to sleep. I’m afraid for Mat to come home and see me this way. I don’t want him to worry about us. I want to be a successful mother who know how to soothe her kid. But as I try a new hold on him, Bennett shrieks turn louder. 

As much as I don’t want to, I begin to cry. The room surrounding us is a mess of bottles, different types of pacifies, different onesies, and a few diapers that the wings ripped off because I was so desperately trying to change Bennett as he wailed about the coolness of the night. Nothing about this room says that I have any part of parenthood figured out. It screams failure instead.

I finally understand the worries Mat had when I was still pregnant. 

What if I’m finding out I’m not cut out for this? 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I…” A hiccup rocks through my body. “I don’t know what to do.” The stakes feel so high now with a child. Making the wrong decisions doesn’t only effect Mat and I anymore. It effects our child and I can’t stomach the thought of disappointing them.

At that admission, more tears spill off my lashes. I try to do meditative breathing but it comes out as long puffs like a dragon. I’m in a messy haze of panic still when I hear the lock twist on the front door. I turn towards where Mat is walking in, still clutching our son. Mat looks so tired, bleary even, he probably fell asleep on the plane and is still disoriented. He blinks then frowns as he registers the chaotic scene of the living room.

"I'm not good at this." I stutter out, eyes wild from a lack of sleep and worry. Mat instantly begins to shake his head in disagreement.

"Baby, you are perfect." He quietly corrects.

Mat puts his bags by the door and walks into the room. When his arms go around me, holding both of us to his chest, the world gets quiet even as the baby continues to scream against my chest. Every fumbled worry and trembling thought evaporates with his touch. His lips brush my hair for a moment, then stick firmer when they get to the skin of my temple. 

"I'm home now." He assures me. "We can do this together." 

He soothes all the unspoken worries l stuck to my tongue. I peel my face off his chest, looking up at him with full, soaked eyes. His sideways smile has me surrendering. 

"I've tried everything." I quietly reflect. "He wants none of it." 

"Okay." Mat nods, trusting my words. "What can I do?" He asks it in a pondering way as if he is a new ingredient to this mismatched equation. The backs of his knuckles float to our son's clenching back.

We stand there in the living room together, unsure. Mat rubs his back. I try remembering the 5 Ss. Mat’s hand goes to my hips, circling his thumb into my side to comfort me too. Suddenly, Mat's finger halts. 

"I have an idea.”

"Anything." I agree, not even needing to hear the next few words to trust his instinct. 

"Come with me." He threads our fingers together, then leads me down the hallway. "I'll be right back." He says, leaving me by the couch.

I sway back and forth, patting our son's butt until his father reappears. In Mat's hands is the wrap he has been working on mastering. He begins to double wrap it around my waist, then up around my shoulders. Together, we work the pieces around the baby. I adjust the wrap as best I can before we work our son into the fabric one limb at a time. His little body shakes with his heavy wails. I close my eyes, inhaling deeply as I feel my maternal reaction heightening. I start bouncing on my toes, Mat kisses my cheek comfortingly.

"Two more minutes. I know this will work." He promises, brushing my hair over my shoulders so it is out of the baby's face. 

"Okay." I respond weakly. 

Mat turns and drags the big ottoman we have in the room closer to me. As he heads to the corner of the room, he says, "Sit if that's more comfortable. Or stand. Whatever you think you two will like best." His hand wraps around the neck of the Gibson guitar he learned to play on during COVID. He uses his electric guitar more now in his Long Island jam band, but cranky babies require a softer approach.

I cautiously lower myself onto the couch, eyes getting misty as Mat works out the cords to tune them appropriately. In my mind, I'm transported to soft date nights at home where Mat would play for us. The baby would get still and quiet, almost like he was listening. It worked to soothe him on the nights he preferred to be a gymnast instead of sleep at 2:00am. Nights similar to this one. Mat would always end with an excited "I can't wait to play for him when he is here."

Now is Mat's moment. One he has been preparing for years before we knew what the future would hold for us.

Soft musical notes begin to work from the center of the guitar as Mat picks at the strings. It's a song I'm not familiar with- one Mat has never played for us before. 

"You gonna cry when you raise your hands in church. But you'll act tough when those sticks and stones and heartbreaks hurt.”

Against my chest, heavy cries begin to die out almost instantly at the sound of the guitar and Mat’s tentative singing voice. My thumb strokes across our son's red cheek, taking the tears off his skin, but my eyes don't leave my husband. I'm captivated by him and the sureness he radiates.

"Be a shoulder to lean on and honest when you need some with a smile that can light up a room. Just like your mama, no bull and no drama, you'll know who you are and you'll know who you ain't." Mat's mouth stretches into a sweet smile when he says my new name. Our son's tears are dying down and mine are growing. "In the mirror might look just like me. But deep down, boy, I pray you'll be, just like your mama.”

"Babe..." I sigh, reaching for his thigh. I brace my other hand on the back of our son's head so I can lean forward into Mat's shoulder.  He stops singing, but keeps strumming the guitar, kissing my head before he continues with the song.

"You might steal a sip of Crown from your old man's cabinet.”

"He would never." I insist with a quiet yelp. I rub my thumb over Bennett’s thin baby hairs, not able to handle the picture of a teenaged boy who breaks our rules. The world is cruel and unfair, so I'm sure he will look exactly like a teenage Mat Barzal- driving all the girls wild and us crazy. Okay, maybe I can picture it perfectly. Shit. "We need to lock up the liquor right now.”

Mat laughs, stopping the song for a moment. Our son begins to whimper again.

"Don't stop." I lift my head, connecting our eyes. Mat quirks an eyebrow up at me.

"You used to say that for different reasons." He teases gently before continuing with the lyrics. "You'll never meet a stranger and proud of where you came from, steady as a Midwest summer sky.”

I run my hand up his thigh to his stomach, letting my finger nails trace and scratch at his thick abs under his shirt. Mat gives a crooked smile, keeping his eyes on me as I innocently rest my chin on his shoulder. My body protects the baby from bumping into the guitar. I can feel his little sigh against my chest as he settles deeper into my skin. I run my hand vertically up and down his back, relieved to see this working perfectly for the three of us.

"I love you." I coo to Mat as he plucks away towards the bridge. 

"Baby boy I can already see, you're better than my wildest dreams, just like your mama."

Mat finishes the song with a few more cords, then tentatively pauses, fingers still ready if needed. We both wait, seeing if our baby will reawaken with the quiet. He doesn’t. His little body rises and falls steadily now, likely exhausted from crying so hard.

“Mat?” I whisper.

"Hm?" He asks, not taking his eyes off our sleeping baby.

"You're good at this.” I announce. When he turns towards me, I collect his cheek with my hand. My thumb brushes his angular cheek bone. Our eyes meet for a moment, then his close. He turns his nose into my palm, kissing there then working down to my wrist. He pecks over our wedding date inked permanently there.

"Best thing that ever happened to me.”

"He is." I murmur back.

"No. You. Always you, baby. There is no him without you. No me either. At least not the version I wanna be.”

We weren't sure how this was going to go.

We thought we needed more time to prepare.

Guess there are some things in life we just have to figure out as we go.

More hockey fics of mine are here for your enjoyment.

[lyn31]

Sinceeee i'm still in this zayne and mc on a honeymoon sweetness haze, might as well request another one for my dose of sweetness hahaha can you pretty please write more about their newlywed life, all domestic like them cooking together, going on grocery shopping maybe? Heck even them doing laundry together would be cute 🤣 oh and probably them going to work related functions for the first time since the wedding and introducing each other as husband / wife? Just sending this in before i sleep so good night and thankyou in advance! hehe 💕❤️

Hopefully it's not died down yet 😂🫶🏻 And no worries, seeing that I made a series in ao3, this story would keep coming even if it just a short little scene! And again, I can't choose what activity for them to do, so this is how it ended up being...

Let me know what you think! 👀💕

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New Chapter of Life Together

Summary

You learn what it means to be loved as a wife—not through grand declarations, but in quiet mornings, soft reassurances, and the steady presence of the man who chose you for life.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader Married Life, newlyweds, fluff, banter, silly, chaos, a lot of flirting!

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The first thing you feel is his arm, heavy and familiar around your waist. Then the warmth of his chest, the quiet, steady rhythm of his breath against your shoulder. You shift slightly, testing the morning light that peeks through the curtains—and immediately, Zayne tightens his hold on you with all the intent of someone who has no plans of letting you escape.

"Good morning, wife," he murmurs against your skin, voice still rough with sleep.

You smile before your eyes are even fully open. "Good morning, husband."

The views aren’t new anymore. You’ve lived together long before vows were exchanged, before rings slipped into place. But now—now they taste sweeter, weightier. Even when said half-teasing, neither of you seem eager to stop.

You stretch your leg over his, limbs tangled beneath the covers, and he exhales softly like that was exactly what he wanted. For a moment, neither of you speak. Just the quiet of the room, the drowsy comfort of not needing to be anywhere yet.

"I had a weird dream," you mumble into his collarbone. "You were trying to fight a sentient loaf of bread."

Zayne hums. "Did I win?"

"Only after giving it a heartfelt speech about forgiveness."

"I see." A beat. "Sounds accurate."

You laugh under your breath. He kisses the back of your neck, absently, like it’s muscle memory. You reach behind you, fingertips brushing his chest until they find that familiar, faint heartbeat under your touch—calm and certain, just like him.

"What should we eat?" you ask after a pause, not moving an inch.

"You're asking me that while still in bed?" he murmurs, voice laced with amusement.

"No dirty thoughts! I’m manifesting brunch."

"You’re manifesting it from the arms of your husband, who is also very comfortable."

You twist slightly to glance over your shoulder at him. "Fine, I guess we’ll starve together."

Zayne’s smile is small but unmistakable, the kind that barely lifts the corner of his lips and still somehow makes your stomach flutter. He leans in, brushing his mouth against yours—slow, warm, and just the right side of lazy. It deepens as your fingers slip into his hair, and for a moment, you both seem to forget everything else. His touch drifts lower, and the kiss turns languid, coaxing.

But then, your stomach lets out a loud, undeniable growl.

You freeze. Zayne stills. And then, against your neck, you feel his shoulders start to shake with laughter.

"Okay, okay," you groan, burying your face in the pillow. "Rude."

He kisses your temple, still grinning. "Brunch it is."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You pad into the kitchen behind him, still barefoot, hair a mess, wearing one of his oversized shirts like you always do on mornings like this. Zayne rolls up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, sets his tablet on the counter, and already you can see that look in his eyes—the one that says he’s taking this way too seriously.

"Let me help," you say, even though you both know what that usually means.

Zayne glances over his shoulder with that soft, amused expression he reserves just for you. "You sure?"

"Of course! It’s brunch. It’s meant to be spontaneous and unhinged."

He blinks but nods all the same. "Alright. But no cinnamon in the eggs again."

"That's one time," you mutter, grabbing a pan anyway.

It’s controlled chaos from there. Zayne measures ingredients with military precision, he stirs with careful, deliberate movements. Meanwhile, you’re humming whatever’s stuck in your head, tossing in seasonings by instinct, ignoring every suggestion he tries to gently offer.

"That’s not... two teaspoons," he points out mildly, watching you sprinkle something into your pan with reckless abandon.

"It’s two teaspoons in spirit."

He shakes his head, reaching around you to grab a cutting board, only for your elbow to bump his side. You dodge in front of him, stealing his spatula just to flip your own food. He frowns, but there’s no heat in it. Just the usual dance of coexisting in a space too small for both your styles.

At some point, you flick flour at him.

It catches him clean on the nose, dusting his face like powdered sugar. He doesn’t react at first—just stares at you, completely deadpan, as if deciding whether to reprimand you or kiss you senseless.

You burst into laughter.

"You have flour—" you wheeze, pointing, "on your—"

Zayne calmly wipes his nose with a dish towel. "I’m married to a gremlin."

"Excuse you, I’m a culinary genius."

"You’re a hazard."

Still, when everything’s finally cooked and plated, the result is... actually edible. Good, even. The eggs are a little crisped on one side, the toast slightly uneven, but the flavors are warm and comforting and somehow perfectly them. You both slide onto the counter, plates balanced on your laps, legs swinging lazily.

The window’s open. The breeze smells like spring. He hands you a fork, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips again as he watches you take your first bite.

"...Not bad, right?" you ask, mouth full.

"Brilliant," he says dryly. "I might survive after all."

You nudge your foot against his, eyes catching his in that soft, slow moment that doesn’t need anything more than just being here.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The shower is—miraculously—efficient. Warm water, quiet kisses, just enough lingering touches to feel indulgent without dragging the hours into full-blown distraction. You both dry off in sync, navigating the shared space like muscle memory, and by the time you're dressed and slipping on your shoes, it's afternoon.

Sunday means errands, but it doesn’t feel like a chore. Not when it’s the two of you.

You stop by the dry cleaners first, where Zayne handles the transaction with his usual quiet grace and you eye the mystery stain on one of his button-downs like it personally offended you. Then it’s light bulbs, of all things, which somehow turns into a debate over wattage because Zayne is, of course, reading the box like it’s a research paper.

"I swear you overthink these," you mutter, nudging his arm with your elbow.

"And you under think everything," he replies, without even looking up.

Fair.

But the best part of the afternoon is the plant shop. It’s a cozy little place that smells like soil and citrus, and you make a beeline for the corner where the leafy, drooping misfits live. One in particular catches your eye—a slightly crooked snake plant with a tilted pot and far too much charm for Zayne to ignore.

"We just re-potted three last month," he says, arms crossed.

"He’s different. Look at him," you coo, lifting the little guy carefully. "He’s got personality."

Zayne gives the plant a long, assessing look, then you. Then the plant again. "...You’re going to forget to water it."

"I won’t."

"You will," he says, but takes the pot from you anyway, one hand cradling the base like it’s fragile. The way he does it makes you grin—he’s already accepted the adoption, whether he admits it or not.

Outside the store, an elderly woman fumbles with her bags, and before either of you even speak, you step forward to help. Zayne’s hand settles briefly at the small of your back as you assist her, steady and quiet. She thanks you both sweetly, eyes crinkling, and you flash her a smile that lingers longer than necessary.

Zayne watches that smile with a softness he doesn’t say out loud.

The rest of the outing passes in that same easy rhythm. You hand him your drink without a word, and he takes a sip like it’s routine—no need to ask. You lean into him while waiting at a crosswalk, forehead briefly brushing his shoulder. At some point, you bicker about whether taking 3rd Avenue or looping around through the back road is faster—Zayne with logic, you with stubborn gut feeling. He humors you and takes your route anyway.

By the time you hit the grocery store, you’re both ready to knock out dinner prep. But the snack aisle derails everything. Zayne sneaks bags of cookies into the cart like you can’t see it or something. You remove one, replacing it with the lower-sugar version, only for him to sneak another one in from behind your back.

"You know we came here for, like, eggs and rice, right?" You say, grinning, crossing your arms.

"And chocolate," he adds, tossing in a novelty-flavored candy bar. He casually looks at his phone that has the grocery list like he didn’t just add sweet into it.

You scan the nutritional label like it just betrayed your trust. Seriously—if you didn’t stop this man, all his teeth would rot and he wouldn’t even regret it.

Eventually, you give up pretending to be responsible and accept that your cart now contains enough snacks for a week. Maybe two.

On the way home, you both realize brunch wore off faster than expected. Zayne’s stomach growls first. You don’t say anything—just raise an eyebrow and gesture toward a café at the corner.

Ten minutes later, you're inside, warm and cozy, sunlight filtering through the windows. He’s reading the menu with that familiar furrow between his brows, like choosing between a croissant and a danish is a life-altering decision.

"You look so serious right now," you tease, sipping your drink. "Like you’re solving a medical mystery. For pastries."

"I like to be thorough."

"You're adorable."

He lowers the menu slightly, eyes flicking to yours. "...You’re not getting out of deciding the movie tonight." But despite how steady his tone is, the tips of his ears are turning red.

You grin around the rim of your cup. "I’ll let you pick—if you get the strawberry tart and let me steal half."

"...Deal."

You end up splitting three pastries anyway. Conversation drifts from movies to work, to the idea of maybe cooking something light for dinner, to whether or not that plant is actually going to survive under your care. It’s nothing flashy. Just the rhythm of being you and Zayne—shared smiles, knees bumping beneath the table, the world soft around the edges.

And for a lazy Sunday? It’s perfect.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Monday morning hits different after a slow weekend. There’s a light chill in the air, one that creeps in through the kitchen windows despite the soft warmth of dawn pressing through the curtains. You pad across the tile floor, barefoot, still slightly sleepy, wearing nothing but one of Zayne’s button-downs—loose, wrinkled from the laundry basket, and hanging just enough to tease.

You’re not really trying to make a statement.

...But you're also not not trying.

You're mid-pour with the kettle when you hear the bathroom door open and soft footsteps cross the hall. Zayne steps into the kitchen, towel around his neck, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. He’s wearing his usual morning expression—composed, alert, too calm for someone who just walked in on his wife looking like that.

Except for the smallest shift in his gaze, the stillness in his steps as he takes you in.

He says nothing at first, only moves toward the counter like he always does. Pours himself a mug of coffee. But you catch the flicker. That very specific pause as he lifts the cup to his lips and doesn't drink—just watches you over the rim, quiet, assessing.

