#Seismic Proof

[kapilasteel]

Kapila Steel TMT Saria Revolutionizes Earthquake-Resistant Building Solutions

Imagine a building that can stand strong when the ground beneath it trembles. In regions prone to seismic activities, the choice of construction material goes beyond being a technical decision—it becomes a lifeline. TMT Saria from Kapila Steel is becoming a revolutionary option for homeowners, builders, and architects looking for unmatched durability and safety in seismically active areas.

The Importance of Building with Earthquake Resistance

One of nature's most erratic and destructive forces is still earthquakes. It is impossible to exaggerate the significance of earthquake-resistant construction in India, a nation with substantial seismic zones. Conventional building materials frequently fail during severe earth tremors, endangering both lives and financial investments.

Why TMT Saria Makes a Difference

TMT (Thermo Mechanically Treated) Saria represents a technological breakthrough in construction materials. Unlike conventional steel reinforcement bars, these advanced bars offer:

Exceptional strength-to-weight ratio

Superior ductility

Improved corrosion resistance

Greater concrete bonding

Maximum security from structural failure

Kapila Steel's TMT Saria: Engineering Quality in Each Rebar

Kapila Steel has developed a manufacturing technique that converts ordinary steel into fantastic building reinforcement material. This TMT Saria undergoes highly developed treatment processing that yields an exclusive microstructure.

Distinctive Production Process

Hardening: Instant water quenching of the outside layer hardens immediately.

Martensitic Outer Shell: Exhibits excellent tensile strength as well as abrasion resistance.

Softer Inner Core: Offers great ductility and energy absorption.

Quality Control: Testing at each step of production.

Earthquake Resistance: More Than Just a Technical Feature

The true worth of Kapila Steel's TMT Saria lies in the time of seismic activities. Here's how these bars provide unmatched protection:

Ductility: Deformation without breaking, absorbs seismic energy.

Strain Hardening: Maintains strength even when put under extreme stress.

Crack Resistance: Prevents structural failures of catastrophic proportions.

Fatigue Resistance: Resists multiple cycles of stress due to ground movements.

Technical Specifications That Make a Difference

Kapila Steel's TMT Saria complies and exceeds international specifications:

Tensile Strength: 585 N/mm² (Grade Fe 500D).

Elongation: Min. 16%.

Bend and Rebend Test: Meets rigorous quality testing.

Compliance with IS: 1786:2008 standards.

Real-Life Performance in Harsh Environments

Time and again, architects and structural engineers choose Kapila Steel's TMT Saria for critical infrastructure projects, including:

High-rise residential buildings.

Bridges and flyovers.

Construction in earthquake-prone areas.

Critical infrastructure developments.

Quality Certifications

Kapila Steel's commitment to excellence is validated by:

NABL accredited laboratory testing.

ISO 9001:2015 certification.

Bureau of Indian Standards (BIS) certification.

Consistent performance in simulated seismic testing.

Economic Sense Meets Safety

Investing in Kapila Steel's TMT Saria is not just about safety—it’s a sound economic decision:

Reduced long-term maintenance costs.

Extended structural lifespan.

Lower insurance premiums.

Minimal repair requirements.

Enhanced property value.

Making the Right Choice for Your Construction

The difference between standing and falling may depend on choosing the right TMT Saria. Kapila Steel offers reassurance through:

Transparency in quality documentation.

Technical support for architects and engineers.

Guaranteed performance of material.

Wide distribution network in the nation.

Conclusion: Building Confidence, One Bar at a Time

Kapila Steel's TMT Saria is more than just a construction material. It is a promise of safety, durability, and technological innovation. For professionals who do not compromise on structural integrity, this TMT Saria is the ultimate solution for earthquake-resistant construction.

Protect your investments. Safeguard lives. Choose Kapila Steel's TMT Saria.

[johniac]

SciTech Chronicles. . . . . .May 10th, 2025

[srjsteel]

Are Construction Rings and Bar Dowels the Key to Seismic Safety in Earthquake-Prone Zones?

When architects and engineers lay structures in regions where the earth may abruptly shift under foundations, every connection and thing takes on life-saving importance. Construction rings represent one of the most neglected yet critically important elements in building systems designed to withstand seismic events. These seemingly simple additives create the flexible mechanical connections that allow systems to move, absorb, and redirect potentially detrimental forces during earthquakes.

The Hidden Heroes of Structural Resilience

Construction rings function as crucial connectors within reinforced concrete elements, providing controlled flexibility precisely where rigid connections would otherwise fail. These specialized components create planned deformation zones that protect the structural integrity of the entire building system.

When well applied, construction rings permit precise structural factors to move independently while retaining their load-bearing capability. This seemingly simple function represents the distinction between buildings that remain standing and those that catastrophically fail during seismic activities. Engineers carefully position these components at critical junctures where stress concentrations could otherwise create failure points.

Engineered Systems Working Together

Bar dowel technology complements construction rings to create complete seismic resistance systems. These specialized reinforcement components transfer shear forces across construction joints while simultaneously allowing for controlled horizontal and vertical movement. The strategic placement of bar dowels at critical junctures creates load paths that redirect destructive forces away from vulnerable structural elements.

Modern seismic design recognizes that the best TMT bar selections dramatically impact structural ductility—the ability to deform without breaking. Engineers select specific grades and configurations based on computerized structural models that simulate earthquake scenarios. The best TMT bar options provide high yield strength combined with excellent elongation properties, ensuring structural elements bend rather than break when subjected to extreme forces.

Bar dowel systems create controlled separation points that prevent the transfer of damaging forces between adjacent structural elements. This isolation function proves particularly valuable at interfaces between structures with different dynamic properties, such as between buildings and their foundations or between wings of complex structures with varying heights.

Construction rings work in concert with bar dowels to create what engineers call "planned yielding zones"—areas specifically designed to absorb energy through controlled deformation. By concentrating seismic forces within these engineered zones, the overall structure maintains its integrity even during violent ground movements.

Beyond Theory: Real-World Applications

Recent earthquakes provide compelling evidence for the effectiveness of integrated seismic systems. Buildings incorporating properly designed construction rings have demonstrated remarkable resilience, often remaining serviceable after events that devastated neighboring structures built using older methodologies.

Case studies from Japan, Chile, and New Zealand demonstrate how bar dowel integration significantly improved structural performance during major seismic events. Post-earthquake analysis shows that properly installed systems prevented progressive collapse by allowing controlled movement precisely where designers intended.

Material selection significantly impacts long-term performance. The best TMT bar products maintain their mechanical properties despite decades of environmental exposure or minor seismic events. This durability ensures that seismic protection systems remain fully functional throughout the building's lifespan.

Construction rings manufactured to current standards undergo rigorous testing to verify their performance under normal usage followed by extreme event scenarios, ensuring components withstand dynamic loading conditions. Quality assurance protocols simulate decades and perform as designed when needed most.

Making Informed Choices

When planning construction in seismic zones, component quality becomes a critical decision point rather than a simple cost consideration. Premium construction rings may represent a minimal percentage of total project costs while dramatically improving structural resilience.

The true value of quality seismic components becomes apparent only during extreme events—precisely when substituting inferior materials proves catastrophically expensive. Buildings incorporating properly designed and implemented systems have demonstrated their ability to protect both property investments and human lives during events that devastated less thoughtfully designed structures.

[afloweroutofstone]

I am not the first to notice this but there is something interesting to be said about how traditional "golden era" hip-hop culture was generally more judgemental towards male rappers rumored to be gay men than it was towards female rappers rumored to be gay, likely because the machismo of rap somehow found it easier to stomach a masculine woman than a feminine man. I am probably the wrong person to say it, but there is indeed something to be said.

In the 1990s there was this huge cultural panic over the idea that one or more of the famous men in rap might secretly be gay (LL Cool J? Diddy? Tupac? Prodigy?), so much so that many 90s rappers and fans still continue to say that they think there's Secret, Hidden Gays. "It might be the industry's worst kept secret," said Charlamagne in 2008. It's not hard to find someone online who thinks that the recent Diddy revelations are proof of his long-hidden homosexuality.

But most of the homophobia in rap wasn't even homophobia at its core, it was basically just the belief that gay = feminine = weak, and thus that gay men could not be taken seriously in any kind of Big Tough Guy competition. Some of it was explicitly homophobia, but lots of it was just misogyny!

This isn't to say that gay women were treated well in rap at the time (they were not!), but there are cases where women thrived in rap despite rumors of being gay, precisely because female gayness was perceived to be masculine while male gayness was perceived to be feminine. The (ultimately true) rumors that Queen Latifah was gay were omnipresent in the late 90s: she played a butch lesbian in a 1996 movie, Foxy Brown loudly accused her of being gay, etc. But she lost virtually zero respect as a result of those rumors (and she still played the Super Bowl around the same time!). I think a big part of the reason for this is because Queen Latifah always presented herself in a relatively masculine way that didn't offend the machismo sensibilities of the genre at the time.

Of course one part of this was less a true acceptance of gay women than it was the belief that the sexuality of gay women in rap could be marketed in the same way that the sexuality of straight women in rap was. Da Brat, who didn't come out as bisexual until long after the peak of her fame in rap, suggested that some people at her record label actually wanted her to come out: "I was always told you want to be fuckable to men and women to sell records— you don’t want anybody to discriminate." There's long been a debate about the extent to which some women in rap are forcibly sexualized by external forces vs. the extent to which some women in rap have chosen to sexualize themselves for feminist/aesthetic/commercial reasons, and I think the fetishization of lesbians and gay women more generally adds another layer to that debate.

The way that no one seems to care about women like Cardi and Megan being bisexual today likely stems in great part from the fact that they are hot, and that being hot and desirable is a deliberate part of their persona. But on the other hand, Doechii demonstrates that bi women with far less sexualized personas are still received warmly in rap today, which is evidence of the seismic shift in how hip-hop treats LGBTQ people over the last 5-10 years. Yet, even today, the butch sensibilities of Young MA fit in with mainstream rap culture far more than the flamboyant sensibilities of Le1f.

IDK I'm just rambling at this point. But I do think someone with more Gender Studies skills than me could formalize this into an interesting paper

[anyataylorjoys]

taylor swift is her own boss she owns her own music production company and even if she was actually working under another company, no one would ever dare cut her loose cause they'd lose too much money in doing so but spinning back to the emphasis on the fact that she works under no one but herself that's how much money, power and influence she has and she hasn't spoken a peep about palestine. she could post a link in her bio on instagram and probably raise close to 2 million dollars in 3 days. I've seen the word "cowardly" thrown around a bunch, maybe she simply doesn't care, maybe she doesn't want the world to know that she does not stand for a ceasefire, maybe she thinks speaking will put her life in jeopardy and her entire PR team has advised her to never speak on it or she'll have to be carried around in a bejeweled bullet proof glass case for the next 5 years but if she's silent out of cowardice then she really must think her life is more important than 30 thousand lives maybe because she has 250m instagram followers. I can't imagine being holed up with my billions of dollars and wielding the kind of impact to generate the seismic activity of a 2.3 earthquake at a seattle concert but never speak on anything that matters. what a complete waste of mass scale influence.

[camerainbow]

✨More HOPECORE for Eddie Diaz✨

Post-Finale - S8 Seismic Shifts Ep. 18 - A Rant

I think some of us forget that Eddie is still generally repressed. Like yes he was able to take control of the Chris situation and stand up to his parents to get him back but that’s not the totality of his emotional repression. (He in a ways had to get permission from his son and Buck to step up to the plate in that situation)

When Chimney made that speech and snatched that phone away in the finale: Eddie probably felt some (newfound) permission to choose his own happiness over the duties he’s made up in his head. I’m seeing some people act like Chimney commanded Eddie return and Eddie felt he had no choice. The moving back logistics not being included on screen in the episode made it seem easy but in reality Eddie made a huge step in choosing happiness/comfort. Fighting for his own life he had built not merely fitting himself in someone else’s (no shade to Chris).

This is a man who re-enlisted himself in the military for his family and almost always prioritizes something over his own comfort (thinking of others first- Ex. Letting Chris leave for El Paso). The speech scene wasn’t as extensive as necessary to properly convey but I think from it Eddie felt like his chosen family was finally telling him he was wanted/needed in their lives (he assumed ~resigned himself to the idea that~ they didn’t need him long term or in person, yes there’s the 8x17 storyline but that’s treated as short term assistance for Buck, not long term).

Him not snapping at Buck choosing to transfer in the early parts of the finale was proof that Eddie doesn’t even have the tools to stop destructive behavior of his loved ones, so why does it feel like some of the fandom assumes he has easy access to those tools for himself? Though he was surprised by what Buck said, he didn’t fight back at Buck in that scene because he understood what Buck was doing. Eddie staying strict to his plan to go back to Texas, even after choosing to be there with his 118 family during the emergency, is him running away from the pain of the changed circumstances of the 118 with Bobby gone (just like Buck, even though for Eddie it is way more convenient). He allowed himself a prolonged stay for his own grief but still thought about his “duty” to create stability for Chris in Texas.

I understand people wanting more Chris and Eddie development (resolution) in season 8 after the whole situation that caused Chris to leave. However I do feel like the addition of the finale montage scene with Chris wanting to go see his friends and asking Eddie was them reminding the audience that Chris had a life in L.A. before he left and similarly to Eddie I think he did not enjoy El Paso for a multitude of reasons (his grandparents probably sucked a lot of the life out of it). Thus Chris was more understanding than a lot of the fandom assumes he would be at a decision of this caliber (moving back) from his dad (think back to earlier s8 with how they show his love for his dad and how he didn’t replace that role in his life with his grandparents like Eddie sorta assumed).

Hence, yes there was some meh writing for the speech scene (concerning Eddie) but I think I can understand how it and the rest of the episode fits for his character. Let’s hope he continues on a trajectory of choosing joy and not feeling burdened.

Going forward, I do assume he still feels burdened by the expectation of replacing Shannon for Chris, but I think he will start to realize that Chris is fine without it (since he is growing up) and that will give him permission to actually realize what he wants over what he thinks he needs. Having that in S9 will help bring more resolution to that whole situation that caused Chris to leave.

In conclusion, Eddie Diaz is trying his best and I think he is on a good path moving forward! :) <3

[murfpersonalblog]

IWTV Musings - BDSM: Loumand, Agency & Abuse

IMO the reason people either blame either Armand or Louis for their failmarriage is cuz A) folks don't understand BDSM (esp. the characters themselves); and B) folks assume victim = weak/blameless (esp. the characters themselves), thinking victims have no agency; victim blaming people who do exert agency to protect themselves.