And yeah. You know exactly what you're doing.

"Morning, husband," you say sweetly, voice innocent as you stretch just slightly to reach the sugar jar.

His eyes trail the motion, linger a second too long. "...Good morning, wife."

He sets the mug down with a soft clink. That’s all. No teasing, no smirking. But you feel the tension in the air anyway, coiling subtle and slow between your bare thighs and his calm restraint. This man, composed even now, does nothing by accident.

"You're going to be late," he says, finally turning back to his coffee.

"So are you," you reply, sipping yours, perfectly unfazed.

But his gaze dips once more as he walks past you, deliberately brushing the edge of his hand along the curve of your waist, kissing you slowly before going on his way out of the kitchen, as if staying any longer would mean neither of you would get out of the house today.

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A few hours into work, you’re back on base, half-distracted during reports when something ridiculous happens—Tara gets her coat stuck in the door and tries to play it off like it didn’t happen. You manage a sneaky photo just before she notices.

You send it to Zayne with no caption.

A minute later, your screen lights up.

Mine💕: Is this why you were wearing my shirt and nothing else this morning? To not get attack by door?

You grin and fire back.

You: Well, I had to arm myself with something. Your shirt felt appropriate. Has… sentimental value.

Mine💕: It had strategic value this morning too.

You almost laugh out loud.

You: Are you suggesting I distracted you?

Mine💕: You walked into the kitchen half-dressed. On a Monday. After a weekend where we barely left bed. So, yes.

You: Oh no. What will I wear tomorrow?

Mine💕:  Nothing, if you’re trying to get me to skip work.

Your cheeks heat—part laughter, part memory, part anticipation. The texts keep going, drifting more playful, more suggestive, until you're both balancing professionalism with escalating tension.

Eventually, somewhere between paperwork and lunch, he sends one last message.

Mine💕: I’m picking up dinner tonight. So you can go straight to not wearing anything when I get home.

You don’t reply immediately. Just stare at your screen, biting back a smile.

But oh yeah—you’re both very much looking forward to tonight.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You get home before him. The house is quiet, the kind of peaceful that makes you want to hum to yourself while moving through it. Zayne said he’d bring dinner, so technically you didn’t have to do anything—but a sudden idea takes hold somewhere between opening the fridge and spotting the unused chocolate in the cupboard.

Dessert.

You’ll make dessert.

Well… a dessert.

You tie on the apron—his apron, naturally. It's one of those neutral-toned ones with deep pockets and a tie that loops around your waist twice. The only thing beneath it is skin and a whole lot of mischief. It’s half a joke—just the apron, no clothes—but it doesn’t stop you from fluffing your hair and checking the mirror before you start.

You’re not just teasing. You want to see what that calm, steady husband of yours does when he walks in and finds his wife waiting with nothing but his apron.

The baking part goes better than expected. It helps that you’ve done this before, and that you know exactly how he likes his sweets, although he’ll eat any sweet you give him and this is just talking about actual food.

You’re plating them when you hear the lock click.

The door swings open. Zayne steps in, dinner in hand, something warm and likely perfectly portioned. His eyes lift—routine, casual—until they register what they’re seeing.

He stops mid-step.

You’re standing there at the kitchen counter, apron tied neatly, dessert on display. The light catches your skin, and maybe it’s your imagination, but the air seems to still for a moment.

He blinks.

“Welcome home, husband,” you say, voice light, innocent.

He sets the takeout bag down on the nearest surface. Doesn’t even glance at it. Just walks straight toward you, loosing up the tie on his shirt, walking slow and with controlled, like he's handling something fragile. Or dangerous.

His hands slide to your waist—cool, sure. His voice is low, close to your ear. “I thought we agree on nothing.”

“Isn’t this more exciting?” you murmur, tipping your head up just slightly, pulling at his tie.

He kisses you like he has no intention of stopping. And for a long, breathless stretch, he doesn’t.

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By the time you actually sit down to eat, the food is lukewarm and the desserts are nearly forgotten. You both laugh about it, halfway through your second bites, a little dazed, your hair mussed, his neck full of kiss marks. Both of you barely dress.

The kitchen still smells like sugar and vanilla.

And Zayne? He still hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

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It’s just past midnight when he wakes up.

No gasp, no cry—just a sharp inhale through clenched teeth and the sudden tension of his body beside you. You feel it immediately, even through sleep. The shift in the bed. The way his hand curls slightly, like he's still trying to hold onto something that slipped away.

You roll toward him, reaching out before your eyes are fully open. “Zayne?”

He blinks once, twice, eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering in from the streetlamp outside. His breath is still uneven. There’s sweat at his hairline, his shirt sticking to his chest, his jaw tight.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You don't reply at first. Just press your forehead to his shoulder, your arm slipping around his middle.

“Was it… another nightmare?”

He doesn’t answer, but you feel the nod. It's small. Heavy.

It doesn't happen often—not anymore. But every now and then, something cracks through that carefully maintained calm. Close calls. An impossible case. A moment when the scalpel trembled, or worse, when it nearly slipped. Or sometimes... sometimes it's you. A memory he tries not to relive, no matter how old or how faint.

“You’re here,” you whisper, voice soft against his skin. “We’re safe.”

His arms come around you after that. Slow, a little hesitant—like he still thinks he doesn’t deserve to be comforted—but when he exhales, it’s shakier than he means it to be.

“You were…” he trails off. “In the OR. I—”

He stops again. Shakes his head.

You don't need the rest. You've heard enough versions of this dream to know where it leads. And you know exactly how deeply it sinks into him, even hours after it ends.

So you pull him closer, shifting until you’re almost on top of him, fingers threading through his damp hair, grounding him. “You made vows,” you say, quiet but steady. “So did I.”

His hands press against your back, anchoring. He doesn’t reply, but you feel the moment he lets go of the dream. Not entirely—but enough. Enough to stay here. With you.

“I’m not going anywhere, Love.”

You press a kiss just below his ear. “Not now. Not ever.”

And finally, finally, he breathes like he believes it.

He falls asleep not long after, arms still around you, the warmth of your body pulling him back to steadiness. And you stay like that, wide awake, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest.

You know he’ll be okay in the morning.

He always is.

But you stay anyway—because that’s what you promised.

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Bonus

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The event is held in one of the hospital’s private conference halls—high ceilings, too-bright lighting, waitstaff weaving between clusters of formally dressed doctors and researchers. There’s soft music playing in the background, more ambiance than melody, and a spread of hors d’oeuvres on white-clothed tables no one quite dares to touch.

Zayne stands beside you, tailored suit perfect down to the pressed collar. He blends in seamlessly with the rest of them—composed, unbothered, clipboard conversations flowing around him like water. But you can feel it in the way his hand rests at the small of your back. Gentle. Protective. Anchored.

He leans in slightly when someone approaches. “This is my wife,” he says simply, voice calm but warm.

You hear the words more than once tonight—always offhand, always soft. But every time, they catch you a little off guard. My wife. It shouldn’t feel so new anymore, but somehow, coming from him, in this polished, clinical space where everything is usually professional and precise… it does.

It feels like a tiny rebellion.

You smile, offer your hand, try to keep your voice steady as you greet whoever he introduces you to—department heads, residents, researchers you only know by surname on articles he's sent you. And you do well enough, even as you notice the subtle double takes. The way eyes flick between the two of you. Like no one expected this pairing. Or maybe they just didn’t expect you.

“She’s even prettier than you described,” one of the cardiologists from another hospital murmurs with a smile, a little in awe.

Before you can react—before you can wave it off or stammer something awkward—Zayne’s already answering.

“She always is.”

He doesn’t smile when he says it. Doesn’t smirk or make a show of it. He just says it like it’s fact. Like gravity. And suddenly you’re the one left flustered, heat blooming in your face.

Zayne offers you a drink then—water, always observant—and you accept it more for the distraction than anything else. His fingers brush yours briefly. Steady. Sure.

Later, during a lull in the presentations, you find yourself pressed shoulder to shoulder with him by the tall windows overlooking the city. He doesn’t say much, just watches the traffic below. But his fingers curl around yours, his thumb tracing the back of your hand slowly, absentmindedly.

You lean into him a little.

“You know you’re going to make it hard for me to show my face around here again,” you murmur.

“Why?” he asks mildly, but there’s the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“You just… announced me like I was the highlight of the year.”

“You are.”

You laugh, bury your face briefly against his arm, cheeks still warm. He says nothing else, just lets you stay close, thumb still moving in slow circles. The rest of the evening passes in the blur of names and speeches, but you hold on to that moment.

To the quiet certainty in his voice.

To being his wife—not just on paper, but here. Beside him. In his world.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes

They're too cute for their own good 😩🫶🏻 I'll be back 👀

[bunny-1111]

Reading you like an open book -

TheoNottxreader fic

Word count: 900 words

Description: Theo can't handle it when you choose books over him, and when he tries to do something about it, he faces an unpredictable ending

Warnings: None, just pure fluff <3 unread and unedited

Reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated, my loves <3

...

Reading should be good for you, you thought, it is good for you, it strengthens the mind, widens your imagination. Theodore thought otherwise. There you were on your day off, sunken deep into the couch, reading, instead of spending your precious time with your devoted boyfriend.

"Enough of that, come to bed" Theo lazily mutters, standing in front of your place on the couch, his face wild for your attention.

Who would've thought Theo would have to fight for his girl, his competition, glued pages of paper.

You blink up with tired eyes all you could manage was to shake your head in defiance.

"It's almost three a.m., love. Get up," he insisted, dropping to a crouch in front of you, his hands finding your knees as he pleaded gently, voice rough with exhaustion. He looked so boyish, begging for something as simple as your presence.

"One more chapter and I'll meet you in bed" you yawn, the book slipping slightly in your grip

"No," Theo almost laughed, shaking your legs a little to jolt you awake. "I can’t sleep without you next to me, dork. You know that."

Theodore is met with no reply, stubborn as ever, he watched your eyes return to your page, he let out his own frustrated grunt

"You're sleep schudule is fucked, you have two seconds to close the book before I do it myself" he continued

This made your ears prick. He wouldn't dare; he's never understood how much you love reading, and his complaining was getting more frustrating by the day.

You turned another page defiantly, the rustle sounding louder than it should have.

"That's it" he mutters before his hands take possession your novel, it all happened so quickly, you exhuasten halted as you sprung up, practically climbing onto him to retrieve what's yours.

"Don't put up a fight," Theo beamed, absolutely delighted, catching you easily as you wriggled in his arms. This, he thought, was much better than you reading.

"Theodore, stop!" you laughed breathlessly, half playful, half furious, to be fair it was funny, until.

Until the book dropped, and your bookmark with it.

You gasped, jumping from his hold, staring at the disaster laid out on the ground.

"My bookmark you just lost my page, Teddy?!" you exclaimed as you picked your heart off the floor

"Oh shit, sorry darling, just... place it back" he gently apologies

"No! Theo if I do that I might accidentally read ahead, everything ruined, you idiot! Argh" your fingers ran through your head, a mix of stress and tiredness.

"I-" he started

No," you cut him off sharply, jabbing your finger against his chest with every word.

"The last sentence I read was 'I have been used to consider poetry as the food of love.' "You declared with such seriousness. "And now you, Theodore, are going to read until you find it. Once you do, and only then, may I continue reading."

Without sparing him a glance, you spun on your heel and stormed towards the bedroom.

"Hold on, Hold on" you heard behind you as Theo chases rapidly.

"No debate, Theo, happy reading" you tease as you dive under the bed covers

Theodore is still rushing to understand what his gotten himself into

"Sweetheart, look at this thing I'm not going to make it through, I'll be bored to death honey" you complained, holding his new copy of pride and Prejudice up

"Happy reading baby" you say pecking a kiss to his cheek.

You didn’t think he’d actually read it. Maybe flick through a few pages, maybe even quickly skim the first chapter at best.

Four days passed and you had found Theo in an unusual spot, your spot, on the couch, your reading spot of the couch, peering over you saw his face focused, his lips slightly parted, mouthing the words he was reading almost inauidably.

Leaning over so that your face sat on his shoulder, you looked between the pages and your boyfriend.

"Is this real?" you giggle

"Shh" Theo scolded, waving a hand in the air without looking up, eyes darting across the page.

Glaring over to focus on what he was up to, you notice the page at the top

"Teddy? That’s passed my bookmark” your eyes widening

"Wait. I thought you didn't know what page you were up to" he says finally looking up at you

"Yeah, I knew, just wanted to see if you'd actually read" you smile

"You evil little minx" he chuckled "you've passed me?" you questioned

“I was just making sure, double checking, yeah?” He insisted on rapidly shutting the page

“You’re so cute, read on. Just don’t spoil it for me”, you smile your hands finding their way into his hair

“I wouldn’t dare” he says, picking the book back up

“Not in front of me! I can’t see the pages I haven’t read!”

“Sorry” he says, shutting the book once again, his lips meeting yours, the novel still in his hands

"Teddy" you softly breathe into his kiss

"Yes, lovely girl" he replies just as softly as you had

"Put the book down" you suggest

"Right" he mutters, abandoning the novel as his hands cup your face.

...

Author's note: so happy to be writing again <3

Reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated, my loves

loveeeeee B xxx

[nebrasska-alasska]

I find it so funny how you always seem to be uploading chapters while in the middle of the most random things, are you just always writing fic in the middle of doing stuff? Iconic if so honestly

HAHAHAHAHA DUDE you have no idea XD I would say that for the vast majority of chapters, like 75% of them are uploaded when I'm doing stuff or have to leave to go do something. I only mention that I'm doing something if I KNOW the chapter is more or less a hot mess that will have a couple of errors in it... which is almost every time I upload... listen... I usually reread and fix things later in the night or the next day... trust me I am very aware of how things are and I myself am kind of a hot mess so that's how the chapters are when I first publish them.....

I still think the worst one so far was uploading the first chapter of 'The Secrets in our Quills' during a basketball game in an NBA stadium. Because that wasn't just uploading a chapter, that was filling out the whole damn 'new fic' checklist of things like tags, summary, etc. all while I was sitting right next to my dad. That was such a disaster on all fronts LMAO

But yeah! I rarely have a nice evening where I can just sit down and take the time to read over my chapters right after publishing them, but that doesn't stop me! Live laugh love sloppy Nebrasska Sonadow fics BAHAHAHAHA XD

[lov3lybarista]

ᴄʜ. 7 ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴀʟᴀ.

Wattpad:lov3lybarista Pairing: Thomas Shelby x OC Warnings: Angst, fluff, long but a VERY IMPORTANT CHAPTER! Word Count: 6.2k+ Masterlist. ↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ Song: Where's My Love by SYML May 13th, 1923, Somewhere outside Birmingham, United Kingdom.

The clinic was as calm as it usually was. Late morning sunlight seeped in softly through the high windows like warm breath over glass, diffusing and softening the world's edges. Thomas Shelby sat on the end of the cushioned examination table, his shirt open at the collar. Thomas never wore vulnerability quite easily, but with her, it seemed second nature.

Dalia stood behind him, one hand placed gently between his shoulder blades as she felt the muscles contract beneath his skin.

"You aren't sleeping," she spoke quietly, her voice a purr in his ear.

"Didn't realize it was that obvious," he breathed out.

She hums, her hand loosening a knot that made him groan, "You lost some weight. Your back holds more tension," her fingers press down a little more firmly—"and your voice has that kind of drag that people use to hide things."

He huffed out an amused breath of disbelief, "Those pretty eyes never miss a damn thing do they?"

She says nothing at first, just gives him that unreadable look he always earns when he flirts with her. "You know it's important for me to notice."

Thomas then spoke—the words low and quiet, foreign to him: "They started again. The nightmares."

Her hand paused for a moment, her eyes flickering to meet his in a silent invitation to keep talking before she went back to her adjustment.

"I'm guessing they're worse than usual."

He nodded, "Same shit, different day. Sometimes it's the war, sometimes it's other things."

She never pried, only listened patiently, letting him decide what he wanted to share. That is what was so dangerous about her. She listened. She didn't push, didn't try to change. Just listened, actually listened.

"Sometimes—" he continued, breathing heavily as he gathered the courage to speak, clicking his tongue once, "I see them. My family. The dead ones, the alive ones. Hurt, bloodied," he exhaled slowly, "and I wake up with my name in my mouth like it doesn't belong to me at all."

She pressed down more, her other hand on his shoulder as she cracked a section of his upper back. He grunted but relaxed into her hand. She was adjusting him back to normal—cracking away the stress in his bones.

"You carry too many names," she whispered.

He didn't speak for a while after that, he had just melted into the warmth of her hands as she tried to put back together what was already broken a long time ago.

She watched him straighten himself up, his suit fully back together, "Good," she spoke with a soft smile, "I don't want to be accused of seduction every time you leave with an open collar."

That almost pulled a laugh from him, his eyes crinkling as a grin caught his lips. Her hand continued to smooth over the area she was just working on even after he had dressed, her touch a gentle familiar thing.

They spoke in soft murmurs, small smiles on their faces as they walked too close to the other to be professional, stepping out into the waiting area of the clinic, her hand still there.

And then—

He stopped.

So did she. Because there, sitting politely in one of the waiting room chairs with gloved hands and a brimmed hat was Grace. Grace Burgess. Now married and sat with hair pinned into waved curls like a woman of her status would, her lips painted a pale rose. But she wasn't smiling when she saw them, because she had seen all of it.

The way Dalia rubbed Thomas's back like she was still trying to absorb his pain, the way Thomas leaned his head down to listen to her voice, the way they stood close enough to smell his cologne and him smell her perfume.

Thomas met her eyes, and it was strange. Because here was the ghost of his past, the woman he had spent months wrapped in about in his head, the woman he had loved once with a force so strong that it nearly unmade him, and now he felt...nothing? Regret?

He felt nothing but the warmth of Dalia's hand on his back that she still hadn't pulled away. Nothing but the brush of her hips against his side. Nothing but the way her hair smelled like roses and fresh water.

"Tommy," Grace finally spoke out—pleaded out, like a breath she couldn't hold onto any longer.

"Grace," he said finally after a long pause, his voice flat.

Dalia glanced between them, first at the way his shoulders had squared, then at the way her spine sat now pin straight as she stood to adjust her clothes.

"And you might be...?" Dalia asked, her professional tone rebuilding again, polite and smooth.

"I was....told that the doctor here did well in reproductive medicine," Grace spoke, though she was breathless as she tried to pry her eyes away from how Thomas's shoulder pressed into Dalia's side as he loomed behind her like a shadow.

Dalia nodded.

"I was hoping to speak with him, I'm Grace, my husband called for an appointment last week."

Dalia stared at her with that intelligent stare that made even Thomas shift, "I'm Dr. Hassan."

Grace's smile faltered and then tightened, "Of course you are."

"Right," Dalia said softly, "You're early then. I'll be with you shortly once the room is prepared."

Grace's jaw tightened as she paused to look at them again, her eyes drifting between Thomas and Dalia as the air hummed between them.

And now, Thomas merely brushed his hand against Dalia's back in a silent goodbye and stepped past Grace without another word. Because Grace— beautiful, familiar, fake Grace—was suddenly nothing more than a sour reminder of who he used to be.

But Grace didn't catch a whiff of cigarettes or whiskey or bourbon when his air had slashed her reality—instead, all she could smell was soft amber, deep sandalwood, and something too intimate to not be utterly, uniquely Dalia's.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Thomas Shelby watched the letters burn as the fire of his match caught the envelope. His eyes stared blankly at Grace's name written in cursive across the top—his own written across the bottom like it was a plea to speak again.

He didn't read it. Didn't even open it. Because when he first had gotten the letter at midday last Monday he had feared himself that if he were to open it, his past would come rushing back and grab him by the throat to her doorstep, married or not.

But after this morning, after seeing her ghost in plain flesh and early morning light with Dalia still rubbing his pain away he realized that there was nothing left of her but the whisper of what had been. So now he burned it, and he burned whatever had made them be.

Thomas sat at his desk, his sleeves now rolled up as he flicked ash into the crystal tray that held the smoke of whatever lies Grace had written. His mind wasn't on the stack of company papers in front of him. It was on everything but that. Campbell's threats, her beautiful name on his poisonous tongue.

And then the phone rang.

He picked it up without thinking.

"Shelby."

There was a gentle breath on the line, and then her voice: "Thomas."

His posture straightened instantly, "Dalia."

She laughed—she seemed to laugh a lot more now around him. That soft, pretty laugh she did when she was about to tease him or when he had done something she found too amusing to keep quiet on.

"I'm sorry to annoy you outside of our usual calls," she began, her voice low in an almost shy way, "but I..."

She trailed off, hesitating quietly. Thomas waited, he always waited for her.

"I'm hosting a gala," she finally spoke up again, "to raise money for the children's hospital. I want you to come. I'm...also extending the invite to your family if you'd like."

Thomas let his eyes close for a moment. Because all of it—the stress, the rage, the planning, and cunning, and fighting—it all had begun to melt away the second her voice had spoken.

When he finally answered, his voice held a rasp that sat between reverence and need: "How could I ever say no to you?"

"I'm taking that as a yes," she teased, that rare lightness in her voice a precious moment of peace for him.

He sighed, long and slow, the pressure in his chest easing for what felt like the first time in weeks. "Of course it's a yes."

May 20th, 1923, Somewhere outside of Birmingham, United Kingdom.

The Shelbys unusually had arrived in silence. Polly and Ada were helped out by John and Arthur from the sleek black car, Thomas standing ahead as he gazed at the black iron gold-gilded gates that lead to her estate.

The drive had been long and lined with manicured trees. Everything around them smelled like jasmine and peonies. It all stood in white—marble carved from moonlight that held the high walls of her house and podiums made from smooth stone that Ada kept remarking to as some Greek building she read about.

As they stepped through the large doors of the estate, it was clear that this place was curated by her mind and her brilliant mind only. Polished white marble beneath their shoes, tiles so shiny it was like they walked on water. Gold-trimmed arches and crystal chandeliers that sparkled like constellations. The air held no smell of smoke or alcohol-warmed breath, no lingering essence of powder like all the other parties they were used to attending. Here it was all fresh linen and floral pieces, lined with something so expensive you couldn't name if you tried.

"Well," Polly had spoken up first, "she sure doesn't host the way you imbeciles do."

Arthur tugged at his bowtie, glancing around wearily at the glasses that were filled with something non-alcoholic.

"There any real booze in this place?"

Ada glared at him, elbowing both him and John, "Fucking behave. She's trying to help sick children not fund your bloody alcoholism."

John just snorted, leaning his arm on Thomas's shoulder as his eyes glanced around, "This isn't some bloody gala this is some fairy castle."

But Thomas said nothing because he couldn't look away.

Not from the way the light melted around the corners like it was part of the structure, not from the way her quiet world seemed to repel everything about his. But from her.

Under a marble arch, a live band was tucked away playing something soft and classical that floated through the air like perfume as gentle laughter mingled in the gaps. And there she was. Standing a few feet away from the band, her body slightly turned as if she was half in thought and half listening.

She was dressed in moonlight. That's what it looked like to him. Her gown was the color of iridescent pearls, beaded so finely it caught at the warmth of the light like it had been sewn from stars. Delicate beaded fringes danced against the top of her slender pale arms, on her collarbones rested a gold flat necklace. Her hair was down in glossy black waves that seemed to be the only darkness about her. It painted her like ink did on ivory paper and her skin glowed against it. She was the most stunning thing in the room and she wasn't even in it.

Someone from the staff had approached her, a man in white gloves and tailored black fabric, breaking her from her thoughts as he murmured what seemed to be updates that she nodded along to.

Then her gaze lifted and her eyes caught his. Thomas had not breathed since he had seen her. Now she saw him. And she smiled.

Not that small polite curve she gave to donors or patients, but a real smile. A full, heart-achingly sweet thing. Her eyes lit up, genuine joy painting her face and it was for him. Thomas didn't look away, he couldn't even blink.

Because that smile—it hurt. It settled deep into his tainted heart and thawed out whatever he kept frozen.

Next to him, Arthur whistled under his breath.

"Fucking hell mate," he muttered. "She's not real."

John was grinning stupidly wide, "You think she knows you're undressing her with your eyes, Tommy?"

That made Polly smack the back of his head, hard and quick.

"She does," she hissed, "and she's allowing him to."

Thomas didn't hear any of them. His eyes were locked on hers as her gown sparkled underneath the chandeliers like it was made from stardust as she began to walk over to them.

The click of her heels barely reached over the sound of the music. She moved like a painting had been summoned to life, the skirt of her gown brushing the floor like she was floating instead of walking. And her eyes—they were honeyed brown underneath the amber light, slow-burning and attentive as they landed on all of them.

They all had fallen quiet.

She extended her dainty hand to Arthur first, smooth and polite, but not for shaking. For taking. Like a lady.

Arthur blinked and shook his head as he smiled, caught somewhere between idiot and awe. He cleared his throat, and took it gently, "Dr. Hassan."

Her smile was soft, "Mr. Shelby." she replied warmly.

John was worse, he always was. Grinning like the devil himself, and nearly knocking over Polly's glass as he reached for her hand. "That dress of yours should be illegal."

She tilted her head and arched one perfect, dark eyebrow at him, the long waves of her silky black hair brushing past her hips, "And those manners of yours should be arrested," she retorted lightly, but with the kind of gaze that made John blush and laugh as he kissed her hand like a schoolboy.

Polly was already assessing her, lips pursed and eyes calculating. But Dalia just offered her cheek like they had been friends for years, "Ms. Gray."

Ada followed, already smiling as she exchanged greetings, "Shit, you're even more devasting in person."

"Is that a compliment?" Dalia teased.

"Only when it's coming from me." Both women laughed.

And then she turned to him, the only one she had yet to greet, the only one who hadn't moved since he had first laid eyes on her. For a moment, a quick, split second, everything had quieted. Then she stepped into him and hugged him.

Her slender arms wrapped around his neck, resting on his shoulders as he finally let go of the breath he had been holding. Because suddenly now he wished he didn't have the cold metal of his gun pressed against his ribs beneath his tuxedo, and that he was just a regular man holding the very woman who made him blossom into a version so unfamiliar to himself that it scared him.

He held her close, one hand curled on the slender curve of her waist, the other resting flat against her back to press her closer, his eyes closing as he inhaled her scent.

She pulled back, her hands sliding a trail of fire against his shoulders, "Hello, Thomas." Her voice was softer now, a secret between them.

He stared at her like she was the only thing that existed. "Hello."

His voice cracked.

Ada grinned. Polly rolled her eyes. Arthur still shook his head like he was watching a miracle happen.

And John? John just whispered, "He's beyond fucked."

Yet Thomas couldn't say another word, not when she smiled up at him like that, not when his hand found her waist again like it was naturally meant to. He just guided her away. Away from the murmur of conversation, away from the eyes of his family, away from the clinking of glasses and the sound of heels.

They slipped past white columns, past where the sheer ivory draped curtains separated the edges of the hall to the rest of her estate like it was some private world for just them.

The fabric billowed slightly in the breeze from the open windows as the scent of the garden caught in the air.

"Does it look alright?" she had asked him softly, like a confession in the dark, her voice so quiet he had almost missed it if he wasn't hungrily waiting for her to speak.

She was holding onto his arm, light as a bird, fingers curled around the crook of his elbow. Thomas then looked at her. At the way she lowered her gaze, her lashes fanning thick and dark against her rose-tinted cheeks, at the way she fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve.

Her. The most breathtaking thing in this entire damned world was worried if her work had not been enough.

Thomas had stopped walking, grabbing ahold of her arms, his hands trailing down the soft skin to then touch her waist and pull her in closer.

And something inside him broke.

Because it was more than enough, that it was the most peaceful and genuine human gathering he had ever been a part of. Where the people smiled with real kindness and spoke to each other as friends instead of schemers. A rare kind of scene he had long believed didn't exist anymore but here she was proving him wrong.

Thomas leaned his face down a little, his hand tilting her delicate chin up to meet his eyes, "It's beyond perfect."

And then, because he couldn’t help himself, he held her jaw in his hand, his thumb brushing against her soft cheek as he spoke hoarsely in a voice just for her ears: “You’re perfect.”

She laughs prettily, leaning into his hand as she brings up her own to cover his palm, “You only say that because I prescribe you sedatives for sleep.”

He smiled, full and real—the kind he only did around her, and shook his head as he continued to stroke her cheek.

“I don’t need those drugs,” he whispered, “not when you’re near me.”

They then moved without thinking. Her hand still holding onto his arm, his eyes still wandering around her estate. And neither of them said a word about it because it was inevitable. As if he belonged there.

Thomas took it all in with sharp eyes but he hid it well behind that lazy crooked grin he reserved for her. In these halls, it was just them. They passed corridors, painted in soft white with elegant trimmings and Persian rugs. Everything smelled clean. Warm. Just light and memories and wealth that whispered instead of shouted.

He whistled lowly, “So this is your place, eh?” He smirked, glancing around as his rough voice echoed off the marble and silk. “Looks like I’m in a bloody cloud.”

She laughed again, real and sweet and pretty, “Good.” She met his eyes, hers sparkling like some earthy gem underneath the warm lights, “I want my guests to float.”

“Float?” He echoed, his smile widening, “I’m about five seconds away from falling asleep on that couch, love,” he teased, jerking his head at the fluffed ivory couch they had passed by.

She shook her head, but she was still smiling. And for a moment he forgot it all. Campbell. Grace’s letter. Every scar and ghost that was stitched into his soul.

All because of that sweet, beautiful smile.

They wandered past a room near the garden, with French doors and large windows. Inside easels held finished and unfinished oil paintings. One was so large it looked like it would be a window if it was hung up. It was a painting of the horizon, of rolling mountains and shadows that seemed to be crafted from the very ones in this room.

"You painted these?" he asked lowly as they slowed, his eyes tracing the detail, the light, the shadows, all of it.

She hummed a yes. He turned to look at her, at how she built all this, this place of warmth and softness and memories. This place of quiet power but not corruption.

"Thought you were just a doctor," he said, turning his gaze back ahead as they continued to walk.

She smiled, not proud or smug. Just soft, maybe even a bit sad. "You're never just anything," she said quietly, "not really."

And fucking hell if that didn't sound like it had been plucked right out of the inside of his soul.

"You'll like this, come on," she said softly as she led him away, deeper into the home.

The music had completely faded now. Only the sound of their footsteps and soft breathing filled the marbled halls. The door they approached was dark oak, simple but heavy. She pushed it open quietly, looking back at him with something almost shy sparkling in her pretty eyes.

Thomas followed without a single word. He would follow her anywhere she led.

The moment he had crossed the door, the world around him had changed. First, it was the warmth, then it was the scent. Rose oil, something smoky like sandalwood, and citrus so foreign it was almost ancient.

Then through the steam and shadows, the room had revealed itself.

A hammam.

An entire royal Turkish bathhouse carved into the heart of her home.

There was marble everywhere—the floor was smooth and pale, trickled with veins of black and mosaic-tiled edges of deep blues, emerald greens, and blood reds. The walls were heavy slabs that kept the heat in, trapping that mystic fog beyond the world outside.

In the center, sunk low below the surface was the bathing pool, a circle so grand it spoke of something sacred. The water inside it was a milky blue, and above it was a windowed skylight that held the position of the moon like some spell being cast.

Thomas had frozen midstep.

Because it didn't feel like he was in England anymore or in 1923.

It was like stepping into the fabric of time, of a kingdom long lost to magic and battles. The room spoke of old cities and rivers that were whispered in thick historic books that lined the shelves of his study back in his home.

He turned to look at her and realized that she was watching him—closely, like she was waiting for his reaction, maybe even bracing for some form of judgment. Thomas let out a breath, shaking his head once in a slow, disbelieving movement.

"Shit, Dalia," he spoke out, hushed like he was afraid to break the marble around them.

She gave him a smile, the kind that didn't touch her mouth but made her eyes shine light from within. "It's my favorite place," she spoke, "especially when I miss home."

"You've built yourself a secret kingdom, love," he whispered, the heat making him loosen his collar without thinking.

"No," she said softly, "I've rebuilt what was taken from me."

That had hit him harder than any bullet could. Because he knew that story too well. He had lived that story. He understood—deep in his bones and the blood that flowed through his veins—what it meant to be strong enough to build beauty out of the ashes you were forced into.

They now sat on the marble bench that lined the sunken bath, the water sparkling behind them like it had been glittered with diamonds. He sat close enough to feel the press of her thigh against his, his heart thumping in his chest. The air smelled too sweet, the light glowed too dim.

She didn't look at him when she spoke up again, "If you ever need it..." she trailed off, "you're welcome to come here. To rest."

Thomas stilled, his ears echoing her words. No one had offered him that. To rest. To come into a space so private and surreal that he couldn't even form an answer because the lump in his throat had formed suddenly and it was too tight.

She turned her head, her eyes sparkling as she smiled again, "You can come here to bathe alone..." she said, her tone teasing and light now, "or..." she paused, biting her bottom lip for a moment like she was thinking of whether she should say it or not, "or with me."

His breath hitched. Because this wasn't flirtation or suggestive, it was an offer, a key to herself.

She spoke again, this time more shy, more hesitant, "That way I wouldn't feel so watched."

Thomas halted again, his jaw tightening at the way she spoke those words like she was being watched at that very moment.

He didn't have to say it out loud, not when that old gypsy's words had been ringing in his ears ever since the market walk with her. Because they both knew it, they felt it too. It lived here, in the spaces between stone and steam, in the cracks of the doors and the darkness of the shadows.

He reached out slowly, running his fingertips along the back of her hand that rested on her thigh. She didn't pull away. Instead, she turned her hand over, her palm facing up as she let him lace their fingers together. And Thomas Shelby—broken and cursed—held her hand like it could shatter him or save him.

He stared at her for a long moment, watching the way she sat—perfect and poised and soft in a world made of marble and steam—at the way she didn't realize she was undoing him with just her presence.

He leaned in, and whispered in her ear: "You shouldn't have to feel watched, Dalia."

He didn't pull back, not when she shivered lightly against him as his breath brushed against her ear.

"You shouldn't have to feel cursed, love."

He exhaled slowly through his nose, struggling to not let it all out in front of her, "If I could just go in and take it all away from you..." he trailed off, his eyes closing as her hand came up to rest against the back of his neck, nails gently scratching into the base of his scalp, "I would in an instant, darling."