Despite what he told Daniel, Louis IS a victim of abuse. Armand abused his power over Lou by taking advantage of his trust. Loumand's entire relationship after 1949 was based on Armand's Seismic Lie about "Banishment:" WHO saved Lou's life in the Trial. But Louis is NOT a braindead puppet ventriloquized by Armand--obvs, cuz if he was, NEITHER interview would've never happened at all (1973/2022). Louis has a HUGE amount of agency. Armand WANTS Lou to take charge, so he doesn't HAVE to be the leader making all the decisions anymore. But their Dom/Sub dynamic is nowhere near as cut as cut & dry as people love assuming; cuz vampires are mimics. Loumand mimicked/approximated what they thought was a (healthy) BDSM dynamic; the same way Loustat mimicked/approximated what they thought a (heteronormative) traditional nuclear family dynamic was. BOTH of the couples' mistakes/failures were based on the misconceptions these men had about power & control--who should have it and who shouldn't; and what it means to submit to or dominate one's partner--which neither Loustat nor Loumand were in the right mental state to healthily/properly engage in at all.

BDSM, Consent, & Power Dynamics: Agency vs Abuse

3A: "Almost like" hints to us that although Loumand's relationship is SIMILAR to BDSM, it is NOT in fact BDSM; just a bastardization/mimicry/approximation of it; due to the consequences of unprocessed traumas, unhealthy/toxic projections of gender/power norms, under-negotiated kinks, and dubious consent.

3B: The status quo is that Armand is the dom/master/Maitre apex predator, and Louis is the submissive lower one in the vampiric hierarchy, just like Carol Cutshall said. There's an ironclad power imbalance that neither of them can truly escape, let alone change.

3C: Role "play" is, just like in BDSM, only a SCENE--it's staged, theatre, playing pretend, make-believe; temporary, unreal, a POWER FANTASY. The only REAL "switch" is that Louis becomes a Service Dom/Top; but he gains no TRUE power/authority/control over Armand whatsoever. Daniel called it out for what it is really was "Maitre only when it's hot or convenient," but people keep using JA's EW interview as proof that Lou was abusing helpless Armand; taking at face value the Arun/Maitre in 2x4 & "face-down in the coffin" in 2x6; without ever contextualizing how Armand refused to turn Madz in 2x6 and sold out Louis & his daughters to the coven to be killed in 2x7 in a Trial/PLAY where "everything you're about to see is fake," and then lied about it in 2x8 to keep Lou with him; despite how Armand led Lou to suicide & tortured Daniel out of jealousy in 2x5.

Convos about Louis' agency are a slippery slope, cuz some folks argue that Lou had ALL the agency in Loumand's relationship, to the extent that Louis was the abuser & Armand the victim. It totally misses the point of 2x8 revealing that Armand was the only one in control the entire time, and that Lou's agency/awareness/autonomy was complicated at best. Folk hatefully condemn Lou & say he'd be kicked out of any healthy IRL kink community for being a terrible Dom to Armand (x x), but ignore how Armand would ALSO be kicked out of the same kink community for being a terrible Sub to Louis. They BOTH had toxic red flags that they BOTH ignored & paid for.

Armand's problem is that he associates submissiveness with slavery, and TELLS HIMSELF that he has no say ("Why is it, Louis, those with the most power are often the weakest?; I could not prevent it"). Lou's problem is that he's never had real power, but TELLS HIMSELF that he was "good at running things," when all he's ever "run" is away.

Folks hyper-focus on Armand's backstory in 2x4, and completely miss how Loumand's park scene was kink (under-)negotiation; Louis giving Armand the OPTION to CHOSE whether to give up control of the coven to Santiago and control of his sexual dynamic to Louis.

Armand: The center isn't holding. Mutiny brewing. Everyone doing what they want, when they want.... I'm not sure I can keep obedience any longer. Louis: I used to be real good at running things.... Santiago wants to be coven leader.... Let him feel like he's your heir apparent.... And that's when you can decide if you want it back. Or you want something else. Armand: I want you. I want you more than anything in the world. Louis: You sure about that, Arun? Armand: Yes, Maitre.

Anti-Louis viewers get so PISSED about pimp!Louis bossing Armand around, "I'm a little wet; face down in the coffin," without realizing that in a consensual partnership, Doms give commands & WAIT for the Sub to either comply or flat-out refuse--cuz Subs are supposed to have just as much control & say in the dynamic as Doms.

People keep slinging around "Abuse!" accusations without even understanding wtf abuse entails. In kink, assertiveness, dirty talk, and bossiness can be consensual. No, we don't see/hear this negotiation take place on screen, but we DO see that Armand is given all the time in the world to refuse to take his clothes off & get in the coffin; esp. since he's the most powerful vampire in the entire effing COUNTRY of France (the only one with the Time/Fire Gifts), AND he's also in an office surrounded by 14 vamps who hate Lou's guts & told him they want Lou dead. Y'all honestly think that if Armand felt in any type of danger he wouldn'tve been able to let the whole coven descend on Louis right then & there?! 🤨Louis was on Armand's turf, NOT the other way around; and Armand NEVER expresses any indication that he was ever threatened by Louis Domming him. What we DO see is Armand saying No and Louis not being able to do eff all to FORCE him to do anything Armand explicitly says "repulses" him--Lou can't force hm to Turn Madz in the 1940s; Lou can't force him join his sexcapades in the 1970s. While it's definitely indicative of poor communication & under-negotiated kink, this is NOT evidence that Armand's agency's been taken from him and that he fears for his safety & is unable to deny or leave Lou.

When 2 Subs Collide: Under-Negotiated Kink

Mutual consent is key, cuz Loumand's D/S power dynamic was sorely under-negotiated, a shaky AF agreement neither man was truly comfortable with (all the 2 Bottoms/subs memes) ("you asked me to do it / are you asking me, Maitre?"). Cuz they're BOTH naturally Submissive men whose life circumstances have forced them to become Dominant; to the point where it's hard for them to (feel safe/comfortable enough to) let that control go. As a result, they "fumble each other, impotent lovers" in the books, film, AND show. Canonically, Loumand's just way too incompatible to ever work out, cuz they're NOT what the other wants or needs, despite how hard they genuinely tried to fill e/o's hole void or not.

Anne Rice described book!Loumand as masochist submissives:

For book!Loustat, Lou's "passive nature makes him a perfect submissive. He searches for a way to be dominant in his relationship with Lestat." AMC amplified that by adding the racial component of black!Louis chafing under being white!Lestat's control during Jim Crow, after having had so many other white men take advantage of him & abuse their power over him (the Alderman, Tom, cops, etc). Lou is domesticated during his marriage, then as his depression worsens he becomes unhealthily submissive to the point of disassociating. During the Murder Plot, Lou plays up the submissive role to lull Lestat into a false state of security, distracting Les so that Claudia can get the drop on Les. They're BOTH femme fatales; taking power in their submission ("Because what scientist would look for an organ found only in Black men who use their weakness to rise?").

For book!Armand, you can't fully talk about him without also talking about Lestat & Marius; and how they both shaped/affected/worsened his increasingly psycho-sexual codependent tendencies. "Armand especially wants to be dependent on someone else, to be dominated, and he sets out to force other vampires into that role;" constantly using the Mind Gift & Spell Gift to "rape" Lestat into falling for him, both in 1700s Paris and 1900s NOLA. (We'll have to wait & see what AMC does with Lesmand & Marimand in S3, to see how the cycles of abuse actually play out or not).

AMC's highlighted Armand's religious fanaticism & over-dependence on the Great Laws and the structure of coven life that gave him purpose: serving as Coven Master over the Children of Satan ("I serve a God. It is my honor to serve."). Even his role as Master/leader is couched in his need to still submit to a higher cause--I didn't choose the coven life, the coven life chose me! (Literally, cuz the coven kidnapped Armand & forced him to be their leader after brainwashing him for hundreds of years.) So when Lou arrives in Paris, it's Armand's JOB to either force/recruit Lou into the coven, or kill Lou if he refuses to join. But Armand learned long ago how to weaponize his sexuality, back when he was a human kidnapped & sold into sex slavery; so he "barters with desire" by seducing Lou; catching more flies with honey than vinegar; "I will not harm you."

According to AR, the ambiguity of power imbalances "increases the passion of the relationships;" but AMC flips it so that the ambiguity is what destroys passion. Loumand's relationship isn't loveless--they DO obvs hold genuine affection & attraction for e/o. But the Bed Death in 1973 was cuz their relationship is passionless, despite all the kinky toys all over the penthouse's bedroom. Jacob Anderson said Louis needs "friction;" Loustat challenges e/o, the "spark" Les saw, where Lou still had bite to him, not entirely rolling over & doing everything Les wanted; that's boring & downright pathetic to Les (x x x). Loustat's BOTH brats to e/o, not even necessarily in a kink way.

Armand treats Lou like he's fragile, like he needs to be "hyped up, coddled, lied to;" not out of MALICE, but out of the genuine intent to NOT hurt Lou. But he failed to realize that this is NOT actually what Lou wants. Lou eventually grew bored to death with vanilla AF Armand, the flavorless colorless softest beigest pillow who's just WAY too submissive for Lou--who actually needs/wants a Dom (read: Lestat), even saying Armand acts like a eunuch who forgot he has a working penis (implying how much Lou dislikes topping).

Armand's submissiveness is most obvs in his Service Sub ruse/roleplay as Fake Rashid). But the infamous Cuck Chair is another indicator (x x). Infidelity's a huge theme in S1 (Lou's deeply hurt being cucked by Les constantly cheating on him--another under-negotiated kink since they BOTH hated the open relationship; "I don't like sharing"). But in S2, the roles have switched, where instead Armand is the one constantly being cucked by Louis. The way Armand talks about their Paris sexcapades seems like at first Loumand both enjoyed their open relationship in the 1940s; Louis banging the men & Armand killing the men; Lou's exhibitionism & Armand's voyeurism; where Armand enjoyed & consented to being cucked; it's kink Loumand did together.

By 1973, things have obvs drastically changed. Armand accompanies Lou to gay bars where Lou cruises for men, and Lou outright asks Armand "is it OK with you" when Lou picks men to go home with, and Armand gives Lou permission to "go have your fun" alone. Meanwhile, Armand's BIG MAD, at home "picking lint off the sofa," deeply resenting Lou's sexcapades & having to "clean up the mess" when Lou sloppily kills the men on his own, not caring if he gets caught (he's been increasingly suicidal ever since Claudia died). Armand resents Lou's independence, agency, & autonomy, and outright STOPS Lou from leaving him--he stops Lou from killing himself, and then cuts Lestat off from talking to Lou in the 3-way call ARMAND initiated when Lou said NO; meanwhile guilt-tripping Louis by accusing him of feeling like Armand had trapped him in a "prison of empathy." 🤦Triggered after hearing from Lestat when he wasn't ready to face his former abuser yet, and also shaken after seeing Armand torture Daniel & almost kill him, Lou reasserts "dominance" by re-establishing Loumand's deal/agreement--BEGGING Armand not to kill Dan, just like how he BEGGED Les to Turn Claudia.

But it's a facade, the illusion of power. Lou had no REAL power to MAKE either Lestat/Armand do anything; their relationship at rock bottom. All he CAN do is beg & hope they love him enough to say Yes--and Armand already told him NO b4 w/ Madz. And once again, Armand goes behind Louis' back to Turn Daniel once their deal is officially over; not the least bit scared or bothered by Lou's threat to kill him if he harmed Dan--Armand knows Lou can't do eff all to him.

But they've "switched" AGAIN, cuz allegedly Louis "asked" Armand to mind-wipe Lou's memory of San Fran, and no one but Armand can ever corroborate if that's the truth or not. Going by Lou's horrified reaction in 2x6, it's unlikely that Lou would've ever asked Armand to take that from him if he'd been mentally healthy & LUCID enough to properly consent; lobotomies not being something that should seriously be considered 3 days after an effing suicide attempt. This is what the abuse of power means; taking advantage of a bad situation in the short-term and doing more long-term harm than good.

"I Will Not Harm You"

IWTV is all about abuse, "a sexy pilgrimage across space, time and trauma." Armand has CONSTANTLY tried to contrast himself with Lestat, the villain in Louis' story who abused him & his daughter; making himself seem like the better, safer, more loving option. But that requires dulling his own fangs, to not spook Louis away, or trigger Lou so he lashes out/"acts out," offense as defense. Jacob said Lou needed the side of Armand that was "gentle and sweet and seemingly the opposite of any of the relationships that he’s had so far," cuz the alternative behavior was way too close to abusive Lestat. In SanFran & Dubai, Armand's become as seemingly submissive as possible, to not be compared to that p.o.s. Les; the man of BOTH of their dreams/nightmares/delusions (x x).

But AMC!Lou wants to be dominated too--DEEP down, he wants to submit & be vulnerable & open himself to another man he can trust to not harm him. Lou forgave Les for hurting him in Ep5, even when they both knew Les didn't deserve it ("You took him back!"). HARM is different though ("When I return, you need to be gone!").

For AMC!Loumand, Lou'd already established that they were NOT companions (read: vamp married) in Paris when Santiago asked. Wanting to reclaim his agency from his abusive relationship with Lestat, Louis didn't wanna be tied down in another committed relationship, and he told Armand so over & over ("Everyone's asking, 'What's next, what's next?' Not, 'Where were you?' Or, 'Be careful.' I had enough of that back home. I'm out here finding myself."). He esp. didn't wanna be answerable to Coven Master Armand; another powerful & old AF vampire dominating & controlling him in any way. And rather than doing his effing JOB and killing/banishing the rogue vampires who stubbornly refuse to leave his territory, Armand chooses to let Louis gallivant all over Paris, knowing how much it pisses his coven off to allow Louis that much independence; overcompensating by treating Claudia worse than trash.

AMC gives Santiago a MUCH bigger than in the book; the whole question of who exactly is the REAL "Maitre" in Paris wrapped up in Santiago's coup & Loumand's BDSM deal in 2x04. But the anti-Louis side of the fandom still blames Lou for domming Armand, calling him a dirty disgusting pimp taking advantage of Armand trauma-dumping his backstory as a sex slave 300 years ago to diffuse Lou's anger scolding him for abusing & pimping out Claudia as Baby LouLou just to exert & maintain his dominance as Coven Master.

Louis: It's not the art, the apology. Flex your power one night and follow it with grand groveling the next. Vintage Lioncourt. Armand: I don't enjoy using my powers like that, Louis. Louis: Seemed like you did. Armand: That was for coven discipline, for the situation.

Louis had sex with Armand in 2x3 to protect CLAUDIA from the coven he's scared will hurt her. Loumand's relationship was always transactional; also why Lou insisted that they weren't companions.

Louis: I didn't like seeing Claudia made a puppet. Armand: I treated her as a member of my coven. Louis: I don't like you parading her around in that baby doll dress either. And if I may say, it all makes you look weak. Armand: I'm not Lestat, Louis.

Although Santiago & Louis are both called Maitre after 2x4, the only one who actually held REAL power was Armand, which he kept for 77 years, all the way till Daniel exposed him in 2x8. Armand gets frustrated with Lou every time he has to step in and "clean up the mess" (1973); taking charge AGAIN whenever Lou "acts out" (2022); and forgets what they agreed about their "proper roles; we had it figured out, didn't we?" (circa 1947); going behind Lou's back to help plan Lou & Claudeleine's deaths ("They gave me a choice; I chose.").