A beat of silence passed, and his hand came up to her waist, fingers curling around the dip as he pulled her closer, his forehead resting against hers.

"You carry too much already, Thomas."

And that broke him. Because it didn't feel like sympathy or pity. It felt like the truth. Like she had looked past him, past his vices and violence and tailored suits, and seen it all. The weight, the ghosts, the blood.

Yet still, she touched him. She let him hold her like she was the only thing in the world that didn't want to break him apart and leave him bleeding.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The gala resumed—glasses clinking and light laughter rolling in through the hall like lazy waves across the water. Speeches had begun unfolding by the time they retrieved back to the table, his family already tainting the air with lit cigarettes and murmured remarks.

Men from the hospital board spoke first, their voices carrying and proud. Then a woman with lace gloves and a blue dress thanked Dalia for her generosity and her endless work.

There were others after of course. All delicately crafted toasts, soft applause. But Thomas didn't hear a single word. He only watched her. Seated beside him, holding herself with the same serenity that moonlight had, her chin lifted, shoulders back and hands folded neatly in her lap.

She smiled secretly when they said her name—real, warm, and unbothered enough to show her humility in the face of money and praises. And he watched it all.

Like a man starved from a feast he knows he will never be allowed to touch.

Dalia clapped politely when the last speech finished and turned to him with a spreading smile.

"They're finally done talking about me," she said quietly between them, her voice teasing.

Thomas stared at her, his eyes burning with a fire that was barely contained. "They're not done," he said softly.

She tilted her head, curious.

He leaned in slightly, his cheek pressed against hers, "I know for a fact that the room doesn't stop talking about you just because the speeches finished."

He spoke the words only for her, his voice rough, sincere, obsessed.

For a long moment she didn't move, just held onto the edge of his suit like it could help slow down her breathing as his lips brushed against her ear.

Later the music had finally shifted. It was fast now—vivid and new, the type of jazz that had just been crafted by new souls with bright minds.

John had somehow managed to sneak up to the band to convince them to change it, that reckless grin of his flashing their way when they began to play the modern tune.

The mood seemed to change instantly. Guests began to loosen up, now in full swing on the dance floor. Polly and Ada had both dragged some poor men in, both who seemed terrified and excited by them all at once. Arthur had whooped so loud it caused Dalia to jump slightly in her seat, then laugh lightly when Thomas pressed his palm against her arm to soothe her. She nodded towards the band in amused approval and Arthur who had caught the gesture whooped again, downing a drink that wasn't supposed to be alcoholic but was by his own doing.

And still—Thomas sat there with her. Together, still. And he watched her, not the crowd or the dances or the band. He watched the way she observed the floor, her weight leaned against his side like she belonged there.

His hand had moved, rubbing slowly against her arm, up and down like he was trying to soothe her but instead, it was soothing the storm inside him. She should have been happy, relaxed even.

Because everyone else was.

But she wasn't. He could tell, he could feel it.

She sighed, not dramatic, just soft and almost tired.

Then, quietly—

"Something's not right, Thomas."

His hand stilled at the confession, every instinct sharpening. He leaned down again, his chin resting on her shoulder, "Tell me, darling," he whispered.

Because he needed to know. He needed to shield her from what made her so still.

She shook her head a bit, her fingers brushing against her gown in a nervous way that he'd never seen her have before. She smiled, softening as she watched the crowd, at the joy and laughter. But then she spoke again, her voice only for him.

"It's all...too bright," she whispered, "too easy. Like a trap you can't see."

He pulled her closer, without thinking or asking, grounding her to him. "I've got you, Dalia," he said simply. A promise, a vow. None of his usual bravado or arrogance. Just the truth.

Thomas didn't care about the gala anymore. He whispered for them to go somewhere without the noise and she simply nodded, standing and guiding him without a word.

They walked away from it all. Away from the dancers, the laughter, the music.

But for some reason, they couldn't walk away from that feeling of something creeping behind them. Of something too terrible to be seen with the human eye.

They ended up in her study. Dark compared to the light grandeur of the rest of the house, but it was warm, it was all her. Medical diagrams hung up like it was a statement piece and not her line of work, thick leather books on dark oak shelves, deep red velvet furniture. A fire crackled in the hearth, warming the room with golden light. She sat down with a soft breath, the couch warmed by the fire.

Thomas followed, but he didn't sit.

Instead, he slowly knelt in front of her without a word or hesitation. As if this—this raw place at her ground was the only place that made sense in his mind anymore.

She let out a soft gasp of surprise but she instantly softened when she saw the look on his face. So much softness in that room that it could have broken a lesser man.

He took hold of her hand, cradling it between his scarred palms. And he finally told her, his voice rough and breaking underneath the weight of his shame:

"Campbell has been watching you."

Her lips parted a bit, her eyes stilling from searching his face.

He shook his head, swallowing harshly as he tried to push out the rest of the words.

"He's obsessed Dalia," he whispered, and for a moment he was almost speaking about himself.

His hands held onto hers tighter, licking his dried lips, "He's not just watching he's interested, he wants to get near you, to use you against me and for himself."

"And darling—" his head lowered, his lips kissing her palm in a silent, desperate beg of forgiveness, "I can't fucking breathe thinking about it."

With a shaky breath, his head finally dropped into her lap, like he couldn't hold it up anymore. Like he was finally giving up trying to pretend to be anything but hers. For a moment she didn't move, the silk of her gown was cool against his forehead and cheeks as he breathed her in.

Then, her hands reached and slid into his hair. Soft, steady, gentle. She scratched lightly at his scalp like she was soothing a child who had woken from a nightmare. They didn't speak for a long moment, and Thomas Shelby kneeled on the floor, his head cradled in the lap of the woman who had stitched him back together and healed his soul in ways he didn't think was ever possible.

But then she spoke, quietly, almost apologetically.

"Thomas, in due time..." Though her voice was steady, there was a rawness to it like she didn't want to say what came next, "I'll have to leave."

His entire body tensed, his eyes snapping open as he lifted his head to stare up at her.

"What?" he whispered, his voice raw.

Her hand never left, never stopped stroking his hair.

"I was delivered bad news," she began softly, "my nanny—the lady who raised me after I had to bury my mother—she's fallen ill. She's in Baghdad, in the house my grandfather had bought her before we left, just across the Tigris River. I was told she doesn't have long left."

Thomas couldn't move, he couldn't breathe.

She continued, her voice soft like she was scared to break him: "It's the least I can do. I have to go care for her like she did for me. At least for the little time she has left."

She smiled at him, fond and sad, like she was trying to stop herself from crying while she held him together. Her fingers continued to weave gently through his hair.

"I won't be in England to be in Campbell's way. I'll be gone for a month, maybe more..."

Thomas Shelby—the man who hadn't blinked when guns were pointed at his head, the man who had stared down monsters and killers and death alike—didn't know if he should thank God that she would be safe from Campbell's reach or find the nearest thing to destroy the world to keep her from leaving.

He stayed there silent for a long moment, his fingers pressing into the plush flesh of her thighs through the gown, a hole forming in his chest already as her words continued to replay in his head.

Gone, a month, maybe more, a different country, a different continent, an ocean away.

They carved into his soul deeper than any blade ever had.

He held her hand again, his fingers curling tighter around her delicate bones like a man drowning would cling to driftwood.

His grip was firm but shaking—like he was trying to anchor her to him before she could get up and leave that very moment. He met her gaze, just enough for her to see the sadness in his eyes like he had already begun to mourn the way soil would mourn a wilted flower.

When he finally spoke his voice came low and hoarse, trembling under the weight of all the things he didn't know how to say properly:

"You'll come back to me, won't you, darling?"

Not a command, not an order, not even a real question. It was a plea, a beg that slipped out rough and cracked. It was his raw need stripped bare of any pride he had left.

For a moment she just blinked down at him, startled by the sheer ferocity of it, her fingers stilling in his hair.

And Thomas, who was desperate to fill the terrible trembling silence between them spoke again, his voice tumbling out rougher and closer to breaking—

"Promise me, Dalia."

A pause. She exhaled, shakily and softly, her other hand coming up to cup the side of his face as her thumb stroked gently against the bone of his cheek.

"Of course," she paused, lowering herself to press her forehead to the crown of his head, her breath ghosting on his hair and skin, "I will always come back to you."

Thomas closed his eyes and held onto her tighter. He let his face fall back again into her warmth and scent, allowing himself for once in his life that maybe, just maybe, something in this terrible world might actually come back to him whole.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

taglist: @moonbeamott @mrsnms @meadowshelby @chaimaarouaine11 @goblinjnr

author's note: shits about to get real guys. sorry this was so long but it didn't make sense to break it up. thank you all for reading i promise you will enjoy the next chapters! taglist and dms are open :) also pls let me know if i forgot to add you into the taglist

[dronebiscuitbat]

Oil is Thicker Then Blood: Polarity- Chapter 3: A Long Day

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64077811/chapters/167453419

A sheet of paper full of equations is placed in front of her, after a lecture about the order of operations and how to access the computing portion of their processors to make this trivial, they were super advanced computers after all.

And yet…

Tera stared down at the paper with a pencil in her hand, reading the first question over and over and over again, it was easy, or should have been. Simple long devision as a warm up before the harder questions. All she had to do was… compute.

Her brain-her processors attempted to calculate the numbers, only to freeze halfway through like an ancient machine running on the worlds shittiest hard drive. The numbers seemed to change the longer she looked at them, 5’s becoming 3’s and 6’s becoming 9’s. A nervous sweat started to appear on her visor, instead now trying to solve the problem organically, writing down the equation on paper and working to solve it that way. That didn’t work either, the numbers floated off the page to become unintelligible runes.

She may as well have been trying to decipher hieroglyphs.

She groaned and threw her head back.

An hour later, the paper was slammed back down on her desk with a big fat red 45% etched in huge letters on the corner. She wasn't sure if getting a 0 would be better, or worse, then at least she could claim she was just stupid. But getting something right using the incorrect formula just confused her further.

She grumbled, and stuffed it in her bag with a growl.

Rad took a single look her and chortled. “I think teach just likes to bleed all over your papers dude. I know you can't be that bad.”

It was intended to cheer her up, but it really didn't, she was a robot! A computer! Her building blocks were in fucking binary! What computer couldn't do the thing they were named after- compute?!

So she just sighed. “Just shut up man…”

Rad pouted for a moment, before his eyes lit up, if it was any more obvious he'd gotten an idea, a big green light bulb would have popped up over his head. “Bet I can beat you in a race to biology.”

Tera's tail perked up as she gathered her things, a smirk replaced a frown. “Not a chance man, I'm way faster!”

“Prove it Lucky Bat!” And with that, he raced down the hall as fast as his hydrolic powered legs could carry him.

He knew he wasn't going to win.

And when he felt the wind of Tera sprinting ahead rush past him, all he could do was laugh as the purple blur rushed inside the next class, startling several other students who gave the solver drone a nasty look as she blasted past them.

“Hah! Fuck ye-SHIT!”

Kiara was at her desk, supposedly waiting for her, her eyelights go hollow as Tera barrels towards her and the worker braces for impact with her best freind.

Tera pumps the breaks hard and fast, she can feel herself skidding across the polished stone floor, she holds her hands out to try and salvage the situation and-

She stops a hairs breath from her, panting as her arms brush against Kiara's arms, the plan being to grab her and then stop them both to avoid hurting her.

Now though it's just a slightly awkward half-hug.

Tera gulps and her visor flushes a neon flavored purple.

“Y-you okay?” She asked through her throat near closing in embarrassment, she probably needed to back up, or at least let go before asking… but she wouldn't be a Doorman if she wasn't painfully awkward.

Kiara blinked, still processing the fact she wasn't melted slag stuck to the floor before she looks up with a smile. “I'm fine! Little bit of a close one there yeah?”

Tera grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of her head as she stepped back. “Sorry, Rad challenged me to a race and…”

“…you can't say no to a challenge?” The worker giggled. “I figured. Looks like you won though.” Her eyes flicker to the doorway.

Rad came in panting, smiling, but panting. “Oh man… have you gotten even faster? It's like you teleported!” His vents kick up to max trying to cool him off, and he rests his hands on his knees. “Dang.”

Tera smirked. “You're just a slowpoke.”

Kiara brought her attention back with a featherlight touch to her arm, Tera tried to ignore the shock that passed up through her sensors.

“I need your help.” She spoke quietly. “Mrs. Finley gave us homework about Nightstalkers and I completely forgot about it!” Kiara pouted, looking a little ashamed of herself.

“You? Forgetting homework? How scandalous.” Tera quipped back, laughing when Kiara pouted even more.

“I… had a rough night.” The worker replied softly, rubbing her shoulder and looking away, Tera felt like she just swallowed acid.

“Yeah. I can help. Mrs.Finley gives us 15 minutes to look over it before asking for it anyway. Pull up your chair.” Tera replied, smiling down. “No copying though, that would be unethical.” She parrots her best freinds words and the worker smacks her lightly. “You!”

“Thank you…”

Tera turns back to look at Rad. “You forget yours too?”

He blinked stupidly. “Forget what?”

Tera sighed. “Pull up a chair String Bean.”

They both pull up thier chairs on either side of Tera's desk, which was luckily large enough to uncomfortably fit them all.

Rad dug out a crumpled paper from his bag, laughing warily when Kiara eyed him like he'd committed murder, Tera pulled out her completed work, along with a little leather bound journal.

“Rad you can just copy. You're not going to read it anyway.” Tera says deadpan, and the young man grins and begins copying the answers down in barely legible chicken scratch.

Then she turns to Kiara. “Alright, first question…”

How large to Nightstalkers get?

She opens her journal to a page of notes, accompanied by a rough sketch of a nightstalker.

“So they average around 20 feet in height fully grown, not counting the horns or you'd add another 2, I don't think Mrs. Finley counts them, or just would prefer the easier to remember number for us.” Tera points to where she'd jotted down their heights.

“I've never seen one that big…” Kiara writes it down, but looks up at Tera to explain.

“Their deeper in the jungle… plus that's what we have hunting parties for, V doesn't really let one that big stick around if it does wander towards us.”

When are Nightstalkers at their most deadly?

“I know that one! They get really hormonal and angry when they become teenagers… soo.” The worker taps a pen on her cheek. “What age is that?”

“2 and a half usually.” Tera answers.

The fat on the top of a Nightstalkers back is both armor and heat regulation, it is called what?

“Blubber.”

Kiara laughs. “That's not a real word.”

“I promise it is, and it's right.” Tera replies. “You haven't tried to drive a blade through that, it may as well be steel.”

They continue, Kiara asking questions, trying to actually learn the material while Tera answers with either a note from her hunting journal or a quick anecdote. All with the background noise of Rad furiously scribbling.

They finish just in time for Mrs. Finley to walk in, 15 minutes after the bell rang.

“Alright everyone. Hand me your homework and we'll get started, the next species we'll be focusing on is the Deersheep…”

Kiara and Rad scooted thier chairs back to where they should've been- to the desks either side of her.

Text flickered up on Kiara's visor. [THANK YOU!]

Rad chuckled. “Cheers Dude.”

Tera leaned back and smiled, handing up her paper to the teacher now doing laps around the classroom to collect the work, she pauses at Rads. “Mr. Hayes.”

“Yes'm?”

“Why have you written down Miss Doorman’s name in place of your own?

Tera facepalmed. Kiara rolled her eyes. Rad smiled like a dead man. “Ahah…”

Mrs.Finley's bright blue eyelights trailed over to Tera. “Did you know about this?”

Tera wracked her brain quickly. “We did a study group together, he must have done it as a joke when we were talking about how he often forgets to write his name.”

The blue eyelights narrowed, she brushed a hand though her tightly spun and frazzled brown hair, and she sighed.

“If I didn't have multiple nameless papers from you. Mr. Hayes, I wouldn't believe her. Don't do it again.”

After she walks away towards her desk, Rad untested. “Woo… saved my life there…” He said quietly.

“I can't belive you wrote my name! You dumbass!” Tera gave an incredulous and amused smile. “You could've gotten me in trouble too!” She whisper-yelled.

The rest of the day was long, tedious, and sufficiently boring enough to put her on autopilot, sure she was present for her freinds but… anywhere else. Mind off somewhere in the jungle and outwardly expressing that classic Doorman brand resting bitch face.

At lunch, they were let out into the cafeteria and served deep fried copper nuggets, bolts, and a side of batteries. Which Tera inhaled like a starving animal before her two freinds even had a chance to touch thiers.

“Dude.”

“Slow down your gonna choke!”

Her two respective freinds called out, but she didn't listen, licking her lips in satisfaction. “Ahhh~”

To finish it off, she reached into her pocket to pull out a dented and well worn silver canteen, gulping down sweet and tangy oil like it was drops of heaven.

She pulled off it when it was half empty, wiping her mouth of the excess.

In all honesty… she was still hungry.

Though she was always hungry nowadays.

“Vampire.” Rad coughed.

“It comes from the ground. I'm not a fucking vampire!” Tera immediately protested. “You eat the soup at the food court! It's the same thing!”

Kiara giggled, Rad teased poor Tera about that every chance he got. She had to be sick of it by now…

She hummed to herself as she finished out a sketch of a lion, as realistic as one could without never seeing one outside of pictures and ancient documentaries, she began to shade it so the fur looked black, letting Tera and Rads bickering become white noise.

More classes, more work; right after lunch she still had Rad and Kiara in an advanced English class, where the focus was more on the history of linguistics and the written word then reading comprehension- when your whole student body can take screenshots with thier eyes; you stop worrying about retaining information organically.

But afterwards, she was alone in an architectural engineering class that was more numbers and measurements then actually building things and she was back to slamming her head against the wall in frustration, doubled because now… the math was applied.

She did well in the practical projects like build a bridge out of sticks, or make a model pully that works under a specific weight threshold. She could trial and error that, and she was really good at eyeballing measurements even if she was shit at exact numbers- but the second she had to figure out exactly what degrees a triangle needed to be to support X amount of weight she wanted to eat the damn paper.

“Ugh…”

She crossed her arms, and tuned out of the lecture, instead spacing out while looking vaguely forward to give the illusion that she was still paying attention.

Maybe you have so much trouble because you refuse to actually pay attention.

A monotone and robotic mockery of her own voice whispered, she'd have winced at the suddenness of it if it wasn't wholly expected at this point. She ignored it.

Or maybe you're just an idiot.

That's okay though… smarts would be wasted on a killing machine.

She growled, tightening her fist but giving the entity that lived in her head no response.

At least until she blinked, and suddenly she was standing at the front of the classroom, drones screaming in fear as they tried to get out of the door in a panic. She blinked in confusion for a moment before her eyelights went hollow.

Hanging limp in her now, fleshy, bladed claws was Mr. Riker, Oil bathing her arm and pooling all over the floor, the smell was intoxicating, ever present, and assaulted her olfactory receptors like a persistent tagalong.

She jumped, the movement making the lifeless corpse slide off her bladed fingers and into a heap on the floor, she began to hyperventilate. The word “no” repeating from her lips like a mantra as she backs herself into a corner trembling like a leaf.

“No no- I didn't, I don’t know- I'm sorry!”

“Miss Doorman!”

Slam!

She's startled awake by Mr. Riker slamming a book on her desk, making her yelp in fear, a yellow solver symbol dissappearing from her eyelight. She pants, taking in the students staring at her, some snickering, before her eyelights flickered back up to the drone she just skewered.

“I know buttresses are boring, but please refrain from falling asleep in my class.”

A chorus of giggles passed through the classroom lile a wave.

The teacher rolled their eyes and left her be, which was good, because once all the eyes were off her again she let out a shaky breath and looked down at her hands, normal, even with the animal-like pads on her hands given by the solver.

She squeezed them into fists and sighed, burying her head in her hands and wanting to scream.

Instead she went back to staring at the front, stress lines under her eyes as her mind returns to silence.

She comes out of the classroom hunched over and emotionally drained, tail limp and half dragging across the floor like a zombie. She takes her canteen and drinks the rest of the oil to try and relax her… anything.

“Ter!” Kiara calls from the front door of the school, the day for the upperclassmen being over to go to their field training. Her eyelights looked up, tail perking up a little.

“I'm heading to the clinic for my last two hours, but…I was wondering if you saw my messages?”

Oh crap!

“I did! I can take you and Rad out past the walls this weekend if you want! It's just been a… weird day. Sorry.”

Kiara's eyes lit up. “Really! Awesome! Thank you, Thank you!” She pushed forward to wrap the solver drone in a tight hug. She found herself smiling, despite it all.

“Yeah yeah… keep quiet about it, you know I'm not supposed to…”

Kiara nodded, releasing her and fluttering out the door with a wave. Tera sighed as she leaned against the doorway to outside. Watching her leave.

…and off to the barracks for her field training.

[illumins]

ohmygod. i don’t even know how to respond to this without sounding like a puddle of overwhelmed gratitude. thank you doesn’t feel big enough—but still, thank you. truly.

i was nervous posting this one, especially since fantasy AUs can be hit or miss for some readers, so knowing it resonated with you this deeply? i’m just sitting here with my heart in my throat. the chapter 5 comment made me laugh out loud because lena and haechan do get a little too comfortable in that scene—it means the world that it made you kick your feet.

your words reminded me why i write. and the fact that you'd buy this as a book?? i'm floored. thank you for reading, for connecting, and for sharing something so thoughtful.

(ps: if it ever ends up as a real book... you'll be the first to know.)

╚═══════ஓ๑ ✩ ๑ஓ═══════╝

𝐌𝐘𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒

𔘓⁩ ᵗⁱᵖʲᵃʳ

✦𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: low fantasy, romance, fanfic.

✦𝐩𝐨𝐯: omniscient | third pov

✦𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: blood; violence; death; verbal/physical abuse; power imbalance.

✦𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬: finished.

⟢𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 : When Lena, a hidden noble's daughter, seeks freedom at the small coastal town below. She comes across a daring pirate, one she'd come to hate and then love.

✦ 𝐂 𝐇 𝐀 𝐏 𝐓 𝐄 𝐑 𝐒 ✦

𝐜𝐡𝐩 𝐨𝐧𝐞

𝐜𝐡𝐩 𝐭𝐰𝐨

𝐜𝐡𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

𝐜𝐡𝐩 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫

𝐜𝐡𝐩 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞

𝐜𝐡𝐩 𝐬𝐢𝐱

𝐜𝐡𝐩 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧

𝐜𝐡𝐩 𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

[fakeagatha]

Mrs Fletcher | Prof!Eve Fletcher x Fem!Reader | Chapter Eight: Packing

Summary: The day before your trip, you find yourself preparing your luggage, when Eve pays you a visit.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1224

A couple months went by since the ordeal with Miss Evanora. In the beginning, it was difficult. Everyone in the hallway seemed to stare at you, and you heard whispers when you walked past. You knew that hardly any students liked her, so they probably weren't saying anything bad about you, you hoped anyway, but it still bothered you. Eve had been an absolute sweetheart, as she would check in on you every day, even when you told her that you were fine now, and that you've let it go.

Time really goes by quickly because now, the afternoon before your flight, you were rummaging through your room for what you might need for a week abroad. You made a checklist on the notes app on your phone, but you were still worried that you would forget something important and not realize until it was too late. Your thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.

You got up from your knees and opened the door, smiling when you saw Steve.

"Hey. I keep worrying that I'm forgetting stuff." You sighed, and he peered over to your suitcase.

"Do you have your passport? Your charger? A change of clothes?" He asked, and you nodded along.

"Yeah, all of that..." You bit your lip, "My wash bag, my money, oh! My iPad. You never know if I may need it!" You grinned, taking the device and putting it into the rucksack you were using for carry-on luggage. "Are you already packed then?"

"Yeah, I don't think I need to take much, just the essentials." Steve replied, sitting down on your bed, "I'm excited to visit the War Museum they were telling us about, it sounds cool."

"It does. I can't wait for the old prison!" You exclaimed, and he quickly agreed.

"That too! This trip is gonna be awesome Y/N, I'm telling you." He sighed, "I haven't been on a field trip since Highschool, that time we went to Oklahoma."

You laughed at the memory, "Remember when we lost Mrs Dickson at that natural park?" 

Steve laughed along with you, nodding, "I can't believe she was left responsible for us."

He then cleared his throat and stood up, "I'm going to see how Logan is getting on, he always leaves everything to the last minute."

"I remember," You chuckled, "See you later!"

Steve closed the door behind him, and you sighed. You were looking forward to explore Malta, and learn about its history, but you were also excited about the different shops and restaurants you could check out in your free time there. The thought made you smile to yourself, the reality setting in that you'd be travelling tomorrow! 

You bit your lip, your smile widening as you remember that you'll be spending the next week with your crush too. It was a bonus really, you get to travel, and you get to do that with someone very special to you.

Sighing, you took another look through your suitcase, and another knock on the door startled you. You rolled your eyes, standing up and swinging the door open, expecting to see Steve again, but your heart dropped when you saw Eve's smiling face on the other side.

"Hello Y/N! I'm just going round making sure everyone is getting ready! We missed our flight one year because someone who hadn't packed made us late..." She sighed, the memory bringing her annoyance mixed with disappointment.

"Hey Mrs Fletcher!" You exclaimed, "Would you like to come in?"

"I will, but I won't stick around for too long." She replied back, stepping into your room, "So, are you excited?" 

"Yeah, really excited!" You grinned, Eve's expression matching yours. "But you know what I just realized? Since miss Evanora got fired, who's coming instead?"

Eve chuckled, shaking her head, "I think a lot of students forgot that she was coming with us in the first place. Mrs Olney has taken her ticket. It was a last minute decision really, we only came to the conclusion a few days ago because no one else wanted to accompany your group..." She shrugged.

"... Who's that?" You asked sheepishly.

"Oh right, she works part time in the university library. Normally only professors would come along, but it was either her or we'd end up short staffed."

"I might have seen her round a couple times. She seems nice enough!" You smiled at her, and Eve nodded enthusiastically.

"She is! She's been a wonderful friend to me and I'm glad she's coming along. Anyway Y/N, I need to go and check on everyone else! I don't want a repeat of 2016."

You chuckled, "See you tomorrow!" You replied, closing the door behind her. Clearly, she was anxious of missing her flight, or maybe it was excitement that made her want to see what everyone was up to.

You turned back to your suitcase, staring at it. You moved back to your dresser, rummaging through your makeup drawer and jewelry. You didn't want to overload your luggage, since you had done that on the field trip you went on in Highschool. Thankfully, they let you off without charge, but the airport staff isn't always that nice.

You opened up your earring case where you had lots of different plastic designs. Fun ones, such as different fruit or animals. You chose a different pair to wear for each day of your trip, which included rubber ducks, fried eggs, gummy bears, watermelons, grapes, limes, and cats. They weren't very big, so you were able to stuff them into a small jewelry box.

You took a makeup bag and added a few brushes, lipsticks, eyeliners and eyeshadow. You didn't normally wear too much makeup, typically just eyeliner and maybe mascara, but maybe during the trip you wanted to look fancier.

You sighed, nodding in approval as you managed to neatly sort your suitcase. It wasn't overflowing, and there was still plenty of room to bring back souvenirs and shopping.

Sitting back down on your bed, you decided to open up your diary which you hadn't updated in quite a while.

May 11th, 2019

Dear Diary,

I've just finished packing my luggage, because tomorrow we're flying to Malta! I'm super excited about it. Eve stopped by my room to see how I was getting on, which honestly reminded me how great this is going to be. They told us that when we land, we will be taken straight to the hotel so we can leave our luggage. The issue is, while the rooms have been booked, they haven't been sorted between us, which is honestly just disorganized and I don't know why they are leaving it until we are at the actual hotel. I haven't really thought about who I would want to share with, I'm not really the closest with my classmates, and we aren't allowed to stay with the opposite gender, meaning I couldn't stay with Steve. I'm convinced everything will work though, so I'm not worried about it. Anyway, I should get to sleep now, as our flight is at nine in the morning and they want us at the airport much earlier.

You closed the book and set it down on your nightstand. You took a pair of your pajamas that were way too small since your best pairs were in the suitcase, and changed into them. Taking a last look out the window at the campus below, you switched off the lights, and laid down with a sigh, and conveniently, sleep overtook you quickly.

[cogentsummoner]

Hiii!

First off, Ch10 was so good omggg!! I was laughing so hard at Smite being like erm actually, you’re committing a crime even though he’s literally the most feared villain in Japan and I’m sure he’s done FARRR worse than breaking down your friend/partner’s door to look after them besides like they said ‘no harm done’

I seriously love your writing and your AUs so much!! I can’t wait for Ch11!

I was wondering if you might be open to writing a little drabble (I think that’s the right word?? Sorry I’m not good with terms) with Smite and Yagi (I know they’re the same person but since the reader at the current part of the story uploaded still thinks they’re separate you could do both, or either it’s completely up to you!) comforting with the reader in the soulmate AU? Or just villain!Toshi if you’d rather completely up to you ofc!

Obviously you don’t have to if you don’t want to, I wouldn’t want you to feel pressured to in any way but I absolutely love your writing! Thank you so much for blessing us all with your amazing fics! Hope have a great rest of your week ^^

i'm so glad you enjoyed chapter 10! thank you for reading! and yeah, i can do something like that. i've actually been thinking about writing something like this for a while, so this is dedicated to everyone who just needs the mental image of smite pampering them after a rough day at work.

There was still a rush of giddiness that swept through All Might every time he used the key you'd given him to your apartment. It was proof- real, tangible proof- that you wanted him there. You were, quite literally, inviting him in.

...Sometimes he got so excited that he accidentally smooshed the key out of shaped in his giant hands, and he'd needed you to use your Quirk on it.

He took a minute before opening the door the check himself over- the more comfortable he was around you as Yagi, the more he had to remind himself to make sure he was in the right form. He'd almost walked through the door in his frail form far too many times already.

"Pumpkin! I bought dinner!" he called out. When no response came, he frowned. Your work shoes were by the door, and your bag had been thrown on the couch. Setting down the bag of takeout he'd gotten on the kitchen table, he began to look for you.

He quickly found you in your bedroom, laying face down on your bed, still in your work clothes. You were snoring faintly; the sight would've made him smile, normally, but your brows were furrowed, even in your sleep.

"Pumpkin- pumpkin, hey, it's time to wake up," he said quietly, shaking your shoulder just a little bit. You woke up almost immediately, an irritated grunt leaving you as you turned to look at him.

You looked like shit, to be honest, and the disgruntled look on your face wasn't helping. You sat up, a huff leaving you. Your hair was disheveled, and you looked exhausted.

"Day was that bad, huh?" he said sympathetically, rubbing his thumb across your cheek comfortingly. You let out a long sigh, and nodded. "...Do you want a hug?"

When you nodded again, he picked you up gently, wrapping his arms around you- you were almost entirely swallowed in his embrace, and seemed very, very content with that, pressing your face further into his chest.

As he held you, he played absentmindedly with your hair. "I got your favorite takeout for dinner," he said quietly, and tension leaked out of your body.

"-hank you," you mumbled, almost entirely muffled by his pecs.

"Why don't you take a nice, hot- well, shower I suppose. You really need to get a bathtub, pumpkin," he commented.

You made a noncommittal noise and said, "When we move we can find somewhere that has a tub. Maybe we can even find one big enough to fit you."

"... When are we moving?" he asked, confused.

You looked up at him and blinked. "You know, when we move in together? Like most couples do?"

Oh. Oh, you were- you were thinking about a future together. About- about being a normal couple, about living together-!

Maybe he teared up a little. Just a little!

You wiped his tear away with a tired smile. "It really is cute how excited and emotional you get over us just being a normal couple."

"Stop," he huffed, his face turning red with embarrassment. Clearing his throat, he said, "You- you should take a nice hot shower while I heat up dinner."

You came out of the bathroom a little while later, in your comfiest pair of pajamas, looking a lot more refreshed. Before you could sit down at the kitchen table, however, All Might picked you up in one hand, and both of your dishes in the other.

You giggled at his antics, and he delighted in the sound.

"I was thinking... dinner and a movie tonight? Whatever you wanna watch, pumpkin," he said, setting your bowls down on the coffee table, before setting you down on his lap on the couch.

Your smile this time was a little less tired, and you leaned up to press a kiss to his mouth.

"Thank you, bunny. You... you're really sweet, you know that?" you said as you snuggled against him.

His cheeks flushed red. "I just... I just want to make you happy," he mumbled, almost shyly.

You rested your hand on his. "You do."

...Maybe he teared up a lot that time.

taglist: @lets-zofifi-stuff, @crimsonflameproxy, @actuallysaiyan, @silvershadow1711, @like-a-clock, @kennys-partner, @duckywithahat, @andriannag

[ceyanabbiolo]

CONTRACT // C.S

Summary: Christopher Sturniolo, a 26-year-old billionaire CEO, agrees to a strategic marriage with Aurora Devereaux, the 21-year-old daughter of his rival, to save his company during a crisis. Raised in a cold, arrogant environment, Chris is used to control and detachment. Aurora, a final-year fashion student, is forced into the arrangement by her powerful father and struggles with the fear of losing herself. As the two navigate their unexpected marriage, they begin to confront emotional walls and develop a connection that challenges everything they thought they knew about love and trust. But with their families’ influence looming, will their bond be strong enough to survive—or will it fall apart?

warnings: argument, kissing, slightly suggestive

wc: 6474

Chapter 9: Your mine

The hotel room was shrouded in darkness, the only light coming from my laptop screen and the faint glow of Milan’s skyline outside the window. It was around 6 PM, and I was nearing the end of my third day here. The same routine had played out every single day: checking up on the businesses, making sure the factories were running smoothly, handling emails, meetings, and reports. The usual grind.

I could’ve gone back to Boston today, but I decided against it. Another two days of peace, at least.

The hum of a Celtics game played in the background, but my attention was elsewhere. My phone buzzed, and an unknown number flashed on the screen, followed by a single notification: one image.

I didn’t think much of it at first. Probably spam. But something in my gut twisted, and before I could talk myself out of it, I opened the message.

My blood ran cold.

It was a picture of my fiancee, sitting on a couch next to some fucker at a party. 

Too many questions were running through my head. 