TL;DR: Accountability

So yes, Louis definitely has more agency than some would assume when labeling him as a victim of abuse. Not all victims are mindless vegetables or punching bags that sit back & just get dishragged, never fighting back or speaking up--let alone never contributing to their own demise. Louis actively participated in Loumand's effed up power dynamic with his own brand of toxicity & pisspoor communication & negotiations.

But let's not pretend that Louis has MORE agency & power than Armand (let alone Lestat). That's when I start looking sideways at people rushing to Armand (& Lestat's) defense, when the convo starts leaning too far into territory that minimizes or outright denies the FACT that Louis' mind & memories were actually tampered with by Armand WITHOUT his consent AT LEAST ONCE, and that Armand actually lied to Louis' face on multiple occasions with seismic consequences that dominoed into everything that happened in San Fran & Dubai, had Armand been honest about "Banishment" & explained the situation when Louis asked him point blank "When did you start lying to me?" Boohoo, mean Louis cussed Armand TF out in SanFran & called him a boring eunuch? Welp, that's what happens when you're not honest about wanting your lover and his kids dead.

[followyourfleart]

ᴄʟᴀᴜsᴇ 𝟿: ᴄᴏɴғɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟ ᴄᴏɴᴠᴇʀsᴀᴛɪᴏɴs

Word Count: 13.4 k

Pervious/Next

Once in a blue moon, you try something new.

Not out of curiosity, but because inertia felt worse.

Sometimes, it was harmless—switching your usual coffee order, forgoing your signature bitterness-for-breakfast sludge for something marginally more hopeful. A latte. Oat milk. A reckless drizzle of honey.

It never stuck. But you did it anyway. Small rebellions against routine.

Other times, the change was seismic. Saying yes to a job you didn’t feel like you deserved. Moving to Austin. Trusting the gnawing in your gut was just hunger and not a warning.

Today, it was tomatoes.

You were not a gardener. You’d never claimed to be. Every green thing that crossed your path seemed destined for a poetic death. But Maria had insisted—said it would be grounding. Said it with the same energy someone might recommend hot yoga.

You hadn’t asked whether she meant it kindly or clinically. Maybe both.

She noticed your nerves frayed, your steps twitchy, your shoulders tight. It felt like Michelle might spring out from the shadows wielding a pen.

Still, you brought the starter kit home: clay pots, seed packets, overpriced soil mix, and a laminated instruction card featuring an aggressively cheerful sun that seemed to mock you personally. Though, it did little to hide the fact that Michelle’s voice had taken up permanent residence in your skull.

You don’t have much time left.

It was cruel. She knew in every fiber of her being that you were considering the deal. It rubbed you in the wrong on how sure she had been. 

The file she left behind sat exactly where she said it would—your nightstand. Thick. Unforgiving. Vibrating with a heartbeat only you could feel.

You had read it once. Then again. Then again. Until the ink began to swim. Until the words bled together like watercolor in a storm.

Somewhere around the fifth read, you caught yourself muttering, “Hell of a lawyer,” like it was a psalm. Because Timothy—cold, brilliant Timothy—had carved out a paper that felt less like a document and more like a life raft.

And now it was Thursday.

The sun was out, the light not cruel yet, but just steady. The kind of golden Texas warmth that curled around your bones like an old hound settling in for a nap. The cicadas screamed on cue, wild and mechanical.

And you, God help you, were elbow-deep in soil, having a spiritual crisis over horticulture.

Your tattoo was still scabbing under its gauze and itched like fury. But the pain was proof of healing. And it felt good, finally, to sleep on your favorite side again.

“You’re supposed to be thriving,” you snapped at the tomato sprouts. “You’ve got premium soil. Sunlight. Attention. What more do you want? My soul?”

They remained unmoved.

“You yellin’ at plants again?” your dad called from the porch.

“I wasn’t yelling,” you huffed. “I was offering them encouragement.”

“Sure,” he chuckled, gravel in his voice. “Sounds like a breakdown with extra steps.”

You glanced up. There he was, leaning against the porch rail, coffee in hand. His mug, Raymond’s old one, worn smooth at the handle. The M was fading like a memory.

“You gonna help me or just spectate my failures?”

He didn’t look up right away, just leaned his weight against the porch post, arms crossed, coffee cup in one hand like he’d been born with it. “Last time I helped, you accused me of concussin’ the dirt.”

“Because you did.”

He grinned. One of those lazy, infuriating ones that made you want to either throw something or smile like a child. “Bossy. Just like your mama.”

That one landed. The air shifted. Like someone had sucked the warmth out of the afternoon. The cicadas even seemed quieter. You bent back toward the soil, fingers moving slower now, careful. “She ever get tomatoes to grow?” you asked, voice low.

He paused for a moment. Maybe remembering. Maybe pretending to. “Once. One summer. Swore a little sugar in the soil made ’em sweeter.”

You tried to picture her, kneeling in a garden years before you existed. Different backyard. Same stubborn Eartth. That image came slow, like a Polaroid backwards. More ghost than memory. All you really had were other people’s stories to show this untainted version of your mom.

“Maybe that’s what I’m missing,” you said, brushing soil from your palm. 

“Sugar or patience?”

“Both.”

He took a long sip from his mug, studying you over the rim. Your dad looked at you for a long time, before speaking again. “You ever goin’ to read that file?”

Your head jerked up like someone had slapped the back of your neck. “When did  you even—how do you know about that?”

He tilted his head and gave the porch a pointed glance, like a cleaning crew might leap out from the bushes at any second. “I’m the one who vacuums, remember? You used to hide things better. Gettin’ sloppy.”

Your stomach tightened.

“Did you read it?” you asked, barely louder than the rustling laundry on the line.

“No,” he said, softer now. “Figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”

You exhaled like your lungs had been strangled for hours. It wasn’t just relief—it was fear too. At least you had some time to think to yourself.

“Would’ve been a hell of a betrayal,” you muttered, yanking a weed from beside your most hopeless plant. It came up easy, roots too shallow. Like it never tried to grow at all.

“I ain’t nosy,” he said, settling into the creaky porch chair beside the door. “Just observant.”

“Same thing.”

“Don’t insult me. I’m observant with flair.”

You smiled, weakly. The cicadas picked up again. The breeze shifted the sheets on the line. Somewhere above, a squirrel misjudged its leap and thudded gracelessly to the ground. You both winced at the sound.

Then, quieter.

“So… you gonna tell me what’s in it?”

“Not yet.”

“All right.”

That was the thing about your dad. He didn’t press. Just stayed in the silence long enough for it to spill open. A presence, not a pressure. He was good at that. Always had been. Letting things stretch out until the truth got too heavy to carry alone.

You stood, dusting your knees. “I think the plants hate me.”

“They don’t hate you,” he said, leaning back, eyes half-lidded like he could fall asleep in the sun. “They’re just toddlers.”

“So... like you.”

He smirked, the corner of his mouth tugging up with familiar ease. “Exactly like me.”

But then—something changed. Not dramatically. Just enough to notice if you were really looking. His eyes didn’t crinkle the way they usually did when he smiled. His gaze drifted, no longer pinned to yours but somewhere just past your shoulder, like he was suddenly far away.

It wasn’t silence exactly. It was a pause thick with something heavier—like the room had inhaled and forgotten how to let go. A tension that didn’t belong there, not in the middle of a joke. Like the words he’d said had snuck up on him too.

The smile faded, slow and reluctant, like it didn’t want to go but knew it couldn’t stay. His jaw tightened—not clenched, but settled, like he was chewing on something he didn’t want to swallow.

“You got something to say?” you asked, not unkindly. Just sharp enough to cut through the silence.

He blinked once. Twice. Then met your eyes again—but it wasn’t the same look. It was guarded now. Measured. Like he was deciding whether to keep the truth in or let it crawl out.

He then waved a hand, dismissive. “Don’t want to worry you.”

“Well now I am worried.”

Cornered, he exhaled hard through his nose. A tell. “It’s nothing big. I’m just… headin’ out tomorrow.”

Your brows lifted slowly. “What? Where?”

“Seattle,” he said, eyes scanning the yard like he was searching for a softer version of the truth. “Danny—old buddy from the service—passed. Heart attack. I’m going to help his wife sort things out.”

For a second, the breeze picked up, rustling the leaves. A bird called somewhere out of sight, sharp and quick. It felt like the world was still moving too fast for the moment to settle.

“Oh... Dad. I’m so sorry.”

He nodded. Just once. Small and stiff, like it hurt his neck to do it. But it wasn’t the kind of nod people give when they’re still in the middle of grief. No—this one was practiced. Worn. Like he’d already done the mourning in private, away from the eyes of anyone who might try to soften it. Like he’d already folded that grief into something manageable and tucked it up high, on a shelf he didn’t intend to reach for again.

“How long?”

“Couple weeks. Maybe more. Depends on what she needs.”

You nodded, but your chest pulled tight. You tried to picture the house without him in it. The quiet would be louder. The porch would feel lopsided, like it might lean a little without his boots planted on the top step. No creak of the floorboards under his weight. No low hum of his voice as he talked to himself while sorting through tools in the shed.

“You sure you’re up for that drive?” you asked, searching his face.

“I’m gonna pick up Raymond. We’ll trade off,” he said, brushing a thumb along the rim of his mug. “Don’t worry—I’ve got more miles in me than I let on.”

You studied him then. Really studied him. Like a photo you might lose soon. The kind you keep in a drawer and refuse to scan, because pixels can't carry memory the same way paper does.

The laugh lines that had deepened. The crow’s feet that time had carved in quiet moments. The exhaustion he thought he could hide with caffeine and wisecracks—camouflaged, but not invisible.

You’d seen this look before.

Not often—maybe only once or twice in your whole life—but it was unmistakable. A kind of hollowing-out behind the eyes. A stillness that didn’t come from peace, but from sheer effort. Like holding himself together required every ounce of energy he had.

It was a long time ago. Another funeral. Another folded flag. You didn’t even really understand it back then—not the way you do now. You were just a kid, fidgeting in a too-stiff outfit, watching adults cry around you in waves. Everyone was crying. Everyone.

Even Raymond couldn’t stay long. He ducked out halfway through the service, his shoulders hunched like the grief was a weight he couldn’t carry.

But not your dad.

He never cried. Never spoke. Just sat, still and unreachable. Through the service, and after. Through the reception, through the ride home, through dinner that he didn’t eat.

But that night—you remember it clearer than anything—he came into your room after the lights were out. Sat on the edge of your bed like he wasn’t even sure why he was there. He didn’t say a word. Just stared straight ahead at the far wall, like if he looked long enough, it might collapse and take him with it. You’d watched him from the half-shadow of your blankets, too young to ask what was wrong. Too young to know the answer would’ve been too heavy anyway.

And now… that same stillness had crept into him again.

It settled in the lines around his mouth, in the way his shoulders didn’t quite rise all the way when he breathed. Quiet, cold, and familiar. Like something inside him had shut down for repairs. Like he was trying to survive the ache by locking it in place, before it could get loose and undo him completely.

That same stillness had crept into him again. Quiet, cold, and familiar.

“You okay?” you asked, softly now. A question you already knew the answer to.

“I’m as okay as a man can be when his friends start fallin’ like autumn leaves,” he said. Voice low. Measured.

There it was. A sliver of truth. Sharp enough to bleed.

You didn’t know what to say. There wasn’t a fix. No clever line. So you offered the only thing you could. The simplest gesture. The oldest comfort.

“You want me to pack you snacks?”

That earned a real laugh. Warm and worn. “Yeah. Get me those orange-wrapped peanut butter crackers. The ones you used to sneak into my lunchbox.”

You smiled, small. “You always pretended you didn’t notice.”

“I always pretended a lot of things.”

Even in humor, the tension lingered. Like a second shadow. Always just behind the light.

You glanced back at the tomato plants. At a leaf that had curled in on itself like it had decided not to bother anymore. Like something in it had given up before it ever had a chance to bloom.

“Well,” you said softly, voice thinner than you meant it to be, “I’ll miss you. Aspen will too.”

A warm chuckle rumbled from his chest—the kind that made you feel ten again for just a second. “I’ll miss my baby.”

You squinted at him. “Who, me or the dog?”

He didn’t answer. Just smirked, all slow and smug, sipping the last of his coffee like it was some kind of victory.

“Oh, okay,” you muttered, scooping a handful of loose dirt from the planter beside you. “Cool. Prioritize the dog. That’s fine. Totally fine.”

You lobbed the clump at his boots with zero remorse. It hit his ankle and puffed into a soft explosion of dust.

“Watch it,” he said, eyeing the splatter with mock offense, “Or I’m revokin’ snacks.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” you shot back. “You’re addicted to those crackers.”

He raised one eyebrow in that slow, infuriating way he always had. “I’m dependent on very few things. Crackers and the dog just happen to be two of them.”

“You forget beer.”

“That’s medicinal,” he said, deadpan.

He stood with a quiet grunt, brushing soil and grass off his jeans. Then his gaze drifted toward the sky, far beyond the roofs, past the birds flying, past where the clouds stretched out their arms. He looked at it like it owed him something. Or like it had already taken too much.

You knew that stare. The one he used when he was preparing to leave. Not just physically—but mentally, emotionally. Like he was already half-packed on the inside.

Aspen trotted over from under the porch, tail wagging with cautious excitement. She flopped dramatically at his feet like she understood the weight of goodbyes and wanted to pin him to the ground. He reached down, scratched behind her ears, and she sighed like a toddler who’d been told ‘no’ for the third time.

“You takin’ the truck?” you asked, even though you already knew the answer.

He nodded once. “Won’t get far without her.”

You blinked. Slowly. The math started adding up in your head—and you didn’t like the sum.

“Wait. Hold on.” You stood, brushing off your hands. “How am I supposed to get to work?”

He tilted his head. “That’s your question? Not ‘Drive safe,’ not ‘Be careful,’ not ‘Sorry for your loss, old buddy Danny’—but ‘what about my ride’?”

“I already said I was sorry about Danny,” you backtracked, then softened. “I just... didn’t realize you were taking my truck.”

He grinned, which only made you more annoyed. “Your truck?”

“You gave it to me!”

“I let you use it.”

“Oh, so we’re splitting hairs now.”

He shrugged like the topic bored him, but you could see the twitch of amusement in his jaw. “Truck’s registered in my name. Keys still got my bottle opener on ’em.”

“You are so manipulative.”

“I’m resourceful.”

You crossed your arms, glancing toward the house like a second truck might materialize in the front just to save you the trouble. “So what am I supposed to do? Hitch a ride with the front lady? She’d probably play games while driving.”

“You could bike.”

“I live eight miles from the office.”

“Cardio builds character.”

You stared at him. Flat. Blank. Like maybe if you didn’t blink, he’d hear how ridiculous he sounded.