Who the hell is that guy? Never seen him before, and he was way too close for my liking. What the hello was she doing at a party? When was this? Where the fuck was she now. Why was she even there? She hates parties.

I didn’t waste a second. I pressed the call button.

One ring. Two.

Then the call connected.

"Hello?" Her voice was dripping with sweetness, fake as hell.

"Who the fuck is this?" I snapped, my voice low and sharp, the anger already bubbling inside me.

She let out a laugh, slow and smug, like she knew exactly what she was doing. "Relax, Chris. It’s Hailee."

Of course, it was her. Of fucking course.

I clenched my jaw so hard, it hurt, trying to hold back the anger that threatened to spill over.

"You’ve got ten seconds to explain what the hell you want before I block your number," I growled, every word coated in venom.

She laughed again, unfazed. "I just thought you’d want to know what your sweet little fiancée has been up to while you’re off playing businessman. Didn’t realize she was still so... friendly with old flames."

My stomach turned, an unfamiliar protectiveness taking over. I leaned forward, gripping the edge of the table.

"You don’t know shit about her," I said, my voice low and lethal, each word dripping with warning.

"Maybe not," she purred. "But from what I remember... You don’t exactly like being made a fool of, Chris."

I scoffed, the anger inside me growing by the second. "Listen…" I let out a breath, trying to steady myself. "We hooked up a few times. That’s it. It was nothing more than a mutual arrangement. I made it clear to you, Hailee. It was purely beneficial, and you know that."

“I'm just looking out for you, Chris,” she said sweetly. 

I didn’t have the patience for this. I didn’t need her twisted words any longer. Without another thought, I ended the call.

I threw my phone onto the bed, frustration coursing through my veins like poison. My eyes darted to the clock — it was nearly 6 pm in Milan, meaning it was noon in Boston. Aurora should’ve been awake by now.

I didn’t waste any more time. I immediately dialed Ana, the housekeeper. The phone rang twice before she picked up.

"Hello, sir?" Ana answered with her usual calm voice.

"Ana, where’s Aurora?" I asked, my tone sharp, not bothering to hide my irritation.

"Oh, Mr. Sturniolo, she and her friend came in late last night, sir," Ana responded, her voice soft but respectful. "They’ve been sleeping since about 3 am, I believe."

I felt a wave of irritation wash over me. "So, they came back that late?" I pressed. "Was there any sign of her doing something... out of the ordinary before they went to bed?"

Ana hesitated for a moment before answering, "Not that I noticed, sir. They were both fine when they came in. I didn’t hear any disturbances."

I could feel my jaw tightening. This wasn’t sitting right with me. "And what about this morning? Did Aurora seem different at all?"

"She seemed... fine, sir," Ana said carefully. "I haven't spoken with her directly today, though."

I rubbed a hand over my face, trying to keep my cool. "Alright, Ana. Just... keep an eye out, please. Let me know if anything changes."

"Of course, sir. I'll let you know."

I hung up, still seething. Something didn’t add up. I had half a mind to fly back to Boston that instant, but I needed answers from her — real answers, not from some cryptic photo or Hailee’s taunting. I would wait until I saw her face-to-face. When I did, she’d be explaining everything. 

I paced the hotel room, each step making the tension in my chest feel worse. The anger was like a thick fog, clouding my mind and making it hard to focus. I hadn’t expected this. Not from her. Not from my fiancée.

The image of Aurora, sitting on the couch with some guy—someone I didn’t know—kept flashing in my mind. I didn’t recognize him, and it pissed me off even more. She looked too comfortable with him. She laughed. Her body language. It was too much.

I could feel the knot in my stomach tightening with each passing second. I didn’t know who the hell this guy was, and frankly, I didn’t care. What pissed me off was that she was there at that party, out with someone like that while I was stuck here, doing work that was technically already done. The meetings, the reports, everything—it was finished. But I wasn’t finished. Not with her.

I grabbed my phone and dialed Lila, my assistant, barely giving it a second thought. The phone rang twice, and then her voice came through, calm and professional as always.

"Yes, Mr. Sturniolo?"

“Cancel everything,” I snapped. “I’m done here. Get me on a flight back to Boston, ASAP. I want to be home by midnight.”

There was a brief pause on the other end. “Sir, but your last meeting isn't until—”

“I don’t care about the damn meeting. I’m done,” I cut her off, my frustration building. “Get me a flight. Midnight. No excuses.”

I could practically hear her sigh on the other end of the line, but she didn’t argue. “Understood. I’ll have the arrangements made.”

“Good,” I said, my voice sharp. I ended the call and shoved the phone into my pocket.

I wasn’t wasting any more time here. Work was done. There was no reason for me to stay in Milan and brood over things.

I stormed around the room, packing my things quickly, as if the sooner I got on the plane, the sooner I could figure this all out. I didn’t even know what I was walking back home, but I had to get there. I couldn’t just let this go.

I couldn’t let her be out there, in a situation like that, with some random guy I didn’t know. Whatever the hell was going on, I was going to find out. And she was going to answer for it.

I headed for the elevator, the anger simmering inside me, knowing that when I got back to Boston, I was going to have one hell of a conversation with Aurora.

It didn’t matter if Aurora and I weren't in love, but it sure as hell mattered how we both acted if this engagement was to seem real. 

An hour went by in a buzz, and by 7:30 PM, I was seated in my jet and taking off. 

I calmed myself by letting myself believe Aurora had a rational explanation for all this, and praying that the photo of her at the party didn't get sent to anyone.

The jet touched down just after 1:00 AM Boston time.

By the time I made it through the airport’s private exit and into the black SUV waiting for me, my blood was at a full simmer. Every wasted minute between Milan and Boston had given me more time to overthink, more time to get pissed off.

The drive home was a blur. I barely registered the empty streets or the cool October air seeping through the cracked window. All I could think about was Aurora — and the fact that the woman I was supposed to marry was out at some fucking party, sitting next to some random guy, while I was halfway across the world.

The gates opened slower than I had patience for, but I forced myself to stay calm. I parked, grabbed my bag, and walked up the driveway. Every step felt heavier.

As soon as I pushed the door open, a soft glow spilled from the living room.

I stilled.

Someone was awake.

Quietly, I set my bag down in the foyer, shrugging off my jacket. My steps were soundless as I moved toward the light.

And then I saw her.

Aurora was curled up on the couch, barefoot, wearing one of those oversized sweaters she loved. A thick book was open in her lap, her hair falling around her face as she turned a page, completely unaware of me standing there.

Something sharp twisted in my chest.

She looked so fucking innocent sitting there — like she hadn’t done a damn thing wrong.

I clenched my jaw, forcing the emotion down. I couldn't afford to let her looks cloud the situation.

"Aurora," I said, my voice cutting through the silence.

She jumped, her head snapping up. Her eyes widened when she saw me — surprise flickering across her face, then confusion.

"Chris?" she said, setting the book down. "What— you’re back?"

I nodded once, stepping further into the room.

"Yeah," I said coldly. "Trip’s over."

I watched her closely — the way she shifted, the way her hands nervously tugged at the sleeve of her sweater.

"You didn't tell me you were coming back early," she said, her voice softer now, guarded.

"Didn't feel like there was a point," I replied, my voice sharp. "Seems like you were keeping yourself plenty busy while I was gone."

Her mouth parted slightly, confusion flashing in her eyes.

"Chris, what are you talking about?"

I crossed my arms, the anger barely held back now.

"You want to explain why I got sent a picture of you all cozy next to some guy at a party?"

Her face paled.

I didn’t move. I didn’t blink. I just waited, and the longer she stayed silent, the harder it was to pretend I wasn’t already pissed off beyond belief.

Her brows pulled together, genuine confusion flashing across her face.

"What guy?" she asked, her voice small but laced with honest bewilderment.

I didn’t move. My arms stayed crossed, my stare locked on her. "Don’t play dumb, Aurora."

She blinked, like she was scrambling to piece things together. "I... I was at the party with Jen ," she said slowly, searching my face. "We danced, we ate— I don't—"

Then something clicked. Her face shifted.

"Wait... are you talking about Mason?" she asked, like the idea was ridiculous.

Mason.

My jaw ticked. The name meant nothing to me, but just hearing another man's name come out of her mouth made something snap inside me.

I took a step forward, my voice low and sharp. "Who the fuck is Mason?"

Aurora’s eyes widened slightly, taken back by the bite in my tone. She held her hands up like she was trying to calm me down.

"Nobody," she rushed out. "He’s no one, Chris. Just some guy I used to know from high school. He sat next to me for like two minutes — that’s it."

"Used to know?" I repeated, my voice rising. "And he just shows up at some party you're at while I'm out of the fucking country? And you're sitting there with him, like it’s a damn reunion?"

She flinched.

"It wasn’t like that," she insisted, her voice trembling with urgency. "I didn’t even want to talk to him. He just showed up and started talking. I barely said anything back."

I let out a humorless laugh, running a hand roughly through my hair, trying — failing — to calm the rage boiling under my skin.

"You think that makes it better?" I snapped. "You think it looks better that you’re just sitting there letting random assholes get cozy with you while my back’s turned?"

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she blinked them away fast, standing her ground.

"I wasn’t being cozy with him," she said fiercely. "I didn’t want him there. I didn’t even want to be there! Jen convinced me to go, and I was sitting alone when he came over. I didn't invite him!"

I stared at her, breathing heavily, Fuck…I didn’t want to be the reason she gets a panic attack.My fists clenching at my sides. I wanted to believe her. God, I wanted to believe her so bad.

But that fucking photo kept flashing in my mind — her, looking too pretty, sitting there while some guy sat way too damn close.

"You shouldn’t have been there to begin with," I bit out. "You shouldn’t even have given anyone the chance to get near you."

Aurora’s lips parted like she wanted to argue — but she stopped herself, swallowing hard instead. Her voice came out quieter. "I just wanted one normal night."

Normal. She still didn’t get it.

"You’re not just some rich girl anymore, Aurora," I said, my voice ice-cold, every word deliberate. "You’re mine, whether you like it or not. It doesn’t matter what you think or feel. To the world, you're already my fucking wife. And I’m expected to act like your husband, to handle you, to control everything about this — because that’s what they all see.”

The words hung in the air, thick and heavy.

"You’re a grown woman, Aurora," I said, my voice laced with frustration, the tension still heavy in the air. "And I really fucking wish your father hadn’t put you in this position. But here we are." I paced, my hand running through my hair, the anger simmering beneath my skin. "I hate that it comes off like I’m trying to control your life, but the reality is, we have to accept this shit, whether we want to or not. This is our life now. And you don’t get to just ignore that."

Her face crumpled slightly, like she didn’t know whether to be angry or heartbroken.

But I didn’t back down.

Not this time.

Aurora took a shaky breath, stepping toward me like she could somehow make me understand if she just got close enough.

"I would never," she said, her voice breaking. "Chris, I would never do something like that to jeopardize this. Especially not with him. I hate Mason."

I didn’t move.

"I don’t care how it looked," she rushed out, desperate. "I wasn’t sitting there enjoying it. The second he came over, I froze up because I didn’t even know how to react."

That caught my attention. My eyes narrowed slightly. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

She swallowed, her throat bobbing. Her hands fidgeted at her sides.

"I... I don’t want to get into details," she stammered, her voice wavering as she tried to backpedal. "Everything that has to do with him happened a long time ago."

"Tell me," I demanded, my tone cold and unyielding. The weight of the words hung heavy in the room, and I wasn’t giving her an inch until I had the answers I wanted. “I’m trying to understand”. 

I looked at the hesitance on her face, before she seemed to finally crack. 

"He’s not some old friend," she muttered. "He was cruel to me. He humiliated me... made my life hell back then. Seeing him again just brought it all back. I didn’t know what to say. I didn't even want to be near him."

Her voice cracked, and for the first time tonight, my anger faltered — just slightly.

But I still couldn’t erase the image from my mind.

"You could've left," I said coldly. "You could've gotten up and walked away."

"I know," she said quickly, her eyes pleading. "I know that. I just— I was stunned. I wasn’t thinking straight. And then Jen came back and I went to her. I didn’t stay with him."

She blinked rapidly, like she was trying to keep it together in front of me.

"You have to believe me, Chris," she whispered. "I don’t even look at anyone else."

For a moment, it was just the sound of our breathing filling the space between us. Her eyes were glassy with unshed tears, her fists clenching so tight her knuckles were white.

I stayed silent, my chest heaving, the war inside me tearing me up — anger, protectiveness, and something deeper I wasn’t ready to name yet.

I exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down my face.

"Why?" I asked, my voice low but sharp. "Why was he cruel to you?"

Aurora flinched like I’d struck her. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly looking smaller under the weight of my stare.

She hesitated, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip. "I... back in high school," she said slowly, her voice tight, "I liked him. Stupid, I know. He pretended to like me back. Asked me out in front of everyone. Told me to meet him at some restaurant."

She looked down at the floor, her fingers digging into the sleeves of her sweatshirt.

"I waited for an hour," she whispered. "He never showed. And then some girls from school—" she choked out a bitter laugh, "they showed up instead. Poured coffee all over me. Laughed in my face. The next day at school, Mason told everyone it was a joke. That no one would ever actually want me."

Silence clamped down between us, heavy and suffocating.

I felt like something inside me cracked.

The image of her — younger, humiliated, alone — made my hands clenched into fists at my sides.

I stared at her, feeling rage burn hotter in my veins than anything else tonight.

"It wasn’t just that day, there were several other things that happened with him and you think I would ever even look at him that way?" she said, her voice thick with emotion, her eyes glistening. "I don’t care about him anymore, but it weighs on me Chirs, I hate him. I hate everything he did to me."

My jaw locked so tight it hurt. I didn't know whether I wanted to go find this Mason prick and beat the shit out of him, or pull Aurora into my arms and promise her no one would ever humiliate her again.

Maybe both, but I stayed where I was, my body rigid, my mind racing.

I didn’t have emotions. I didn’t feel comfortable. But hearing her say all that — seeing the way she shrank under the weight of it — made something deep and ugly claw up inside me.

"You should’ve told me," I muttered, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.

She shook her head quickly. "I didn’t think it mattered anymore. It was years ago. I didn’t... I didn’t want to seem weak."

Weak. God, she had no idea.

There wasn’t a single thing about her that was weak.

I stared at her for a long beat, my heart hammering against my ribs, my anger still simmering just below the surface — not at her, but at the entire fucking situation. At that prick Mason. At Hailee. At myself for not being there tonight, for leaving her vulnerable to people who didn’t deserve to even breathe the same air as her.

"You’re not weak," I said, my voice low and certain. "Don’t ever say that shit again."

Aurora’s eyes widened a little, surprised by my tone. She opened her mouth like she wanted to say something, but then closed it again.

I took a breath, forcing some of the rage back down. I needed to get a grip. This wasn’t the time to explode.

"You’re not going to any more parties without me," I said firmly, stepping closer. "I don’t give a shit if it was innocent. I’m not letting some asshole even think he can get close to you again."

Her lips parted slightly, clearly taken aback by the sharpness in my voice.

Maybe it wasn’t just the tone that threw her off. Maybe it was the intensity—the raw possessiveness that I couldn’t hide. I was done pretending it wasn’t there.

She gathered herself quickly, her posture stiffening, as if trying to protect herself from whatever was swirling between us. “So what? You cut your trip short to come and talk to me about this party?” she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.

I shot her a glance and got closer.

“Yes,” I towered over her. “Yes, did.I may have not taken this seriously at the start, but one thing I take seriously is business, and you are very much my business, Aurora”. 

I watched her face redden and her pulse quicken.

“You still didn’t need to cut the trip short,” she said, her voice softer now. “I was doing fine.”

I scoffed, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. “Yeah, clearly.”

She let out a long breath, her frustration palpable. “Who sent you the photo anyway?”

I hesitated for a moment, weighing whether I should tell her the truth. But what was the point in lying? I couldn't hold this back forever.

“Just someone I used to mess around with,” I muttered, hoping that would be enough.

Her brow furrowed as she processed the information. Her eyes flickered to mine, confusion crossing her face, before something seemed to click. “Hailee?”

The name hit me like a punch to the gut.

I froze, my pulse spiking. “You know her?” I asked, disbelief creeping into my voice.

Aurora’s gaze softened, her lips pressing together in a thin line. 

“I met her yesterday at the party,” she said, her voice steady, though a touch of something... bitter lingered in her tone. “She was... around. We talked for a bit.”

I raised my eyebrow, “what did she say to you?” 

I watched as she looked away, clearly uncomfortable, but trying to maintain her composure. “I met her yesterday at the party,” she said, her voice steady but tinged with something darker, something... bitter. “She was... around. We talked for a bit.”

I raised an eyebrow, my curiosity piqued. “What did she say to you?”

Aurora hesitated for a moment, before looking back at me. “She just said you two used to be close.”

The unease in her voice was undeniable, and I couldn’t help but let a sly smile tug at the corners of my lips. I stayed quiet though, letting her finish.

She shifted, clearly trying to process everything. “I’m just curious,” she started, her eyes narrowing a bit. “You mentioned you don’t do relationships, but she said you guys had something going on.”

I stepped closer, closing the space between us. “I don’t do relationships,” I said, my voice low and firm.

Aurora’s brow furrowed slightly as she processed my words. She raised an eyebrow. “And your... relationship with Hailee?”

I paused, taking in the look on her face. There was something almost fragile in her expression, like she wasn’t sure where this conversation would lead. I watched her closely as I continued.

“It was purely physical,” I said, my voice measured, deliberate.

Aurora blinked, clearly taken aback. She looked genuinely surprised—though, there was a hint of confusion in her eyes. “Oh...Oh, I see. Like... sleeping together?”

I nodded, watching her carefully. I could feel the tension shift in her. She was uneasy now, the energy between us was different than before. She was trying to process what I’d said, but something in her was rattled.

“Why does that bother you?” I smirked, sensing her discomfort, but enjoying the way her guard seemed to be slipping.

Aurora quickly shook her head, her voice quick and defensive. “No—no, I’m just asking.” She laughed nervously, but I could see the flush creeping up her neck.

I hummed in amusement as I stepped even closer, my hand coming to rest gently on the back of her neck. I tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at me. 

“You’re blushing, ma,” I said softly, a teasing smile playing on my lips as I closed the remaining distance between us.

Her breath hitched, her eyes locking onto mine. There was a flicker of something in her gaze—something uncertain, but maybe something more. Something she wasn’t ready to admit, but I could feel it in the air between us.

“Were you guys really close?” she asked again, her voice a little tighter this time. “I mean, outside of… well, the bedroom, I guess.”

A teasing grin tugged at my lips. “Are you jealous, Aurora? Your cheeks are pink.”

She quickly looked away, her eyes flickering with something she was desperately trying to hide.

“Why would I be jealous?” she snapped, but the uncertainty in her voice gave her away.

I leaned in closer, dropping my voice to a near whisper. “I don’t know. Maybe because you care more than you’re willing to admit.”

I stepped in until her back pressed flush against the wall, her breathing shallow. The air between us practically crackled.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” I said, letting my gaze fall deliberately to her lips before meeting her eyes again. “You think about it, don’t you?”

Her chest rose and fell a little quicker, her eyes darting to the side.

“Think about what?” she asked, voice soft — almost too soft.

“The kiss,” I muttered, my voice rough against her ear. “The way your body reacted to me. You think about it when you’re alone, don’t you?”

She swallowed hard, her fingers trembling slightly as she clutched the edge of a nearby shelf. I caught the moment she faltered, the moment her defenses slipped — even if she tried to hide it by shooting me a glare.

“You’re not fooling me,” I said, my mouth brushing her ear, the words a low threat and a promise all at once.

She didn’t answer — she didn’t have to. I could feel it — the way her body leaned toward me without even meaning to.

I slid my hand into her hair, gripping it just tight enough to pull a gasp from her lips.

"You can pretend all you want," I murmured against her mouth, "but your body’s betraying you, ma."

The last shred of my self-control snapped when I caught the look in her eyes — wide, vulnerable, and begging without a single word.

Without another second of hesitation, I crushed my mouth to hers, kissing her fiercely, claiming her like I'd been dying to. She gasped into me, and I took full advantage, deepening the kiss, pressing her harder against the wall until there wasn’t an inch of space between us.

My hand gripped her waist, possessive, grounding her to me as she trembled under my touch.

I didn’t stop there — I let my mouth trail sloppily down her jaw to her neck, sucking and nipping at the sensitive skin. I heard her breath hitch, then a soft, desperate moan escape her.

"Chris…" she whispered, breathless, the sound of my name almost wrecking me.

My hand slid up, cupping the soft curve of her breast through the thin fabric. My mouth tugged at the V neckline of her sweater, my lips dangerously close to exposing more. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her chestline, the temptation gnawing at the last of my sanity.

I should stop. I knew it. But the way she submitted to my touch — the smell of her skin, like fresh roses — drove me insane.

Her small hand gripped my arm, grounding herself, but not pulling away.

I pulled back just slightly, searching her face. Her lips were kiss-swollen, her hair a beautiful mess, and her eyes — wide, vulnerable, uncertain — locked with mine.

I kept her pinned lightly against the wall, our bodies pressed together. “Did that feel like business to you, ma?” I asked roughly, my thumb brushing her waist.

The blush crept up her neck again, warm and unfiltered. She shook her head shyly, her voice caught somewhere in her throat.

I exhaled sharply, trying to reel myself back.

Reluctantly, I stepped away — but kept a hand on her waist, not ready to let her go completely. I dragged my eyes down the faint marks I'd left along her collarbone and smiled, 

“Go to bed,” I said, my voice low, a bit softer now. “It’s really late.”

She blinked up at me, still dazed, then nodded, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Yeah… it is,” she whispered, picking up the book she had earlier, clutching it tightly to her chest as she made her way down the hall.

But just before she disappeared, I called out.

“Aurora.”

She paused, turning back, cheeks flushed, lips parted slightly.

“Yeah?”

I held her gaze, serious now, needing her to understand.

“To answer your question,” I said slowly, “just know... I’d never cut work short for her, or for anyone of that matter. So no, we weren’t close.”

I caught the realization flicker in her eyes — then turned and disappeared down the hallway into my room, needing a cold shower and my own hand to deal with the ache between my legs she left behind.

The next morning, I woke up later than usual — closer to eleven. I hadn’t gone into the office; as far as everyone knew, I was still in Milan.

Dragging myself out of bed, I expected to find Aurora in the kitchen, maybe eating a bagel or picking at something. Instead, I walked into the dining room to see both my brothers shoveling down the food my chefs had laid out.

I scrubbed a hand over my face. “What the fuck are you two doing in my house?”

“Wow, real warm welcome,” Nick said around a mouthful of pancakes.

Matt snorted into his drink, trying not to laugh.

I rolled my eyes and grabbed a can of Pepsi from the fridge.

“Heard you cut your trip short,” Matt said, taking a slow sip of apple juice. “Why?”

“Finished early,” I said, keeping my voice casual.

Nick raised an eyebrow. “Finished early? Since when do you not milk a whole week out of those trips?”

“Didn’t feel like it this time,” I muttered, popping the tab on my drink. 

Nick exchanged a look with Matt as I cracked the Pepsi open.

Matt leaned back in his chair, glancing toward the hallway. “Where’s your girl?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Mind your business.”

Nick smirked around a mouthful of pancakes. “Touchy.”

Matt grinned. “Didn’t say anything. Just asking where she’s at.”

“She’s sleeping,” I said shortly, popping the tab on my drink. “Or reading. I don’t know. Why do you care?”

Nick shrugged innocently. “Just making conversation, man. You don’t gotta bite our heads off.”

Matt snorted into his juice. “Yeah, God forbid we ask about Sleeping Beauty.” 

I shot him a warning look, but before I could tell him to shut the fuck up, Nick leaned forward on his elbows, studying me way too closely.

“So you finished early in Milan?” he said, dragging out the words. “Didn’t feel like hanging around? Since when?”

I took a long sip of Pepsi, not answering right away.

Nick smirked like he already knew the answer. Matt raised his eyebrows, exchanging another look with him.

"You," Matt said slowly, grinning, "cut a trip short for a girl?"

I slammed the Pepsi can down on the counter a little harder than necessary.

"Drop it."

Nick held his hands up in mock surrender, but the smug look never left his face. “Hey, man. Whatever you say.”

Before I could tell them both to get the hell out, soft footsteps sounded from down the hall.

Soft footsteps padded down the hallway.

Aurora.

Wearing a loose pair of light grey pajama set. Her hair was slightly damp, pushed back from her face like she’d just washed it, her skin fresh and glowing from her skincare.

As soon as she stepped into the dining room, her eyes landed on Matt and Nick — both frozen mid-bite, staring at her like they'd seen a ghost.

Aurora blinked, clearly caught off guard by their presence. She shifted her weight awkwardly, her brows furrowing in confusion.

“Uh...hi, morning,” she said hesitantly, giving them a small, awkward wave with the hand not holding her mug.

Matt just blinked at her.

Nick nearly dropped his fork.

I bit back a smirk, watching the whole thing unfold.

She looked so damn cute like this — sleep still clinging to her, skin soft and dewy, voice a little raspy from just waking up. She didn’t even have to try, and somehow it made it even harder not to stare.

Aurora shuffled toward the coffee pot, her cheeks flushing slightly as she turned her back on them, clearly trying to pretend like this wasn’t awkward as hell. 

Nick leaned toward Matt and stage-whispered, "Is it just me or did Chris just smile?"

Matt answered just as quietly. “Real big. Like some Disney prince shit.”

I shot them both a death glare. Matt pretended to cough. Nick suddenly found the butter on his pancakes very interesting.

Turning back to Aurora, I kept my voice low, just for her. “You eat yet, ma?”

She blinked, a little startled by the nickname in front of my brothers, but shook her head.

Nick elbowed Matt under the table. “Ma?” he mouthed dramatically.

She glanced over her shoulder at me, flushing a little, and shook her head.

I pushed out a chair. “Sit.”

She obeyed without a word, sliding into the seat beside mine, her knee brushing against mine under the table.

Nick watched the whole thing like it was the most entertaining thing he’d ever seen in his life. Matt, for once, had enough sense not to say anything.

But even I could see it written all over their faces: They were never gonna let me live this down, and for the first time, I didn’t give a fuck.

“So Aurora”, Matt started. “how are you?”.

I shot Matt a quick glance, narrowing my eyes slightly. What the hell was he getting at with his line of questioning?

Aurora met Matt's gaze, offering a soft smile. "I'm fine," she said, her voice gentle but steady. "How about you?"

"Good, good," Matt replied, nodding thoughtfully. "How are you finding everything here so far?"

Aurora’s smile never faltered. "Everything’s been okay," she said, her tone polite, as if carefully measuring her words.

Nick then chimed in, breaking the quiet tension. "You're a design student, right?"

Aurora nodded. "Yeah. I am."

A strange silence hung in the air for a moment, like everyone was waiting for something more, but no one quite knew what. The awkwardness was palpable, and I couldn’t help but find the whole situation oddly amusing. I leaned back in my chair, a smirk tugging at the corners of my lips, watching the way they were trying to make small talk, as if they weren’t fully sure of what to say to her.

"I have to get going," Aurora said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I have some things to do. Enjoy."

She stood up from the table, her movements graceful but just a little too quick. I could tell she felt out of place—she didn’t like being the center of attention, especially under my brothers’ watchful eyes.

She glanced at me, a brief, almost uncertain look. I gave her a small nod, letting her know it was fine. Without another word, she disappeared down the hallway, and a few seconds later, I heard the soft click of her bedroom door shutting.

The second she was gone, Nick leaned forward, dropping his fork with a loud clatter against his plate. "Bro," he said, smirking. "She’s cute."

Matt snorted, reaching for another pancake. "Way out of your league, too."

I shot them both a dry look. "Don’t start."

Matt held up his hands innocently. "Just saying. She’s...different. Not what I expected when you said you were getting married."

Nick nodded, mouth full. "Yeah, like, she’s actually nice. Thought you'd end up with some stuck-up heiress."

I took a long drink of my Pepsi, ignoring the way they both stared at me like they were waiting for a reaction.

"Arranged or not," Matt said, nudging Nick, "you lucked out, man."

I stayed silent, my jaw tight.

Matt leaned back in his chair, eyeing me. "You like her," he said bluntly, like it wasn’t even a question.

Nick laughed under his breath. "Yeah, you definitely do. Never seen you look at anyone like that."

"Cut the shit," I muttered, tossing my empty can of Pepsi into the trash. "It’s not like that."

Matt raised an eyebrow. “Sure it’s not. You were basically eye-fucking her the entire time she was sitting here.”

I shot him a glare. "Watch your mouth," I said, my voice low, protective without even meaning to be. "I was just making sure she was comfortable. You idiots were making her uncomfortable."

Nick held his hands up, grinning. "Hey, we're just saying. It's new seeing you like this. Mr. 'No Relationships' acting like a fucking husband already."

I leaned back against the counter, arms crossed over my chest. "I’m being respectful."

Matt smirked. "Respectful? Bro, you looked like you were two seconds away from dragging her back to your room."

I gave him a sharp look. "Matt. Don’t talk about her like that."

Matt just rolled his eyes, clearly not taking me seriously. "Didn’t say anything about her," he said lazily, picking up his fork and poking at his pancakes again. "For an arranged thing, it’s not bad," he added with a shrug.

Nick nodded. "She's sweet. She didn’t even roast us for showing up uninvited."

"She’s used to it," I said without thinking. Then realizing how that sounded, I added, "High society bullshit. She’s been around it her whole life."

Nick raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, but still. She's... real. Not fake like the other rich girls."

"Don’t call her a rich girl," I snapped before I could stop myself.

Both of them froze for a second—then broke into matching grins.

Matt whistled low. "Man’s in deep already."

I shook my head, pushing off the counter. "You two need to get out of my house."

Nick laughed. "Not until you admit you like her."

"Not happening," I said, walking past them. "And wipe those stupid looks off your faces before I throw you out myself."

READ ALL RELEASED CHAPTERS HERE!

[a/n: ya'll i think I should start with the mega juicy stuff soon. Hopfully new chapter soon! like & reblog. mwahh] – ceyana

[formylovetodaryldixon]

"Like there was no tomorrow." CH.10 (Part1)—Daryl Dixon.

Chapter summary: You wake up to find out you're about to have another baby and that maybe your brother was just another ghost in a house that was never a home and you all never a family.

A/N: It's 28th here in Peru, is my birthday so I wanted to share the penultimate chapter of a story that has become so dear to me. It's not the best but I appreciate all the love you gave it. Thank u so much from the bottom of my heart. Writing has truly saved my life and your likes and comments showed me that I'm improving and they brighten my day, so thank u♥ I love you all! (Sorry for any mistakes)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9

Small pains scattered throughout your body slowly gather in one place, your senses returning as you open your eyes while taking a deep breath after feeling as if someone had held your head underwater for too long, the side of your stomach throbbing. The silent seconds are broken by the pain emitting between your parted lips, and that wakes up the person sleeping on the uncomfortable couch next to you, but your cramped muscles begin to relax when Sam sits down beside you, her hands holding your shoulders to keep you in place, teaching you how to breathe steadily, your head spinning with the violence of a hurricane.

You try to talk but your voice comes out muffled, as if you haven't spoken in days and the walls inside your throat are fused together. You clear your throat and the fog of confusion dissipates with the seconds and she smiles in relief. But since Sami has always dared to be honest with her emotions, no matter how overwhelming they may be, her eyes fill with tears.

“Hey, it’s good you woke up. You were taking your time.”

You smile back, even though fear fills you, the fear of having put April in danger, remembering the cold of a knife sinking into you.

“And April, Sam? Daryl?” Your voice cracks at the end, your own eyes crystallizing with the cruel memory. “Austin?”

Sam coos you, helping you drink some water first.

“This is your fourth day here, babe, and April and Daryl are fine, everyone is fine, no one was hurt that afternoon. And yes, Austin was there. I saw you leave with them, but I guess the most surprising thing is that Aeris was nearby after she disappeared these weeks, or she heard the whistle you and your brother used and came flying right away, although even she knew that wasn't your whistle calling her.” Sam laughs in relief, letting go of all traces of the fear she felt. “That damn bird is so smart. She followed you all the way to the mine while I came back here. Daryl had just arrived with his group and he just… he went wild, and in less than ten minutes everyone was on their way there.” She exhales, but the shock is still lingering. “What happened back there, (Y/N)? Because since everyone came back, Daryl hasn't been very nice to your brother. In fact, Austin has had to stay in the community cells, and not by his own choice.”

You swallow, and it's less painful now, but you don't want to say you found Bobby, not when Sam was still having nightmares about him.

“Austin was with the wrong people, that's all.”

Sam nods, unconvinced.

“Daryl’s been living here, nesting on that couch like April told him a couple of times, but only she could convince him to come over to the house to eat and rest, even though he ends up coming back. He’s probably on his way here so let’s give you something to eat.”

The yogurt still lingers sweetly on your lips even after Sam leaves to take care of April overnight, and between the visit from the community doctor announcing that the wound is healing properly, you take a second alone to rub your tired face with hands that still shake as you remember what happened. You block out the sight of the semi-dark room as if that would help you forget the rest, but your racing heart can’t seem to find a way to calm itself. The fire from the candles flickers, breathing in the oxygen around them to stay alive, just the same way you do, and even though the pain still stings, it's all a reminder that you're still alive for another day.

“Hey…”

You move your hands away to see Daryl standing in the doorway of the small and warm room, but he needs a moment to accept what his eyes see. It’s promising to see how your tired gaze still lights up when you see him, even right through the pain and the restless nights of unconsciousness.

“Hi.”

You wave your hand in the air, almost lazily as he finally dares to come closer, and Daryl does his best to smile in relief as well when his heart no longer feels like someone’s squeezing it, aching and preventing him from breathing correctly. The strands of hair on his face block the entire view, but his blue eyes water the moment he sits on the edge of the bed, half his body leaning gently against yours, barely touching you, but needing to feel your warmth. Daryl buries his face in the crook of your neck, his hand holding your cheek in a touch so light it’s like sliding your fingers over a feather.

One of your hands rests on his head and his messy locks, the other clinging to his bare arm, but when you feel his tear on your skin, it breaks you down, too.

“I know. I know.” You choke on the words even if they are a whisper, because death has never felt so close. “I’m sorry.”