“You say that like your knees wouldn’t explode halfway down road.”

“Good thing it’s your cardio, not mine,” he said, sipping his coffee like that settled it.

You rubbed your temples, already dreading the logistics. “Okay. Let’s think this through. Tommy—no. He gets there at the crack of dawn and leaves right after lunch. I’d be stranded.”

“Could ask him to wait.”

You snorted. “He’s got a pregnant wife and a three year old at home. I’m basically asking to be put on Maria’s shit list.”

He chuckled into his mug. “Fair.”

You ticked another name off in your head. “Maria’s out. She’s pregnant. She’s got her own whole schedule, half of which involves arguing.”

He raised his brows like he respected that. “Smart woman.”

“Exactly. Which leaves...” You trailed off. A feeling began creeping in. Somewhere between realization and doom. “No.”

“What?”

“I’ll bike.”

He leaned on one knee, setting his cup down. “You didn’t even say it.”

“I don’t have to. There’s only one person left.”

He looked at you like you were being dramatic, which, to be fair, you kind of were, but still. This was serious.

“What’s the big deal?” he asked, brushing dirt off his hands. “You two haven’t been at each other’s throats in like, a week? And if I remember correctly, he even dropped you off that one time I forgot to pick you up.”

You whipped your head toward him. “Are you really bringing that up?”

He raised both palms, feigning innocence. “What? He was just pickin’ somethin’ up for Tommy.”

“And I almost died from a heart attack,” you snapped. “You know how scary it is when you’re alone, working in the middle of the night, and you hear a man shuffling around in the dark?”

“I thought he knocked.”

“He did not. He moved in silence. I didn’t even register it was him until after I screamed and almost shot him with my heel.”

Your dad chuckled, not even trying to hide it now. “He told me you screamed like a goat.”

“I did not.”

“He said you made a sound that could peel paint off a truck.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do you wanna get smacked with a trowel? Because I have one.”

He held up his hands like a shield. “All I’m sayin’ is, Joel’s not that bad.”

“Compared to what, a rabid coyote?”

“He’s dependable.”

“So is the IRS. Doesn’t mean I want them picking me up for work.”

He snorted.

You huffed, brushing dirt from your knees again as you stood. The idea of it—of sitting in that truck, morning after morning, trying to make small talk or worse, sitting in loaded silence—made something clench low in your stomach. Not fear. Not dread, exactly. No it was just... anticipation.

“He’ll say no anyway,” you muttered, not looking at your dad.

“No, he won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, actually.”

You placed your hands on your hips, squinting at him like he’d sprouted another head. “And how do you know that? Huh?”

He leaned back slightly, hands spread like he was laying out a case in court. “Because I saw that kid grow up. Sugar Cubes, you had one wonderful dad; me and—”

“Debatable,” you interjected, tilting your head with a smirk.

He gave you a side-eye but kept going. “—Raymond, who was ‘Uncle Ray’ for a couple solid years.”

“Oh my god,” you groaned, covering your face with your hands. “I forgot I used to call him that.”

“Yeah, well, he didn’t. Man teared up the first time you started callin’ him ‘Raymond’ instead. Said it was allergies. Middle of December.” He chuckled softly, then shook his head like the memory still got to him.

You tried not to smile, but it pulled at your mouth anyway.

“And Joel,” he went on, voice softening with something like reverence, “Joel was your glorified babysitter with no pay. Took care of you and Tommy when neither Lorraine, me, or Raymond could swing it.”

“Oh please,” you said, rolling your eyes. “He let me eat cereal for dinner and taught Tommy how to light a fire with bug spray.”

“Creative problem-solvin’,” your dad offered, completely serious. “Man’s a pioneer.”

You snorted. “He also let me cut my own bangs with kitchen scissors, and had that smug smirk on his face the entire time.”

“And you learned a valuable lesson about consequences.”

“You took a picture!”

He grinned like he’d been waiting for you to bring that up for years. “Still got it. It’s on my nightstand”

You groaned and shoved at his boot with your foot. “You're the worst.”

“Sure,” he said, sipping the last of his coffee, “But I’m not wrong. Point is—Joel’s been showin’ up since before you even realized people could.”

The words hit softly, but they landed with weight. You looked down, brushing dirt from your fingers even though most of it had already flaked off. The sun warmed the top of your head, birds chirped somewhere off by the fence line, and Aspen gave a dramatic sigh at your feet like the emotional arc of the conversation had exhausted her.

You didn’t mean to smile, but it pulled at your mouth anyway—crooked, reluctant, and familiar.

“You think he’d really say yes?” you asked after a beat, voice lower than before. Less teasing. Like maybe you were afraid of the answer.

Your dad tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Sugar Cubes, he was sayin’ yes to you for nineteen years.”

You frowned. “That doesn’t mean he’ll say yes now. He’s grumpy. Worse than he used to be.”

“He’s tired. There’s a difference. And you ever notice he’s only grumpy with you?”

You looked up sharply. “Excuse me?”

Your dad just shrugged like the words meant nothing—like he hadn’t just lobbed a grenade into your brain and walked away from the smoke. He stood up with a groan, dusted off his jeans, and stretched his back with a wince.

“I’m just sayin’. He’s not the same with everyone else. Doesn’t get snippy with Maria or Tommy.”

You frowned as you stood, brushing grass and dirt from the backs of your thighs. “That’s his brother and wife. So what are you saying? He saves that charming little attitude just for me?”

Your dad opened the screen door and held it for you with a shit-eating grin. “Just means you bring out somethin’ special in him, Sugar Cubes.”

“Oh my god,” you muttered, walking past him, Aspen trotting at your heels. “Stop talking forever.”

“She gets mad when I’m right,” your dad called to Aspen as he followed you in, letting the screen door creak shut behind him.

You barely had time to sigh before the doorbell rang.

You and your dad exchanged a look.

“Expectin’ someone?” he asked.

“Do I look like I have a social life?”

He smirked and gestured toward the front door. “You get it. I’m officially off-duty.”

You walked up to the door and pulled it open, already planning to throw something sarcastic at whoever it was—until you saw Maria on the porch with little Kevin clinging to her hip, his curls a little messy and his cheeks flushed like he’d been running around.

“Oh,” you said, blinking. “Hi?”

Maria looked… stressed. Not her usual, composed, run-the-world-and-look-good-doing-it kind of stressed. This was the real kind—jaw tight, eyes sharp, but tired. 

She had on her full Assistant District Attorney getup: blazer, slacks, low heels, a thin gold watch, and her badge clipped to her belt in that way that screamed ‘I shouldn’t be interrupted, but I will be anyway’. She still managed to look better than you ever could on your best day.

“Hey,” she said, already shifting Kevin higher on her hip like she’d been carrying him for miles. “I’m so sorry to barge in, but—work emergency. One of the teams came back early with some kind of personnel conflict, and I’ve got to go sort it out before it explodes.”

You glanced down at Kevin. He blinked up at you, wide brown eyes and chubby cheeks, a little sweat dotting his temple.

“Tommy’s out?” you asked, already half-knowing the answer.

Maria huffed, nodding quickly. “Yeah. Left this morning for that supply reroute near the canyon—something about a busted ATV and rerouting teams before the next storm hits.”

“Oh—right. He told me about that earlier today at the office.” You adjusted your grip on the doorframe as Kevin shifted on her hip. “Said it’d be a quick turnaround.”

“Quick turnaround, my ass,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, look, I know this is totally last minute, and I hate to ask—really, I do—but can you or your dad watch Kevin? Just for a few hours?”

Her voice went lower as she glanced down at her son, who was now pressing his nose against her shoulder, probably bored or tired.

Your eyes softened.

“Of course,” you said, holding your arms out automatically. “Gimme the baby.”

“Oh, thank God,” she whispered, already shifting Kevin toward you. “His bag’s right here—snacks, wipes, juice, spare pants, extra diapers if he needs them, which he probably won’t but still, and a plastic frog that won’t shut up. He knows how to work you, by the way. Be on alert.”

Kevin latched onto you without protest, his little arms wrapping around your neck like a sleepy sloth. His cheek pressed to your shoulder with a quiet hmph, like he’d finally found a good enough pillow.

“He asks for candy?” Maria continued. “Lie. He already had some. Don’t fall for the pout.”

“Heard,” you said with a nod. “Zero tolerance policy for pout-based manipulation.”

Maria gave you a quick, grateful look and was already halfway back down the porch before you could say anything else.

“Text me if anything explodes—or if he tries to launch himself off the counter again. Thanks again. Seriously/ I owe you so much.”

And then she was gone, clicking down the sidewalk in her heels like she had ten fires to put out and one extinguisher between them.

The door shut behind you with a soft click. From the kitchen, your dad called out, “That Maria?”

“Yep.”

“She leave the Kev-nado?”

“Yes.”

“You stuck?”

“Yup.”

There was a pause.

“You need backup?”

You glanced at Kevin, who lifted his head and smiled at you with the innocent look of someone who would definitely try to flush something important down the toilet in the next hour.

You exhaled. “I think I’ll manage. For now.”

“If you’ll manage, you should probably text Joel about those rides. You’re going to work for sure tomorrow, right?” your dad called over the clinking of dishes in the sink.

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” you muttered. With some careful maneuvering—one arm keeping Kevin balanced on your hip—you dropped Maria’s bag on the couch and fished your phone out of your back pocket.

“Phone!” Kevin squealed, immediately lunging for it like he’d just spotted treasure.

You yanked it just out of reach, laughing under your breath. “Sorry, buddy. I don’t have anything interesting on there.”

Kevin looked genuinely offended, brow furrowing as he pouted like you’d insulted his honor.

You tapped the screen and pulled up Joel’s name. You paused for half a second—then hit the call button. The line rang once. Twice.

Then:

“Yeah?”

Deadpan. Drawl. Bone-dry, like he’d been doing something entirely unimportant and resented being interrupted anyway.

“Hey,” you said, shifting Kevin higher on your hip. “You busy?”

“Not really. Just tryin’ to replace the damn filter in the water pump.” A pause. “Pretty sure I’m losin’.”

You smiled, pacing toward the hallway. “Sounds like a noble battle.”

“Nah. Just a stupid one.” You could hear the rustle of him moving something heavy in the background. Then, more plainly says “Everythin’ alright?”

“Yeah, yeah—it’s nothing bad. Just… I was wondering if you’d be cool giving me a ride to the office for the next couple weeks? My dad’s heading out for a funeral, and, well—options are limited.”

There was a pause. Not a long one. Just long enough for you to brace yourself.

“Course,” he said finally. “That’s no problem.”

You blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Why’d you sound surprised?”

“I dunno, I thought you’d at least groan about it a little before saying yes.”

“Didn’t say I wouldn’t eventually groan about it.”

You snorted. “Fair.”

There was a small lull—then Joel added, quieter now, “Sorry to hear about your dad’s thing.”

“Oh. Thanks—yeah, it’s, uh… His buddy from the army. Longtime friend. I’ll pass that on to him.”

“Do. And tell him I’ll keep an eye on you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he deadpanned, before hanging up with a soft click.

You stared at your phone for a second, lips twitching.

Kevin stared up at you, eyes wide. “Was that Uncle  Jo-el?” he asked, like he was invoking a mythical figure.

“Yeah, that was Uncle Jo-el,” you said, adjusting him on your hip. “And guess what? He’s gonna be my ride for the next couple weeks.”

Kevin nodded solemnly, like this information meant something important. “Uncle Jo-el has a truck.”

“Yeah, he does.”

“Truck goes vroooom.”

“Excellent insight,” you said. “You should be a mechanic.”

Kevin beamed, clearly pleased. Then he burped. Loudly.

“Charming,” you muttered, and made your way back toward the kitchen—your phone still warm in your hand, Joel’s voice echoing faintly in the back of your mind.

Kevin nearly launched out of your arms the second he spotted your dad. He squealed so loud you flinched, bracing instinctively, sure Aspen was about to erupt into barks.

Your dad turned at the sound, shaking his hands free of soap and water. “Oh, there goes my Kev-boy!” he grinned. “C’mere, you little rascal—”

Kevin practically dove toward him, arms out like a dramatic movie scene. Your dad caught him with ease and spun him around in a wide arc. Kevin’s giggles bounced off the kitchen walls like rubber balls.

“Hey! Watch the corners,” you warned as your dad spun him again. “You just patched that, remember?”

“Ah, he’s light as a feather,” your dad said, cradling Kevin like he weighed nothing. “A chaotic, chubby feather.”

Kevin puffed out his cheeks in protest. “I’m not chubby!”

“Just sturdy then,” your dad corrected diplomatically. “Like a lil’ tank.”

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching them fondly. “He’s already burned through half the toddler energy reserves and it’s barely noon.”

“He’s got a second wind hidden somewhere,” your dad replied, plopping Kevin into one of the kitchen chairs. “Mark my words. This one’ll find it right before bedtime.”

Kevin blinked innocently. “Can I have a cookie?”

“Nope,” you said, already heading for the fridge. “Nice try, though.”

Your dad chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “You talk to Joel?”

“Yeah,” you said, opening the fridge and grabbing a juice box. “He said he’d do it. No complaints. Which is suspicious.”

Your dad gave a low hum. “Told you I was right.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out. “Oh, please.”

“Always right!” Kevin raised his arms in the arm, and you had to bite your cheek to stop yourself from grinning like an idiot. It would only encourage your dad who put him on the ground.

“Oh really? Now I have a veteran, a puppy, and the cutest little boy against me? How will I ever survive?” You raise your hand to your head, mock-fainting.

Your dad snorted as he wiped his hands on a dish towel. “You’ll survive the way you always do—dramatic monologues and sheer stubbornness.”

Kevin gasped like your dad just insulted royalty. “She’s not stubborn! She’s awesome!”

You dropped your hand and looked at him, grinning. “Kevin, you are dangerously close to becoming my favorite person alive.”

“Ha!” your dad barked. “Enjoy it while it lasts, kid. Give it five minutes—she’ll be dragging you into a costume for movie fort and making you say thank you in French.”

Kevin’s eyes lit up. “Costume?!”

You raised an eyebrow. “Would that be a yes to becoming Sir Kevin the Juice Knight?”

He straightened like a soldier. “Yes, ma’am!”

“Atta boy.” You ruffled his curls and opened a drawer looking for supplies. “Now, where’s the sword made of a thousand souls…”

As you rummaged, your dad leaned against the counter with a fond, exasperated smile. “You know, you’d be a good mom.”

You froze for a second, hand still half-buried under a feather boa and a plastic tiara.

“Jesus, Dad,” you muttered, pulling the sunglasses out and handing them to Kevin, who gasped with reverence. “Just slip that in there between the sunglasses and juice boxes, why don’t you?”

He shrugged. “Not saying you need to rush it. Just sayin’—look at you. Forts, crowns, and defending your honor with dramatic gasps. Kid’s smitten.”

“I’ll stick to babysitting, thanks Dad.”