Daryl takes a moment to realize that you're there and that your body no longer feels like it's losing heat.

“Don’ be.” He straightens as he tries to sniff the tears away, but his body looms over you, one hand braced against the bed as the other caresses your face, nervous fingers still on your cheek. Daryl sighs, so deeply the sound fills the room, but your tired smile is a reminder that you are alive, that you’re still there with him and your daughter. “M’ sorry. S' jus'… m’ fuckin’ tired of almost losin’ ya.”

You smile a little, letting out a small, tired sound, your hand holding his as his fingers still move across your cheek, because you know some things slipped out of your control, unmanageable, almost catastrophic and irreparable.  

“Hey, you know your daughter doesn’t like those bad words.”

However, his serious expression doesn’t change as Daryl feels the weight of having lived with that beautiful but terrifying secret growing in your belly those days, that secret that is about six weeks old by then, with you unaware that you were not only carrying April by the hand that afternoon, but now a baby who went everywhere with you. But the words Daryl desperately wants to say are a torrent stronger than him, like a storm, and he, a little house being battered and swept away by that natural force.

“Peach, yer pregnant.”

Your hand caressing his stops dead in its tracks, and it seems to match your heart, which, for a moment, you don't feel beating in your chest as you frown, so hard it hurts. The word pregnancy had always felt distant to you when your relationship ended, becoming something like a myth, something extinct that wouldn't even be found at the bottom of the sea, something from a life long gone. Now, you swallow, and your sore throat hurts again, which is why you don't try to formulate words, that and because your mind has gone blank.

"Uh?"

Daryl chuckles, a low, deep sound. He’s scared and yet, his mind didn’t do more than show him endless possible lives alongside this child, showing him only happiness that became a fervent wish, as if he could already see the baby in his head and that he or she would come to complete the happiness you two were experiencing thanks to April, making that secret dream come true (the one that seemed senseless and crazy after the world had gone to hell)

“Yeah, yer brother did the test on ya.”

You nod, but not understanding a thing.

“How far along?”

“About 6 weeks.”

You gulp.

“And is the bab…”

Daryl can see the question you're unable to ask.

"The baby's fine, Peach. Austin and the community doctor said s’ still too small and the knife didn't pierce the sac around."

You feel the nerves rising from your stomach up.

“Okay, but I think I'm going to throw up.” You try to turn around, but the pain sinking into your side stops you like Daryl's hands on your waist and shoulder to hold you in place, just like the whimper of pain you smother between your lips that wouldn't let you go very far. But suddenly, the entire world, now small and repopulated by a few people maybe, feels even smaller, and you feel unable to breathe, like a balloon that pops and runs out of air, stealing the oxygen out of you and blocking any attempt. “Oh, fuck, what did we do?”

Daryl watches you close your eyes and cover them with a hand as a devastating sorrow washes over you, trying to prevent the tears forming at the edges. For a moment, Daryl lets you take the news in, but he can’t go too long when he knows this pain is heavier than the one on your side, so he lovingly removes your hand from your eyes, his gaze gentle on yours.

“We should have been more careful but I don' think s' fair for us to feel so bad 'bout this lil' thing that is being cooked in yer belly now, peach, not when this feels so damn good, y'know? I mean, how bad can all this be if I can see our second kid in ma head and she looks completely happy with us.”

You sigh, hating that you go off on a tangent.

“I can't believe you said cooked.”

Daryl smiles softly because the thoughts keep floating around in his mind, until he stops smiling, reminding himself that keeping the baby is your decision only, and he would never force you into anything.

“She's growin' there but she's inside yer body, Peach, an' if ya decide s' better not to have her I'll accept yer decision, 'kay? We still got time.”

It's totally confusing. It's like hearing your own voice in your head, but as if it's coming from other people at the same time, and you can't understand any of them, or even know if they're telling you what to do, what to choose, and if there's actually a right answer or not. Would it be selfish to bring a baby into the world knowing the dangers she may be exposed to? She. Amid all of Daryl's words trying to respect the fact that you are and would be the one carrying the baby and the one at risk, that she in particular strikes you hear, but it’s endearing hearing him say that because Daryl Dixon, surely without realizing it, had become a girl's daddy.

"Why do you think she's a she?"

He shrugs.

"M' sure as hell of that as ya an' Aeris."

You frown in surprise, but a smile appears on your lips.

"This is the first time I've heard you call my baby girl by her actual name. Do you love her now?"

Daryl snorts to hide his feelings, but his eyes had become so honest and transparent that you can see that he does have feelings for Aeris, not absolute love, but something good, something deep. A kind of respect, even.

“She led me to ya an' our lil' girl but I ain't sayin' I love her out loud.”

You try to laugh, but the sound turns into a silent pain in your stomach and ends up becoming a sigh as thousands of thoughts invade your mind: the good and the bad, the happy, the sad, the heartbreaking, between being selfish and risking her life before the baby even has a chance to be born. Anything can happen: another knife, a bullet, a bite.

“I’m scared to death now.”

Daryl nods, understanding.

“I know, Peach. M’ terrified, too.”

“Do you really think it would be right to have her or him?”

Daryl shrugs again, and it's hard to do it this time, given all the reasons to do it and not to do it, but he tries to remain calm even if he hears that it all ends there.

“Dunno. This community seems safe and we could raise ‘em both here. Rick had Judy an’ I know she wasn't in his plans but now neither he nor Carl nor the rest could imagine their lives without her.” He swallows, his own throat closing with fear, with a possibility he can't rule out yet. “What happened to Lori… hell, we didn't have doctors back in the prison but there are some good ones here and they'll be able to help us if somethin’ bad happens.”

There are ways everything could go wrong, you know and Daryl knows it, too—the baby dying, you dying, both of you dying—a percent that always existed, in the shadows, between all the happy moments.

“But maybe Austin ca—”

“No.” Daryl tenses up as he shakes his head, and his deep voice pronounces that word dangerously, showing you his clearly refusal while removing his hand from your cheek. “No. He put ya an' April in danger. He won't stay around.”

Your expression falls.

“Austin is my family too, Daryl.”

Daryl narrows his eyes, offended to the core.

“Is he? Is he after what he put ya through? Ya were stabbed ‘cause of him and ya could have died. What would I have said to April then, uh? To Sam?”

You know Austin is no longer someone you can trust, but your love for him was a little greater than your better judgment.

“I know. But he’s not that bad, be can’t be. That’s why I need to know what happened all this time. Even if Jeff was not my father, he said Austin is my brother.”

Daryl laughs, a low, short sound, full of sarcasm that spills over at the edges.

“That piece of shit ain't yer brother. Yer brother wouldn't take ya to the slaughterhouse.”

You laugh too, humorless, a weak but mocking sound.

“That’s unfair and you know it because you did the same for your brother, don't forget. Merle wasn't that innocent, and I know some shitty things happened to him too, but Merle was still a bad influence who even put your life at risk on several occasions, and you stayed with him, you chose him.”

Daryl backs away a little bit, his body moving slightly backward as if your words were sabers and he had to dodge them, but there's no way to avoid being hurt because the world seems to be filled with them and there's no escape.

"Ya said ya weren't upset 'bout it anymore, I thought ya had forgiven me."

Your confusion weighs on you and pushes down the juncture between your brows, until you understand your own words.

"No. That's not what I meant, Daryl." You rub your face with one hand, trying to remove any trace of the aftermath of those words that came with an expression that wasn't promising. “I’m not holding it against you for choosing Merle because I still think he loved you a little bit, even more so at the end in a somewhat twisted way. What I’m saying is that even if our brothers are fucked up, we can’t just… shit, at least I need to know Austin’s whole story, okay? And if he’s trash and a danger to everyone here we’ll send him away, and if not, at least he can stay to help with the baby or with me because I really, really don’t want to die.”

Daryl nods, breathing normally again when your words remove the weight from his chest.

“Okay, m’ sorry. S’ late an’ ya should sleep.” He sighs, a little scared to touch you again. “I’ll bring April in the morning so try to sleep now.”

You can see he’s about to move to the uncomfortable single sofa, so you move away just a little bit before the pain stops you, nodding towards the space in the bed.

“Yer bossy even without words.” Daryl chuckles softly but silently loving that you want to be close to him too, so he lies on his right side, his arm flexed like a pillow so he doesn't have to use yours, his free hand finding yours on the blanket resting on your waist. “Is that a maybe?”

You look to the side to find his gaze that holds a bit of hope.

“About the baby?”

“Yeah.”

In the weeks you've lived in the community, you've seen a couple of babies who had clearly been born during that new life–but when you look at him, you know Daryl is terrified of something happening to you, but he can’t hide that sparkle in his eyes, and hell, once you imagined living this moment with him.

“It’s a maybe.”

He nods.

Morning comes faster than expected, as if the hours were moving at supersonic speed now that you're awake, because life seemed like a slow torment even with your eyes closed: as if proof that sleep and being unconscious weren't the same thing, your body still felt stiff even after lying in bed, your head ached after lying on a pillow. But when your gaze follows the sound of footsteps entering the room, your eyes meet April's, and although her gaze becomes broken because the fear of losing you still lingers in her chest, the relief on her face eclipses everything else, the entire world along with your fear and the shock of knowing she's your niece.

Daryl lets go of her hand when they stop at the edge of the bed, your smile matching her as he lifts her without any problem, her small legs flexing on the mattress as she tries not to hurt you when April lies her body on yours. Your hands hold her against you, but the fleeting expression of pain doesn't go unnoticed by Daryl as she straightens.

"Hey, be careful, okay, baby? Mom's still recoverin'."

April nods at him, her eyes searching yours afterward.

"Sorry, mommy."

"It's okay, love." You chuckle, soft because the dizziness still lingers, your hands cupping your face. "Have you been okay? Auntie Sam said you've been taking good care of Dad these days."

Daryl snorts when April nods, proud of herself.

"Daddy's been nesting on that ugly couch." She points to that uncomfortable spot. "But Uncle Rick said that's normal because Daddy's your Velcro husband. Is that a good thing, mama?"

“Oh, yeah. It is, baby.” You laugh a little shyly, noticing the way Daryl looks away (feeling the same as you) as he scratches his hair, which is always a bit messy, but a little longer now than it was when you all first arrived in Alexandria. But you do your best to smile at your daughter as you push a strand of hair out of her face, the hair she refused to tie in a bun just because she wants to be just like her daddy. She's yours and Daryl's. No matter if April is related to you by blood or not, she's always been yours more than your brother's or Ruby's. “Have you played with Judy these days?”

April nods again, completely happy.

“Carl says I'm her big sister, too.”

Your smile falters, catching Daryl's gaze in yours before you look away, but you tell yourself you have to talk to your brother because it's time for his story and April's to find the light.

It takes you a while to recover, immersing yourself in books and conversations with those who became your family, until eventually the wound heals, and your skin regenerates, leaving a raw scar that hurts when you touch it but is proof that you survived, that you are strong enough to endure the adversities of this new life. You, who lived an ordinary life but not so ordinary at the same time, now walk down the cold hallway in that row of cells in that basement that seems to have no end while trying to figure out what you'll do about your own brother's life.

Each step you take shortens the empty path, until a whistling sound fills the place and your world. You don't respond to what used to be the call to return to him, but when you stop in front of his cell, you see your him, tired and sitting on that uncomfortable mat, his back against the wall, smiling as if you had just returned home.

"I've done that with the few who have come here, hoping one of them would be you." He chuckles sadly. "I'm glad to see you're okay, baby."

His affectionate nickname still hit you in the heart where you still save a little love for him, but there isn't even a fleeting hint of joy on your face. The years old that separate you from him seem so few now, making you the oldest when Austin used to be the most focused child, the wisest, the smartest, the strongest.

“I just need you to tell me what the hell happened all this time, from the time you disappeared until now.”

Austin nods, straightening.

“Okay. I don’t want to make you stay on your feet too long, so here goes...” He sighs, trying to shake off for a second all the guilt that’s been with him all those years, even though it’s impossible. “About April: A friend from the hospital invited me to a party on that side of the town your boyfriend told you was trash. It was true. I was drunk and so was Ruby, and I’m not going to tell you what happened. The next morning I got out of there and didn’t think about it again until she showed up with a baby barely a few months old in her arms, saying she was mine. April was sick, so I took care of her, but I had to make sure she was mine... and she was. I took charge, even though I didn’t say anything to Dad like a coward, because I also lived trying to make him proud and happy like a lapdog. I left because I met the wrong people, (Y/N).” Austin looks you in the eyes, but you feel in your stomach that you’re not going to like what comes next. “I needed the money, and they needed a doctor to harvest the organs, you know what that means. When I refused to continue doing it and they mentioned your name, they gave me two options: either I disappeared from their sight or they would do it for me. April was little so Ruby and I left. Involving Dad as a police were only going to put you in danger, and you were more important to me. I started over for a long time on the other side of the country with them being just a friend. I rented them a house and took care of them as best I could until that night began. I got them out of there, and we survived in the woods but Ruby could never sleep peacefully with me there.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, with the fear of discovering that Austin was never who you thought closing it painfully.

“Did you do something to Ruby the night you two met?”

The silence seems like an eternity until he speaks again.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember, but I want to believe not.”

“You hurt her somehow, Austin.”

His gaze falls with the weight of his shame.

“I guess so. Ruby left and took April, and I didn't hear from her again until I saw you at the lake with her, calling herself Dixon.”

“So how did you end up with Bobby?”

His gaze returns to yours quickly, silently pleading for your forgiveness as he remembers the burns on your arms.

“Coincidence. Along the way, we continued meeting people until I discovered what they did to those poor women who unfortunately crossed their path.”

You frown as you taste the sour of hatred for Bobby on the tip of your tongue, but more so for your brother.

“And you did nothing?”

Austin shakes his head, but guilt and shame don't allow him to excuse himself because even he knows there aren't enough words in the world to justify that he stayed with a madman who enjoyed make those women run for their lives, knowing he never gave them the slightest chance to fight for their lives: they were dead from the moment they met Bobby.

"I know I'm not your father's daughter. Do you know anything about that?"

His own brow furrows, his eyes widening in surprise.

"How do you know that?"

"That doesn't matter to you."

Austin can see a different gleam in your eyes that were always warm. Something cold now, something that scares him, a kind of threat he'd never seen when you always treated your family with love.

“When Mom was admitted to the hospital, she told me she'd never loved Dad, that she'd gotten pregnant and my dad's father had bought her from hers. Grandpa was good, like you, but he didn't have the strength to protect her, so he agreed to the marriage. That's why he always stayed close to you even more when Mom confessed that you weren't Dad's daughter. Dad always suspected it until Mom told him and asked him to please take care of you. She never loved Dad, but she loved you, (Y/N). You were always her true love.”

You feel tears welling up at the edges of your eyes at the memory of her, but you refuse to let them fall.

“You knew Jeff always hated me for it.”

“Yes.”

It wasn't your brother's responsibility to take care of you, but you feel the monstrous resentment toward him, (growing right alongside your resentment toward that woman you called mom) and the way they never protected you from every cold glance from Jeff. The feeling inside you is heartbreaking, knowing that you were never properly protected as a child, that the supposed love she felt for you didn't protect you from every cruel word from the man who lived under the same roof as you, from every sign of hatred, from every night you had to lock your bedroom door because of that fear that he would come in and suffocate you with a pillow, which now didn't seem so far-fetched. She was weak and scared of Jeff just as Austin.

"Since you started talking, you haven't said my daughter even once, because April is yours only by blood, but we already know that in your family, that's not enough to love." You sigh, as if that can forever let go of every bit of pain. "You're going to stay here until I can put this all in order, so get comfortable."

You try to leave, but Austin stops the pace you're trying to take, calling your name.

“How did you find out about Dad?”

“I found Jeff at a so-called sanctuary for people a long time ago, and he told me everything.” Your gaze bores into his, but Austin can feel the coldness of your posture in every corner of his body. “He dared to threaten my daughter’s life when I politely asked him not to. Jeff refused, so I killed him.”

There’s no emotion in your voice, and yet, each word is like a knife plunging into his core.

"I see. You had to break him before he broke you. He taught us that."

You walk away.

Your grandfather used to tell you that you over–felt everything around you, (feeling things before they happened, before they even began, or when everything is about to end, like an extra sense you were born with) and you used to think that was a problem, but now you know it’s also what helped you care for others. Over-feeling taught you to truly love and protect your real family.

When you reach the first step and leave the basement, Daryl stands up from that chair in that empty kitchen after waiting for you: however, he’s too good of a hunter and he sees the smallest details, those tiny things that go unnoticed by everybody’s eyes, but not in his: not when it comes to you. Now, as Daryl holds you in his arms, he knows there's some revelatory truth that's tearing you apart, but he knows too that just like the wound that became a scar on your body, you just need time to heal.

You hold him too for a long while, until the need of spilling the whole truth about you and yours and his little girl makes you separate from him, because you are tired of secrets, because secrets are not pillars to make a real family.

"I need to tell you something about April."

@fluffy-dixon @stunkbiggu @kurogxrix @ffsjustletmesleep @kaz11283 @daryldixmedown @enretrogue @minnie-min @carbonnite-copy @walkingtalkingsomething

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Nothing is more fun than Nathaniel and Elisabeth thinking their kisses are disturbing the mansion's magic