He chuckled, leaning on the counter like he had all the time in the world to press your buttons. “Sure, sure. That’s how it starts. Then next thing you know, you’ve got one of your own turning the living room into a dragon lair and demanding mac and cheese at swordpoint.”

You tossed a crumpled blanket in his direction. “Gross. Who said anything about dragons? It’s a unicorn forest.”

Kevin, mid-cushion stack, perked up. “Unicorns?!”

“Magical ones,” you confirmed solemnly, crouching down to help him build a wall. “Only found in the kingdom of Jackson. Protected by the brave and sticky.”

He giggled like it was the best thing he’d ever heard and immediately began assigning roles—your dad was now the Royal Guard, Aspen was the Sacred Beast of the Forest, and you were, inexplicably, the ‘Big Unicorn Queen.’

“Wow,” you said, snorting as you fixed the boa on Kevin’s shoulders. “Didn’t even get a vote on the title, huh?”

Kevin shook his head. “Queens don’t vote. They just rule.”

“Solid logic,” your dad called out from the kitchen. “Watch out—next he’s gonna unionize the stuffed animals.”

You turned to shoot him a look. “I will not negotiate with the bears again. Not after last time.”

Kevin’s eyes widened. “The Great Teddy Rebellion!”

Your dad laughed so hard he had to set down the dishrag. “I rest my case.”

You settled down in the half-formed fort, Kevin at your side as he carefully arranged plush knights along the pillow battlements. You couldn’t help it—you smiled, something small and warm curling at the edge of your chest.

“You make this too easy Kevin,” you muttered, mostly to yourself.

Kevin handed you a juice box like it was a goblet of royal wine, and Aspen let out a low wuff from her post at the couch base—her tail giving a lazy thump against the floor.

While he and Aspen rolled around in a tangle of giggles and fur, you snagged your phone and snapped a quick picture. Kevin’s smile was toothy and wild, Aspen’s paws kicked up mid-roll, and in the background, your dad was pretending not to beam like a fool. It was adorable. Warm.

Without overthinking it, you sent the picture off to Tommy and Maria. It would bring them comfort knowing their kid isn’t ruining your home.

The responses came fast.

[TOMMY]: I’m gonna get a heart attack if you send more pictures like that.

[YOU]: Good to know.

[YOU]: I’ll make sure to have a couple more ready in case I want you gone :)

You grinned as you hit send, the satisfaction settling warm in your chest. A second later, your dad slumped down onto the couch beside you with a familiar old man grunt, letting his shoulders sink into the cushions.

“Ah,” he sighed, eyeing your screen. “Nice to see you and Tommy still talkin’ like you used to.”

You raised a brow, flicking your phone screen off. “Why wouldn’t we?”

He shrugged one shoulder, fingers tugging slightly at the fabric of his jeans like he was working out how honest to be. “It’s just… been a while. That’s all.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes slid toward the living room floor, where Kevin was trying to coax Aspen into crawling underneath a blanket fort made of couch cushions, a fleece throw, and your decorative pillows. She looked like she was deeply regretting her loyalty to this family.

“It’s only been…” You started, then trailed off.

You’d meant to say thirteen years. But saying it out loud made your chest ache. Because that was a long time. And it had gone fast. So fast it left gaps—holes between years where your job had swallowed you whole and spit you back out without much to show for it except a decent résumé and a worn-down edge.

You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, eyes still on Kevin.

Tommy’s kid.

Not by blood, sure. But love didn’t care about blood. It was in the way Kevin’s curls looked just like his when they got too long. In the way he scrunched up his nose before smiling. In how quickly he trusted, how fast he gave affection. That was all Tommy.

And it hit you. How much you’d missed by throwing yourself headfirst into survival and ambition and adulthood. Somewhere along the way, you’d stopped checking in as much. Stopped showing up.

“Sorry, Sugar Cubes,” your dad said gently, stepping behind you. His thumb found the back of your shoulder, rubbed a slow circle there like he used to when you were a kid and couldn’t sleep. “Didn’t mean to make you start thinkin’ too hard.”

You blinked once, then twice, grounding yourself in his presence. His warmth.

“No, no—you’re good,” you muttered. “I just don’t… I don’t think about that much.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Doesn’t mean it ain’t there, though.”

You nodded faintly, eyes drifting back to Kevin, who had now managed to convince Aspen to wear a blanket like a cape. She looked less thrilled about it than he did, but she stayed still, patient.

A loyal knight to his tiny king.

❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜

October 12th, 1999

“I’m going to say this once, and only once—if I don’t see those goddamn reports on my desk in the next ten minutes, someone’s getting launched out a sixth-story window.”

The bullpen froze.

Phones stopped mid-ring. Keyboards went silent. A stapler clattered to the floor and no one dared pick it up.

You stood at the helm like a commander surveying the troops, arms crossed, your expression carved from Manhattan granite. Your heels—Italian leather, unapologetically sharp—clicked across the marble floor as you turned on your heel, back toward your office like a closing statement. You didn’t shout twice. You didn’t need to.

They’d heard you.

They always did.

But today wasn’t just about making an impact. Today was about making a goddamn deadline.

You didn’t leave your office at 8:52 AM because you were bored. You didn’t storm the floor because you felt dramatic. You did it because by 9:00 AM, the quarterly report for the Atwood campaign was supposed to be printed, bound, and color-coded on your desk in a clean, precise stack. Not sitting in some junior executive’s inbox under a ‘Sorry! Ran out of time :)’ subject line.

Your team had one job. Your job was a battlefield of shifting deadlines, last-minute exec calls, and clients who threw tantrums over the wrong shade of blue. You handled it all—every chaotic fire—with the kind of composure that made investors trust you with multi-million-dollar budgets.

But you weren’t a miracle worker. You were a strategist. And that meant you didn’t tolerate inefficiency.

So when you’d stepped out of your glass office and delivered your ultimatum—deadpan, deadly, and six floors up from the pavement below—you weren’t making an empty threat.

You were making a point.

You’d learned early in your career that fear and admiration were close cousins in the city. Manhattan didn’t run on kindness. It ran on connections, and the calculated power of a well-delivered warning.

And you were very, very good at warnings.

“Ten minutes,” you’d said. 

That was five minutes ago.

Now, as you returned to your office, a subtle hush followed you like a breeze after a storm. You could feel the ripple in the air—the low, nervous scramble of bodies springing into motion. Keyboards clacked. Phones resumed their rings. A courier nearly tripped over himself trying to get out of the elevator, folders pressed to his chest like a life raft.

You walked past him without blinking.

Inside your office, it was colder. Calmer. The walls were lined with sleek art—abstract but sharp, minimalism with bite. Floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the room in fractured autumn light, carving gold lines across your mahogany desk, your tailored blazer, the glass paperweight you never used.

Everything in here had a place.

Everything, that is, except the stack of reports that still hadn’t arrived.

You sat. Your chair creaked softly, the only sound in the silence. One hand moved to the desk—tap, tap, tap, nails against the polished wood, each beat a reminder of the seconds someone else was wasting.

Behind you, the open-concept floor of Greystone & Locke, one of the city’s most elite marketing firms, resumed motion with the panicked urgency of a fire drill. Junior execs scrambled. Someone dropped a file folder. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even look back.

You weren’t unkind—you were just uncompromising.

Three years ago, you’d walked into Greystone & Locke with an immaculate résumé and a stare that could flay flesh. You left the mailroom in your dust within six weeks. Eighteen months later, your campaign for a mid-tier athletic brand had gone viral, reshaping the way companies viewed brand authenticity. You turned a budget of $70,000 into $2.4 million in sales.

Since then, you hadn’t slowed down.

Because you couldn’t afford to.

In your world, speed was leverage. Precision was armor. Sleep was optional, but results were mandatory. You didn’t just meet expectations—you redefined them.

So yes, when you gave a deadline, you meant it.

And when someone failed to deliver, they didn’t just disappoint you. They disrespected you.

A knock.

Soft. Cautious.

You didn’t look up.

“Clock’s ticking,” you said.

A trembling voice on the other side: “The reports are ready. I—uh—I triple-checked them. Color-coded like you asked.”

Another pause.

“And I...I added the comparative chart you mentioned in Monday’s meeting. For the Atwood pitch.”

Your lips curled slightly—not quite a smile. Not yet.

“Good,” you said. “Bring them in.”

The door opened. A junior exec—Nick, you thought, or maybe Nathan—tiptoed inside, carrying a stack of pristine, spiral-bound reports. His tie was crooked, his hair mussed. There was panic in his eyes, but pride too.

You watched him set the documents down, hands shaking. The covers were aligned. Margins crisp. Fonts perfect.

You flipped through the first report with surgical care.

Graph. Clean. Headline hierarchy, solid. You noted a comma splice on page three and circled it in red before tossing it onto your desk.

He took it like a man being handed a bomb.

“Thank you,” you said, finally, voice cool. “Next time, aim for nine on the dot.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he said, practically sprinting out the door.

You leaned back in your chair, eyes flicking across the city beyond the glass. New York stretched out before you—steel and traffic, smoke curling up from manholes, people moving like ants in their suits and scarves. A place that never slept. A place that never forgave.

It suited you.

By 9:15, you’d red-penned the reports into something sharp enough to make the Atwood execs bleed enthusiasm.

By 9:30, you were sipping coffee that tasted like asphalt. Your mug was chipped, ceramic, and utterly out of place on your desk—but it had your name on it, written in faded Sharpie from a Christmas party three years ago your dad had shipped over.

It had stuck. So had you.

You exhaled slowly, letting the caffeine settle like a battle drum in your stomach.

From your sixth-floor window, the city stretched out in its usual, frenzied glory. Horns blared. Sirens sang. Somewhere below, someone was already late for a pitch meeting and sweating through a designer suit.

Then your computer pinged.

A sound you’d heard a million times before. Background noise. Usually innocuous.

New email.

Strange. You didn’t get emails. Not directly.

Your assistant filtered every message, flagged what mattered, forwarded it in tidy summaries. You hadn’t opened your actual inbox in weeks.

But this one bypassed all that.

You frowned.

It wasn’t from a client. Not a vendor. Not a supervisor. No label in the subject line. No formatting in the body. And no signature except two letters you hadn’t seen in your inbox in far too long.

From: t.miller

Sent: Tuesday, October 12th, 9:32 AM

To: you

Subject: (blank)

Your jaw clenched.

You opened it with irritation already bubbling. The kind of informal, unfiltered message that had no business in your inbox, especially not on a Tuesday morning with three campaign revisions due by noon.

And then you read it.

Hey.

No frills here, just wanted you to have it first

Maria said to be casual but you know how I am. We’re getting married Feb 14th. Yeah, I know. Shut up.

Been thinking—it’d be good for you to get outta New York for a bit. Come back home, even if just for a weekend.

I really hope you can come.

We’re moving to Austin after the wedding. Want to be closer to Joel and Sarah.

Anyway. No pressure. Just miss you, is all.

— T.M.

Attached: invite.pdf

You stared at the screen.

Something tugged behind your ribs—not a yank, but a soft pull. A familiar ache. Tommy always had a way of doing that. Cutting through things. Through years, through silence. Through everything you thought made you immune to this kind of softness.

You clicked on the attachment.

The invite unfolded like something out of a memory.

Cream-colored background, faded floral accents. The font was soft and curled just enough to feel country-charming without tipping into kitsch. In the corner, a photo of them—Tommy and Maria, arm in arm, golden sunlight draped over them like they belonged in it.

Maria was beautiful. Not flashy or overly posed, but glowing. Her deep brown skin shimmered in the light, her eyes full of laughter and something else—something you didn’t know how to name, but felt all the same. And Tommy, standing beside her with that same crooked smile you remembered from Texas summers and Fourth of July barbecues, looked… different. Lighter. Settled. Happy.

Real happiness. The kind you didn’t see in boardrooms.

You sat back in your chair. Let the screen blur. Let the email linger.

You hadn’t seen him in—God, how long? The last time was probably some rushed phone call, years ago. A holiday missed. A birthday sent late. You’d meant to go back more often, but there was always something. A pitch, a project, a deadline. Something urgent. Something that, in hindsight, wasn’t really important at all.

Then the times when you didn’t see him got longer, and longer.

Until Tommy became a name in your contacts list instead of a person in your life.

You remembered when he used to call you every other week just to check in—sometimes from his bunk when he was still enlisted, sometimes on lunch break with grease on his hands from trade school. He’d tease you about your coffee addiction, ask about your boss, always end with the same reminder:

“Don’t let that place eat you alive, alright?”

And maybe, just maybe—it had.

You minimized the wedding invite and stared back at your inbox.

Twelve flagged priorities. Client notes, annotated within an inch of their lives. Edits with timestamps and tracked changes and bullet-pointed suggestions. Three different meetings lined up back-to-back tomorrow morning.

Everything neat. Everything controlled. Everything… cold.

You worked.

And worked.

And worked.

The sun had dipped low behind the buildings by the time you looked up again. Outside, New York had taken on its nighttime armor—neon and movement, headlights gliding like electric fish through asphalt rivers. The kind of beauty that buzzed and blinked and never really stopped. You hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t stood up since the morning.

The windows reflected your silhouette now—hair pinned back, blazer rumpled, mascara smudged just slightly from a long day’s grind. You looked tired. Not bad. Just dimmed.

You powered down your computer, grabbed your coat, and made your way out of the building with the same clinical precision you applied to your job. The elevator was silent but for your own breath and the metallic whirr of floors ticking by.

By the time you slid into your car—sleek, black, and leased at a ridiculous price that once felt like proof you’d made it—you could already feel your brain trying to ramp up again. Thinking about tomorrow’s deck. The pending ad copy for the Alvarado account. That client in Tokyo who wanted a video pitch by Friday.

You hadn’t even pulled out of the parking garage when your phone buzzed in your coat pocket.

[MR. PAPA]

You stared at the screen for a second, thumb hovering. You hadn’t talked to him much since he moved.

With a sigh, you answered and put it on speaker.

“Hey, Sugar Cubes.”

His voice was warm—deep and gravel-worn like always, a little softer now that he didn’t have to commute or the constant stress of managing plumbing crews. Retirement suited him.

“Hey, Dad,” you said, drumming your fingers on the steering wheel. “What’s up?”

“Nothin’ big. Just figured I’d check in. See if my favorite daughter’s still runnin’ New York into the ground.”

You huffed a laugh, tension slowly bleeding out of your shoulders. “Barely. Think it’s trying to run me now.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.” He paused, like he was weighing whether to say the next thing. “Tommy called me this mornin’.”

Your stomach dipped.

“Yeah,” you said, keeping your voice light. “He sent me the invite.”

“Good. Thought maybe you hadn’t checked it. He’s got a good one. She’s always looking out for him, even pregnant.”

You let that sit in the air.

Then, a beat later:

“How’s Austin?” you asked.

“Hot,” he grumbled, but you could hear the smile in it. “But not bad. Got a little house south of the city. Quiet. Big yard. Thinkin’ about growin’ tomatoes, maybe fixin’ up the back porch if my knees don’t give out.”

You smiled at that. The image of your dad in overalls, cursing at a hammer and growing vegetables in the Texas heat, felt like something from a different life. A real one.

The kind of life you’d shelved somewhere between promotions and client dinners.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Just the sound of your turn signal ticking and the soft thrum of tires against pavement. Outside, the traffic dragged in fits and bursts, red brake lights glowing like embers as you inched forward through the gridlock. Horns blared in the distance. A cab driver shouted something you didn’t bother to decipher.

You could hear your dad shift on the other end of the line—probably leaning back in his worn kitchen chair, the one that always wobbled a little to the left.

Then he said it.

Casually. Almost too casually.

“Funny thing—did I mention I’m real close to Joel and Sarah? Like, ten minutes out. Didn’t even know when I bought the place.”

You gripped the steering wheel tighter, the leather creaking faintly beneath your fingers.

“No, you didn’t mention that,” you said, your voice smooth as glass.

“Yeah, they’re out in the next neighborhood over. Sarah’s ten now—can you believe that? Last time you saw her, she was still in diapers.”

You forced a small breath through your nose and focused on the road. On the brake lights. On anything that wasn’t the knot tightening behind your ribs.

“Time flies,” you said evenly.

Your dad didn’t press, but you could tell he was watching the line between what was said and what wasn’t.

You kept your jaw clenched and your tone light. Joel Miller. Just a name. Just someone you used to know.

Just someone who used to look at you like you were the only quiet thing in his storm.

You blinked hard and focused on the rearview mirror. The city still buzzed behind you, its lights too bright to ignore.

“Anyway,” your dad said, like he was trying to steer things back into safer territory. “Just thought it was kinda nice. All of us… close together again. Makes this place feel a little less empty.”

You didn’t say anything at first.

Then, softer than you meant it to be, “Yeah. Nice.”

You didn’t realize you were gripping the wheel so tightly until your knuckles went white.

Your dad didn’t mention your short sentences. Just let the pause settle, then cleared his throat.

“Well. I should let you go. Traffic sounds hellish.”

“It’s New York,” you muttered. “Hellish is our baseline.”

He chuckled. “Still proud of you, y’know. Even if you talk like a city slicker now.”

You smiled faintly. “Love you, Dad.”

“Love you more. Don’t work too hard, alright?”

“No promises.”

The call ended with a soft click, swallowed instantly by the noise of your environment—horns, the whir of passing tires, the static hum of too many people crammed into too little space.

By the time you made it home, the sun had long since dipped below the skyline, trading gold for grit. You parked in your assigned garage slot, stepped into the elevator of your luxury building, and were met with silence—sterile, hollow silence. The kind you’d once craved. The kind that now pressed too close.

Your apartment greeted you like it always did: pristine, cold, expensive. Clean white walls. Sleek furniture. A single wine glass drying by the sink like the saddest monument to your independence.

You kicked off your heels and padded toward the living room, the city still buzzing far below your panoramic windows. Up here, everything felt distant. You could see it all—but never touch it. Life happened somewhere else. Somewhere beneath.

The art on the walls was curated, not sentimental. The throw pillows matched the rug. The fridge was filled with almond milk, cold brew, and takeout containers labeled with dates like you were running a lab, not a home.

There were no pictures on the fridge. No toy cars buried in the couch cushions. No forgotten homework assignments on the coffee table. No laughter coming from another room. Just you. And the quiet thrum of success.

Proof, you told yourself.

Proof that you made it.

Proof that all the sleepless nights and working weekends and missed birthdays had added up to something.

But as you curled into the corner of your absurdly plush couch, peeling open your laptop and clicking it to life, the proof felt brittle.

The invite.pdf still sat on your desktop. Waiting.

You leaned your head back against the couch and exhaled slowly. At first, you thought it was just jealousy over Tommy. His stability. His family. But as your eyes drifted down again, and caught the mention of Austin, and the names Joel and Sarah tucked into your conversation with your dad, the feeling twisted.

That old ache you never let yourself name.

Because Joel had found it too, hadn’t he? Somehow. Despite everything. Despite the damage and the silence and whatever the hell had passed between you that final year.

He had a daughter. A home. Roots.

And you?

You had glass. And steel. And an inbox full of people who would drop you the second you missed a deadline.

Your eyes burned, but you didn’t dare let them tear. You hadn’t in years.

Instead, you stared at the screen—at the names, the date, the photo—and swallowed down the bitterness like cheap wine.

Must be nice, you thought, the words venomous and small. Then: Don’t be pathetic.

You dragged the cursor over the email. Hovered on “Reply.”

Something inside you crept. That old whisper of regret, of resentment, of. It curled in your chest like smoke from a fire you thought had burned out years ago.

You’d worked too damn hard to feel like this.

You weren’t some washed-out has-been looking back at her life in the rearview mirror. You were successful. You were respected. You were unstoppable.

So why did this feel like loss?

You sat up straighter. Wiped your eyes even though they hadn’t shed a tear. Clicked into the reply window and let your fingers do what they always did best—build walls with words.

From: You

To: t.miller

Sent: Tuesday, October 12th, 10:07 PM

Subject: Re: (none)

Tommy,

Thanks for sending this over. The invite looks great—very on-brand for you.

Unfortunately, Q1 client planning is kicking off early next year, and our projections meeting is slated for the same weekend. With several contracts on the line, I can’t afford to step away right now.

Please give my congratulations to Maria, and best of luck with the move to Austin. I’m sure it’ll be a smooth transition, especially with Sarah nearby.

Hope the wedding goes beautifully.

Best of Luck

You stared at the message. Cold. Polished. Impenetrable.

Just like you.

You clicked send.

The confirmation ping felt like a judge’s gavel. Final.

You closed your laptop. Sat in silence. Let the weight of your apartment settle around you again—clean, quiet, immaculate. And lonely.

You were still winning, technically.

So why did it feel like losing?

❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜

You bit your nails again.

You thought you left habits like that behind—buried under high-rise stress and boardroom expectations. But this one had come back like a freight train. And it was coming for you.

It was early. Too early for a Saturday, and the light filtering through the curtains hadn’t even committed to being morning yet. You weren’t supposed to work today. You told yourself you wouldn’t. But the hum in your brain—the one that sounded suspiciously like Michelle Heyward’s voice paired with a damn lucrative contract—was louder than your exhaustion.

Work helped. Always had.

It didn’t help that tomorrow was the last day to say yes or no. You had increiously erratic over the course of two days. After Kevin left on Thursday, you spent three hours staring up at the roof before you fell asleep, going over every pro and con as if you were deciding to stay with a boyfriend.

So, to combat the feeling, you dragged yourself toward the kitchen, hoping to at least drown the thrum of nerves in caffeine. You pulled open one cabinet, then another. Stacked bowls. Canned corn. Crushed cereal boxes. No coffee.

“What the—” you muttered, flipping open the next one.

Nothing.

You scanned the kitchen like it had betrayed you. Maybe Kevin moved it? He was ‘organizing’ things when he visited— just stacked juice boxes and crayons like they were ancient artifacts—but maybe he got into the cupboards when you weren’t looking.

Then your eyes caught on the fridge. The grocery list from last week still clung there, curling at the edges, mocking you.

No coffee.

“Shit,” you muttered, louder this time.

Aspen gave a surprised yip from her curled-up spot on the couch, her ears twitching in offense, like she was personally scolding you for your language.

You shot her a look. “Don’t start with me.”

She blinked, slow and judgmental, then tucked her nose back beneath her paw like the conversation was over.

You turned your attention back to the list in front of you, squinting at it like the words might rearrange themselves into something more hopeful. They didn’t. No coffee. No backup. Just a sad little grocery sheet and the echo of your own frustration.

Your heart thudded harder than it had any right to—over coffee, of all things. But it wasn’t just the caffeine. It was what the caffeine gave you: fuel, focus, the illusion of control.

The thought of having no energy made your skin crawl. You knew what happened when your body slowed down. When the distractions thinned out. That was when your mind wandered—and your mind was a dangerous place to be left alone in.

Over the years, you’d perfected the art of avoidance through motion. Movement, noise, stimulation. But silence? Stillness? That was where the rot crept in. That was where old thoughts bloomed back to life, uninvited.

And lately, Michelle had taken center stage in that mental theater.

You pressed your palms flat on the counter, grounding yourself in the feel of the cool surface beneath your skin. You exhaled slowly, through your nose, like it might do something useful.

You didn’t even hear the truck pull up until Aspen perked her ears again. Then the low rumble of his engine.

Perfect.

You glanced at the clock. 6:41 AM.

He was early. Again. Just like yesterday, the first day he came to pick you up.

You grabbed your bag and threw on your suit jacket, sparing one last glance at the sad, empty coffee station like it was a crime scene.

When you opened the door, Joel was already up at the door—one hand raised mid-knock, the other buried in his jacket pocket. His gaze flicked up to meet yours, steady and unreadable as always. You always disliked that about him, how nothing ever cracked through that gruff exterior unless he wanted it to.

“Didn’t think you’d be dressed,” he said, voice low and casual.

You arched a brow. “What, like I’d let you get the last word by being punctual?”

He snorted under his breath, stepping back so you could lock the door behind you. “Sure seems like you tried yesterday.”

“That was strategy,” you said breezily. “Give you the illusion of victory, keep your ego inflated.”

“I’ll let Tommy know you’re still runnin’ field tests on that ‘stead of workin’.” he muttered, already making his way toward the truck.

You followed, boots crunching softly against the gravel. Joel reached the passenger side first, and without a word, opened the door for you.

Climbed in, you smoothed your coat as you settled. Joel shut the door gently, then made his way around the front and climbed in beside you.

But the moment you buckled in, you turned to him sharply.

“Drive,” you said, pointing ahead.

Joel blinked. “I am.”

“No, not to work.” You waved your hand toward the road. “To coffee. Now. Immediately. Like our lives depend on it.”

He raised a brow. “Thought you said caffeine makes you mean.”

“It makes me efficient,” you snapped, then added, “And also slightly less honest. So if you want me to be tolerable today, Miller, I need caffeine.”

Joel didn’t argue. He just threw the truck into gear, backed out of your driveway, and turned toward town without a word.

Only when you were halfway down the road did he mutter, “You could’ve just asked nice.”

You turned your head slowly. “Would you rather I whined and begged?”

Joel smirked—just barely—but didn’t answer.

You exhaled and settled back into the seat, letting the motion of the truck and the promise of caffeine unknot your shoulders. The road was quiet, dust rising in little gold swirls through the early morning haze. Joel adjusted the radio but left the volume low, the hum of an old country song threading through the air between you.

“Turn left up here,” you said, gesturing casually. “You’re about to meet the only reason I haven’t lost my mind since moving back.”

Joel glanced sideways. “Didn’t realize coffee shops had that kinda power.”

“This one does,” you said. “Just trust me.”

His brows lifted, but he didn’t argue. He took the turn you pointed to, and a minute later, pulled into a narrow gravel lot tucked behind a small, ivy-covered building. It didn’t look like much from the outside—just a painted wooden sign that read Maple & Birch.

Joel killed the engine and leaned forward to study the place. “This it?”

“No, I brought you here to abandon you and claim your truck,” you deadpanned. “Yes, this is it. C’mon.”

You hopped out before he could get a word in, the door slamming gently behind you. Joel followed at his own pace, eyeing the mismatched outdoor furniture and the string lights still faintly glowing from the night before. It smelled like cinnamon and espresso the moment you walked in—warm and rich and nostalgic.

Inside, the café was all soft corners and worn wood, the kind of place that made you feel like you were on a break from something bigger. Students hunched over laptops in the corners, a couple parents herding toddlers through the pastry line, and two baristas moving efficiently behind the counter with practiced grace. One of them—a pink-haired girl with a nose ring and an arm full of tattoos—waved when she saw you.

“Hey, she’s back! Good. We were gettin’ concerned.”

Joel looked at you sideways. “Regular, huh?”

You stepped up to the counter. “Something like that.” Then, to the barista: “Can I get my usual? Large oat milk latte, extra shot. And one of the rosemary biscuit sandwiches.”

“Comin’ right up.”

Joel silently hovered, looking at the other barista working,  but you held up a hand to get his attention.

“Order.”

He turned. “What?”

“You’re getting something too. We’re not doing the ‘just here for the ride’ thing. Go.”

He frowned slightly, but stepped forward. “Just black coffee. Large. And, uh… that’s all.”

You reached into your coat pocket and handed over your card before he could stop you.

“Put it all on mine,” you said, casually enough it should’ve passed unnoticed—but Joel turned toward you immediately, frowning.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

You waved a dismissive hand. “Please. It’s not a grand gesture. I just want us to get the order and go to work. My sanity is dependent on a tight timeline this morning.”

“You bribin’ me with coffee?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Still. You don’t gotta buy my breakfast.”

“Joel,” you said, leaning an elbow on the counter. “Calm down. I’m not buying your truck. Just some liquid motivation.”

He muttered something under his breath, before wandering toward the pickup end of the counter.

The pink-haired barista returned with your sandwich bagged and Jeel’s drink in hand, smiling brightly. “Here you go. Oh! Would your husband like one of the sandwiches too?”

You blinked.

Husband?

You felt your brain do a full stop, like a record scratch in the back of your skull. The words bounced around for a second—echoing louder than they should’ve. You weren’t even sure why it caught you so off guard. Maybe it was the ease with which she’d said it. The certainty.

Do we really give off that vibe?

You managed to school your features, though you felt something squeeze and twist behind your ribs—an ache you didn’t invite in and weren’t prepared to name.

You turned toward Joel with an almost serene slowness, eyebrow raised. “Well, baby? You hungry?”

Joel looked up, caught mid-reach for his coffee—and you watched, delighted, as his whole body short-circuited.

He opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again like Windows 98 trying to reboot.

“I—uh—what—” he stammered, visibly flustered.

You leaned in just a bit, dropping your voice to a mock-conspiratorial whisper. “You heard the lady. Wouldn’t want to disappoint your wife, right?”

He blinked at you like he genuinely didn’t know what planet he was on anymore.

You let the beat hang just long enough for him to squirm, then turned smoothly back to the barista with a grin. “Sure. Here’s my card again. He’ll take whatever sandwich’s the most ‘husbandy.’ Something with protein.”

The barista laughed and took the card without hesitation. “Gotcha. I’ll pick a good one.”

You thanked the barista and took your card back once she came back, slipping it into your wallet with a smirk. She handed over to you your own drink, your biscuit, and Joel’s sandwich—something stacked high with smoked meat, probably—and you nodded in approval.

Behind you, Joel hadn’t spoken a single word, even while you shoved his sandwich in his hands.

He followed you out of the shop like he’d forgotten how doors worked. His coffee remained untouched in one hand, sandwich in the other, his entire body operating like it was on a lagging signal. You unlocked the truck, slid into the passenger side this time with ease, and waited.

Joel climbed into the driver’s seat a moment later but didn’t start the engine.

He just stared at you.

Hard.

Like you’d just grown a second head. Or wings. Or announced you were secretly a time traveler from 2074 sent to ruin his morning.

You turned your head sweetly, practically glowing with domestic innocence.

“Your coffee’s gonna get cold, baby.”

Joel broke.

“What the hell was that in there?” he barked, finally finding his voice.

You howled. Not a polite chuckle, not a stifled laugh—you broke, the kind of laughter that took your whole body with it. You threw your head back against the seat and absolutely lost it, your hand slapping your knee as you tried to breathe.

“Oh my God,” you gasped between wheezes. “You—you looked like someone hit you with a brick—”

Joel stared, eyebrows halfway to his hairline, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “You just… just talked to me like it was our ten-year anniversary or some shit.”

You wiped a tear from the corner of your eye. “Don’t be dramatic. I didn’t even upgrade you to renew our vows.”

“You called me baby,” he accused, pointing like that was a federal offense.

You shrugged, all faux-innocence. “Would’ve called you darlin’ but figured that might send you into cardiac arrest.”

He stared at you for another beat, then finally—finally—let out a low, almost reluctant laugh. It was more of a breath at first, then a shake of the head, then a full-bodied chuckle that had his shoulders relaxing against the seat.

“You’re insane,” he muttered.

“And yet here you are, drinking the coffee your fake wife bought you.”

He turned out of the parking lot, still shaking his head, trying to focus on the road. But your smirk was a wildfire in the corner of his vision—smug and dangerous and absolutely loving every second of his unraveling.

“You didn’t even correct her,” he said again, quieter this time, almost like he was still chewing on it.

You gave a lazy shrug. “Oh, please. She probably figured it out the second you short-circuited like a goddamn vending machine.”

His glare was quick, defensive. “I did not ‘short-circuit’.”

You sipped your drink. “You blinked seven times in five seconds, Miller. Pretty sure you rebooted mid-sentence.”

Joel scoffed. “Well, I didn’t see you jumpin’ in to set her straight.”

“And ruin all the fun?” You arched a brow. “Besides, my real husband would get better privileges than you could ever dream of.”

“Your stick-ass attitude?”

“Oh, that’s just the signing bonus,” you grinned.

That caught him off guard. His eyes narrowed. “Yeah? What else comes with the package?”

You didn’t hesitate. You were too comfortable, too loose with the reins, and it just slipped out. “Back rubs. In bed. With my legs over his shoulders.”

Silence.

Immediate and complete.

Joel’s hand twitched on the wheel like it had been electrocuted. One knuckle cracked loud enough to echo in the cab. His eyes stayed locked on the road ahead like the yellow line was gonna lead him straight into the afterlife.

You turned to the window, sipping your drink again. His voice came a beat later, raw and barely controlled. “Jesus.”

You hummed like you were just admiring the skyline. “Something wrong?”

He shifted in his seat. Coughed once. “No. Nothin’. All good.”

“Because you’re gripping the steering wheel like you’re about to tear it out of the dash.”

Joel muttered something that might’ve been ‘unbelievable,’ but it got lost in his throat. He flicked the radio on, then off again. Then back on. As if flipping through static would drown out the words still ringing in his ears.

You leaned your elbow on the window, watching him with lazy interest. “You always this easy to rattle, Miller? Or is it just when I talk about my imaginary sex life?”

He didn’t look at you. Couldn’t. You watched the muscle in his jaw tighten, flex, relax, then tense again.

“Do you—do you always talk like that?” he asked eventually, voice tight.

“Like what?”

“Like it’s…normal.”

You grinned. “It is normal. Or are you one of those men who thinks women are only allowed to say ‘oh my gosh’ and blink politely?”

Joel rubbed a hand over his mouth. “No, I just—” He cut himself off with a grunt. “Never mind.”

You turned back to the window with a satisfied smile. The silence that followed didn’t feel awkward for you.

But Joel? He squirmed.

The turn signal clicked too early at the next light. His boot bounced a little on the floorboard. He cleared his throat more times than necessary.

You watched his reflection in the window, amused. “Relax, Miller. I wasn’t propositioning you.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You didn’t have to. I could hear the internal monologue from here.”

He glared sideways at you. “What, you a mind reader now?”

“Nope.” You grinned. “Just good at reading body language. And yours is… loud.”

Joel didn’t respond. He just swallowed hard and shifted in his seat again. As if that would help.

You let it hang for a while, content to sip your drink and bask in your victory. You hadn’t done it to get a reaction, not really—but now that you had one? It was hard not to enjoy it.

The rest of the ride was quiet—not tense, not awkward, just… deliberately still. After that comment, you knew better than to trust your mouth. It was better to say nothing than risk your brain skipping past the filter again. And Joel? He looked like he was still processing. Hands on the wheel, jaw ticking like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how without combusting.

You watched the city pass through the window, buildings growing taller and more crowded, the skyline shifting like a wave. The caffeine was starting to kick in, but your nerves were still crackling, alive in your fingertips.

Just as the silence started to feel almost companionable, the traffic began to swell around you. More cars than usual. A ripple of brake lights. Then a full stop. Horns blared ahead like frustrated cries for help.

Joel sighed, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. “You never told me your coffee shop was connected to one of the busiest goddamn morning rushes in Austin.”

You tilted your head, sipping slowly. “It’s not my fault you can’t navigate basic urban infrastructure.”

“Oh, I can navigate it. It's the hipster bakery shop that’s causing a fifteen-minute backup.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re blaming baristas  for your bad attitude?”

He looked at you sidelong. “I’m blamin’ you for draggin’ me into peak commute hours for coffee.”

You gave a dramatic gasp. “Sir, that was a locally sourced, single-origin roast blessed by gods of productivity. Show some respect.”

He huffed. “Bet it still tastes like dirt.”

“You’re drinking it.”

He muttered into the lid, “Only because my fake wife made me.”

Your eyes flicked toward him, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Now your getting used to the idea.”

“Never,” he said without missing a beat, lifting the coffee to his lips like it sealed the oath.

You laughed—breathless, surprised by how natural it felt. God, you were never this easy with him. Maybe it was the early hour, maybe because your thinking of Michelle. Maybe it was the caffeine, or the strange comfort of sharing a quiet morning with someone who didn’t need to fill the silence.

In all the years you’d known Joel, it had never been like this. Never this light. Conversations used to be barbed, full of sharp corners and well-timed digs, like you were always armed for a fight you both secretly wanted.

But now?

Now it almost felt like a friendship. A real one.

You turned your head and studied him. The sunlight poured in through the windshield and hit him in a way that made your stomach clench. It softened the edges of his usually guarded face, catching in the grooves by his mouth, highlighting the faint smile lines at the corners of his eyes. He looked… peaceful. Unbothered.

You swallowed. “If I asked a question, it wouldn’t be weird, right?”

Joel cut a glance your way, brow raised as he inched the truck forward with the traffic. “Depends. You about to hit me with another one-liner?”

“No—no, nothing like that,” you said, stumbling over the words a little too fast. “It’s just… a situation I’m going through.”

He shifted in his seat, attention turning more fully toward you. “Alright.”

You paused. Thought for a second. Then another. How much were you willing to say out loud?

“If you had… an opportunity to do something. Something big,” you started slowly, eyes fixed on the dashboard, “But it meant going back.”

Joel’s knuckles flexed slightly on the wheel. “Back to what?”

You shrugged, keeping your voice even. “Your old self. The person you used to be. To a place that was good and bad.”

He didn’t answer right away.

The smile that had been lingering on his face faded into something more neutral, his eyes fixed ahead but clearly somewhere else—farther than traffic, farther than Austin. Somewhere dustier, heavier.

The silence stretched too long, long enough that a tight knot began to form in your chest. You started to regret asking.

Then finally, Joel let out a low breath. “That’s a hard one.”

Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your sleeve. “But… it would help the people you love. The ones who gave you everything,” you murmured, words coming faster now, unspooling too easily. “But it’d feel like a betrayal. Like going back would mean you learned nothing. And they’d never understand why you did it.”

Another long pause.

Joel’s jaw ticked, barely.

He didn’t say it, but you saw it—something flickering behind his eyes. The quiet kind of grief. The kind that lives in the marrow.

But now, he spoke low, slow. Thoughtful.

“You don’t always get the luxury of being understood,” he said, eyes still forward. “Sometimes the people you love won’t get it. Sometimes it’ll hurt them. But doing the right thing don’t always mean it feels right.”

You held your breath.

“And if you’re doin’ it for them? For the right reasons?” He glanced at you briefly, then back to the road. “Then maybe they don’t have to understand. Maybe they just have to know you never stopped loving ’em.”

His voice was level, but there was a strain in it. Not weakness—restraint. Like if he said too much, the whole thing might break open.

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared down at your cup, the cardboard sleeve damp from your grip.

When you finally spoke, your voice was quiet.

“That makes it sound easy.”

Joel let out a low, almost amused breath. “Ain’t easy. It’s just simple.”

You turned your head toward him, caught the way the morning light softened him—casting gold across the rough cut of his jaw, the bridge of his nose, the shadows beneath his eyes. There was a storm in them still. Quiet, but steady. Familiar.

“Alright…” you said, voice softer than you meant. “Thanks, Joel. I mean it.”

His mouth opened slightly, like he wanted to say something—something real—but then shut again, the moment hanging there between you, delicate as blown glass. Then, just a quiet nod.

“Yeah,” he said finally, eyes flicking forward again.

He turned up the volume, and Johnny Cash’s gravel voice rolled through the speakers. The cab filled with guitar twang and low harmony, a buffer against anything else either of you might’ve dared to say.

Joel shifted like the seat had grown suddenly unfamiliar beneath him. Restless. But you weren’t paying attention anymore.

Your eyes had locked on your phone.

And for the first time in what felt like months, there was no tug in your chest. No voice whispering doubt in the back of your mind.

Only resolve.

Your fingers flew over the screen with practiced confidence, like they used to.

[YOU]: I’ll do it.

[YOU]: Send me the rest of the contracts.

Boring ahhh chapter. Wait for the next two, then it gets exciting.

[angelgirl768]

The delulu going so hard that everything in the future is just another alive!Bobby opportunity. Don’t drink the water? Yeah, don’t drink the dead Bobby water, drink the alive Bobby juice. Seismic shifts? Yeah, things are going to change a lot when Bobby comes back. No body, no proof. He can still claw his way out of a grave in Minnesota, if he even is in that coffin

[simelodie]

Cofetaria "Lira" - "Lira" Confectionery

Hi Dears,

I've tried to revive a historical building from my hometown that now, unfortunately, is also in disrepair. It's 90% inspiration and 10% worked with what I had, cause 'sims limitation', but I chose to recreate it as an oldies confectionery with a top bookstore / library. Purely inspiration tho, no idea what it looked like back then, although my dad remembers it as a fond memory of grandma taking them there when they behaved.

Looking ok, might put it up for download later, idk.

Bit of history below:

The building displays the year 1882 and the initials P.N. on the balcony guardrail and is listed as historical monument, however, given that the owners did not invest in its renovation and neither did the authorities, it sits in a degradation state.

The ground floor seems to have always housed commercial spaces, with the earliest proof I could find showing that it functioned as a taylor's shop and then as a confectionery during the Golden Age of communism. Post-communist business expansion showed no mercy on the structure and façade of this building (and many others on the same street), with the original elements being taken down and replaced by hideous paint and plastic windows.

The first floor survived the butchering, with the original architectural elements and wooden window panes still in place, however it housed tenants of different kinds throughout the years, that allowed it to succumb to the test of time. 2023 brought the building back into the attention of the authorities, but only to assess its state as high-risk for seismic activity and to have the first floor tenants evacuated.

SOURCE

[lemotmo]

Ali posted this ask. I think it's finally sinking in for some.

Q. At this point if it wasn't true they would have to say it's not true and not happening because we're well out of it just being fandom speculation this point. It's no longer even just the journalists who cover the show teasing it and believing it's happening. We're talking about entities like USA Today and the Today show. Those are massive mainstream companies. For something untrue to break containment like that and continue to grow and spread that far they would have to refute it if it was false. The fallout would be cataclysmic at this point. Congratulations you all got your way. Whatever.

A. I agree that I think they have officially passed the point of no return. I do think encouraging the likes of USA Today, the Today Show and Jeopardy to further spread the belief would lead to a seismic backlash if it isn't going to happen. No, it is still not proof. Because they could genuinely be that gross, I don't think they are, but they could be. Oliver's answer about fandom was the most interesting part. If it's going to happen then Oliver and Ryan drawing a line with regards to interaction with people in the fandom makes perfect sense. They would need to establish clear boundaries, because plenty of people have proven themselves to be scarily inappropriate when it comes to interacting with them. They also don't need to subject themselves to anything from the other fandom. So making that line clear prior to going canon makes sense. This new interview basically added to the growing suspicion and I do agree that at this point if it wasn't happening they would need to start saying that to some degree out loud.

Thank you Nonny! Much appreciated!

Now see... I don't get this 'You all got your way' attitude.

This was ALWAYS the way it would go. It was clear for everyone with eyes to see and who had been following the story from day 1. As soon as Eddie was ALL over the bi Buck and T storyline, it was already over for BT.

We didn't GET our way. This was the way it was always going to go and we interpreted the text and subtext correctly. That's all there is to it.

And yeah, there is no way for them to try to get out of this to be honest. It would look so bad on the show and ABC at this point. 🤷‍♀️

Heads up! For anyone who is giving me the shifty eyes for reposting Ali's updates instead of reblogging. Read this.

Remember, no hate in comments, reblogs or inboxes. Let's keep it civil and respectful. Thank you.

If you are interested in more of Ali’s posts, you can find all of her posts so far under the tag: anonymous blog I love.

[the-most-humble-blog]

<!-- BEGIN TRANSMISSION -->

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap">

<meta lust-trigger="obedience wetness protocol">

<script>ARCHIVE_TAG="PSYCHOSEXUAL_POEM_015:SHE_DROOLS_FOR_ME"

EFFECT: cervical surge, behavioral obedience loop, tremor-class arousal

</script>

**SHE DROOLS FOR ME**

(A field report in discipline and desire.)

She drools for me.

Not from her mouth —

from the soaked lips tucked between her thighs.

It pulses.

It begs.

It knows exactly who she belongs to.

I tell her “sit.”

She obeys.

I tell her “stay.”

She trembles.

I say, “Now. On me.”

And her body moves before her voice can agree.

She shows me —

**wetness pooled like worship.**

The kind of heat

you don’t ask for.

The kind that **leaks from loyalty.**

---

I’ve trained her well.

She doesn’t wait to be invited.

She waits to be **used**.

She straddles me

like it’s the last command she’ll ever hear.

And when I say “good girl,”

her cunt clenches like it’s trying to **swallow the praise.**

I don’t thrust.

I let her take it.

All of it.

Every thick, slow inch

until her hips fall into rhythm like they’ve been **coded to ride.**

---

She moans like a creature with purpose.

Eyes gone, brain off,

dripping with the kind of devotion

you can’t fake —

the kind you earn

by **owning a woman’s ache**.

She drools.

Every pulse of her is **begging for more.**

---

So I give it.

I feed her.

I fill her.

I make her **answer to the animal in her.**

When she cums —

it isn’t cute.

It’s seismic.

A howl.

A rupture.

A heatwave that wakes something in the walls.

**And somewhere counties away, her father jolts upright,**

dreaming of storms,

sensing something sacred and unholy

has **taken his daughter completely.**

---

I don’t stop.

Not until the voice in her spine

calls me **master** without needing to say it.

She drools for me.

Because I’m not just her man.

I’m her **discipline.**

Her goddamn **commandment.**

And her soaked thighs?

Proof

that obedience

**gets rewarded.**

</div>

<!-- END TRANSMISSION [AUTO-ARCH IN: 06:06:06] -->

[bardic-tales]

Stillness in Scars: A character deep dive for Bianca Moore, a FWC / FF 7 OC

When we talk about intimacy in fiction, it’s easy to default to grand romantic gestures or high-stakes confessions. But for characters forged in trauma, intimacy often arrives in smaller, quieter forms like the way they allow themselves to be touched.

The first article in this week’s Blorbo Blursday explores the physical and emotional terrain of Bianca Moore, a character whose celestial birthright and corrupted body make even the simplest acts of affection feel seismic. Cuddling, for Bianca, is not just a comfort. It’s a crucible. And in that stillness, we see the parts of her she tries hardest to hide.

Possible Trigger Warnings: Abuse, body horror, emotional trauma, medical experimentation, PTSD, self-image issues, sexual trauma, touch aversion

Bianca Moore was not made for softness. Fate didn't have softness in mind when it created her soul and split it into two halves. She was engineered for survival. From the moment of her prophetic birth, touch was something weaponized against her: a doctor’s scalpel, a cultist’s hand, and a demonic father’s claws. Her earliest associations with physical contact were laced with control, restraint, and pain. Even the touch of those she loved was often a prelude to betrayal or death. As a result, Bianca’s relationship with cuddling, or any form of prolonged touch, was one of volatility. It existed at the uneasy intersection between craving and dread, as well as vulnerability and resistance.

Yet Bianca did crave it, in the way starved things do. Her body remembered warmth even when her mind told her it was a risk. She longed for the kind of touch that didn’t demand anything, just the quiet affirmation of another heartbeat near her own. But she rarely sought it. To initiate contact was to risk exposure. Her strength came from control: of her emotions, of her space, and, ultimately, of her image. Letting someone hold her, or worse holding them back, meant surrendering that control, even momentarily. And for someone whose autonomy had been stolen more times than she could count, that was no small ask.

When Bianca did allow herself to cuddle, it was a rare and sacred thing. After the Nibelheim Incident, Bianca was not casual with her affection. She curled herself around someone only when her walls had already fallen and when her trust had already been tested by fire. Her style of cuddling was guarded at first: tense and watchful. But if the other person remained patient, if they didn’t flinch from her scarred skin or the way her Jenova and S-cell-infused body pulsed with otherworldly energy, she softened. Her limbs would relax. Her breath would slow. And slowly, she’d tuck herself into the space where safety used to live.

With Sephiroth, her most consistent partner in vulnerability, cuddling became a language all its own. They didn’t speak much during those moments. Words felt unnecessary. If Bianca were honest, sometimes words felt even invasive. Instead, they communicated through the tension in their spines, the angle of their heads, the rhythm of their breathing. Bianca would often rest her head on his chest over his heartbeat, as if grounding herself in the proof that he was still there.

Ultimately, Bianca’s capacity for cuddling mirrored her greater arc: a slow, halting reclamation of agency over her body and emotions. She would never be someone who cuddled freely or often, but when she did, it was meaningful. It was a sign of trust hard-won and intimacy made holy.

For Bianca, cuddling wasn’t an indulgence. It was a rite of survival. And in a world that taught her to flinch from kindness, choosing to lean into someone’s arms instead was the most radical act of all.

@themaradwrites @shepardstales @megandaisy9 @watermeezer

@prehistoric-creatures @creativechaosqueen @chickensarentcheap

@inkandimpressions @arrthurpendragon @projecthypocrisy @serenofroses

@sapphirothcrescent @tolliver-j-mortaelwyver

[callmebrycelee]

9-1-1 REACTION

This reaction is for the season eight, finale episode “Seismic Shifts” which originally aired May 15, 2025. The episode was written by Kristen Reidel and Molly Savard and directed by John J. Gray. As a word of warning, this reaction will contain spoilers about the episode. So, if you haven’t seen the season finale yet, please like or bookmark this post and come back once you have seen it. Okay, now that you have been sufficiently warned, let’s get into the episode.

“Maybe it’s not perfect, but it’s all mine.” - Jessa

Last episode we ended with a bit of a cliffhanger. After responding to yet another call involving everyone’s favorite Laundry Police, Athena leaves the apartment building moments before an explosion goes off in the laundry room. Rather than pick up where we left off, this episode starts off by doing something 9-1-1 is infamous for. We rewind things a bit and we see a young woman named Jessa (played by Arianna Rivas) moving into her new apartment. Her mother (played by Constance Marie) is not impressed with her daughter’s new digs, but Jessa is undeterred.  Jessa reminds her mother of all the stories she told about her first place, but her mother says she doesn’t want her daughter to go through the same things she did. Her mother goes on to say that she worked her entire life so that Jessa wouldn’t have to live the same experience that she had. Jessa doesn’t buy her mother’s explanation and believes her mother wouldn’t approve no matter what her accommodations are. Her mother says she only wants what’s best for Jessa. Jessa responds by telling her mother that she las to let her go. She reminds her mother that she raised a smart and capable woman, and she just needs to trust that Jessa knows what she’s doing. The mother relents and the two hug it out.

“Get your arm out of my load!” – Donnie

Meanwhile, down in the laundry room, Graham (played by Sam Roach) goes looking for Crystal’s (played by Destiny Hernandez) missing thong. Donnie (played by Adam Hagenbuch) is surprised Graham wasn’t arrested and threatens violence against him again. Graham tries looking in the lint trap, but he doesn’t find anything. He then goes over to the washer where another one of Donnie’s loads (snicker) is going and tries the P Trap. This turns off the washer much to Donnie’s frustration. When Donnie goes to shut the door on the washing machine, this causes a spark which ignites some of the flammable water left over from the previous episode. This causes an explosion that rocks the bottom floor of the building. The explosion leads to the building collapsing in on itself.

Title card.

We head over to the firehouse and see the current 118 throwing a goodbye party for Eddie. Hen lets Eddie know she initially promised a full-on backyard barbecue, but she assumed he and Christopher would be in town for a few extra days. Eddie assures her simpler is better and that Christopher wanted to see the firehouse one more time before they head back to El Paso. I find it interesting that we have yet another moment between Eddie and Hen. I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve seen them interact, one-on-one, since Eddie joined the 118. A part of me thinks this is another way for Tim Minear and Company to avoid having moments between Eddie and Buck which will then be used as proof of why Buddie is going canon. If Ryan is truly not leaving the show, I would love to have more scenes between him and Aisha because they have great on-screen chemistry PLUS Eddie and Hen have a LOT in common being that they are parents of teenagers. I’m surprised we don’t see more banter between the two of them.

“You don’t have to apologize. Just have to do what’s best for you.” – Evan Buckley

Everyone sits down to eat, and Ravi asks Eddie when he starts his new job at the El Paso Fire. Eddie says he reports for duty at 7:00 the next morning. Christopher comments that his dad is going back to school aka Fire Academy and Eddie comments that Christopher gets to spend his summer hanging by the pool. Hen asks if Eddie has packed and tells her there wasn’t much to pack. Chimney tells Eddie he may need to make room for some new items. At that moment, two firefighters we have never seen before and probably will never see again hands Eddie his turnouts. Hen mentions this is usually done when a firefighter retires but Captain Gerrard has agreed to give Eddie his before he heads back to El Paso. Eddie is genuinely surprised that Gerrard let him have his gear. Buck tells him Gerrard’s in a good mood because it’s his last day with the 118. Buck then says that the 118 is finally going to have a decent captain again. Hen says she hopes that’s true because it’s not going to be her. Ravi asks if the Chief passed her over. Hen tells him no and that she turned the job down because she doesn’t need that level of responsibility right now. Buck tells her that’s okay and tells she just needs to do what’s best for her. Very wise, Buck. Very wise!

Hen asks Buck if he’s okay with her turning down the captain position. He tells her yes. Chimney asks Buck if he’s applying for the position. Buck shocks everyone by telling them he put in for a transfer. Eddie looks perplexed. As do the others. Buck tells them that the 118 is just a number now. Yikes!!!

“The whole damn building came down.” – Sergeant Athena Grant

Athena contacts dispatch to let them know there’s been an incident. My girl Linda (played by Chiquita Fuller), rocking some circa 1992 cornrow braids, answers the call and asks Athena to repeat herself because all she can hear is static and the sound of falling rubble. Sue Blevins materializes and patches into Linda’s call. Athena tells them to send everyone. Sue asks her what she needs and Athena says she needs 50 officers on a six-block perimeter and full FD. Heavy rescue. Sue checks her iPad and asks Athena to confirm that the building is a 19-story high-rise. Athena tells her it’s not a high-rise anymore.

Athena enters the building and helps a few residents evacuate. She goes into the laundry room and hears Crystal screaming. Crystal is fine but her boyfriend Donnie is trapped underneath fallen debris. Graham, who is also trapped, tells Athena he thinks Donnie is in bad shape. Athena asks Graham how he is doing. He tells her that the washer blew up and the entire room collapsed. He tells her that Donnie got the brunt of the damage. Athena goes over to Donnie and he tells her he can’t breathe. With help from Crystal, the two of them manage to life some of the fallen debris off of Donnie to help him breathe better. Now that Athena and the others are able to see him better they see that he is impaled on something.

“Pretty boys, take Bravo.” – Captain Vincent Gerrard

The 118 arrive on the scene and immediately spring into action. Captain Vincent Gerrard (played by Brian Thomas) radios to Maddie and asks if she has any clue how the building collapsed. Maddie tells him that all she knows at this time is that dispatch received a lot of calls about an explosion on the lower level. Chimney tells Gerrard he has an idea of what happened and Gerrard orders for all water to be turned out. He then yells for Buck and Ravi to run the ground ladders and start extrication. Hen looks up and sees Jessa waving to them from several floors up. She tells Gerrard they are going to need more than a ground ladder. Gerrard tells them to run the aerial. Chimney nominates himself to go up and Hen goes with him. They get to Jessa and she tells them her mother is stuck. Hen checks the mother’s vitals while Jessa helps Chimney remove the piece of debris that fell on her. Hen and Chimney turn the mother over and they see that the side of her head has swelled up.

Down in what used to be the laundry room, Athena tells Crystal to get help. Donnie begs Crystal to not leave him and as he starts to move around, his wound starts to squirt blood. Graham reaches over and puts pressure on the wound to keep it from bleeding. Back upstairs, Hen accesses Jessa’s mother’s head. She determines that it’s not blood that’s caused her head to swell – it’s air. The air is leaking into her cranial cavity. Tension pneumocephalus. Hearing Chimney diagnoses the mother reminds me of a video I saw with Dr. Mike. In the video, Dr. Mike was watching random emergency scenes from 9-1-1 and the entire time he kept saying that paramedics aren’t doctors and therefore shouldn’t be making a medical diagnosis. Anyway, Chimney tells Jessa that her mother could have brain damage, and they need to relieve the pressure. Hen manages to release some of the pressure until they can get her into surgery.  

“You’ve reached Flint West. Go to hell.” – Flint West

Back at dispatch, Maddie and Linda get a call from a man who tells them he is trapped on the ninth floor of the high-rise building. Maddie asks him for his name and apartment number but the line disconnects before she gets an answer. Linda calls him back and they get the man’s voicemail. The voicemail greeting gives the man’s name. Flint West. Meanwhile, back at the high-rise, Crystal runs out of the building, straight into Chimney. She tells him her boyfriend is trapped inside the laundry room. He gets her to calm down and she tells him that Athena sent her looking for help. Chimney tells Hen to look after Crystal who is having a panic attack. When she asks him where he’s going, he tells her he’s headed to the laundry room to assist Athena. Hen asks him if he wants her to go instead but Chimney tells her he’s got it.

“is this the cop cart guy?” – Howie “Chimney” Han

We head back over to dispatch where Maddie is trying to get into contact with someone who may know Flint. She hits the jackpot when she reaches his ex-wife. Apparently, their divorce was not amicable. Through the ex-wife, Maddie finds out which unit number Flint lives in. Back at the scene, Chimney is able to locate Athena who tells him there are two people trapped. Chimney accesses Graham for injuries first and asks if he can wiggle his fingers and toes. Graham confirms he can and Chimney says that’s good; it means he doesn’t have a spinal injury. Chimney then hands Graham something called a hemostatic pad which he explains will help stem Donnie’s bleeding. Graham places the pad on Donnie’s wound. Chimney then tells Chimney he’s going to run a line so he can get some IV fluids.

Upstairs, Buck and Ravi arrive at Flint’s apartment, or rather they descend into what used to be his apartment. There’s a part where Ravi almost falls and Buck is able to pull him back just in time. It reminds me of a few episodes ago when Bobby nearly fell through the floor and Tommy saved him. Parallels, I tell you! The two of them manage to locate Flint but right as they’re about to extract him, a gas pocket goes off which causes a secondary collapse. Down in the laundry room, Athena reports that their way out is now gone due to the secondary collapse.

“I mean, first Ramón steals my mother, and then my two favorite nephews.” – Aunt Pepa

Then we get a scene where Eddie is packing up his and Christopher’s things. Christopher calls Eddie and Aunt Pepa (played by Terri Hoyos) over to the television where there’s a news broadcast about the building collapse. In perhaps the cheesiest moment of the show, Eddie looks over at his turnout gear and the music swells like he’s Clark Kent or Bruce Wayne about to transform into his alter-ego. Back on the scene, thankfully Buck, Ravi and Flint West are fine. Gerrard radios to them asking if they have an exit. Buck radios back and says they’ll make one. Hen reports to Gerrard that she’s lost contact with Chimney. He tells her to take two of the red shirts with her to look for him but warns that if the building starts to collapse again, they need to evacuate.

Back in the laundry room, Chimney gets a line going but Donnie passes out. Chimney takes his blood pressure and tells Athena he thinks Donnie’s about to go into arrest. Athena loses his pulse. Chimney hands Graham two defibrillator pads. He then tells Graham that when he says “clear” he needs to remove his hands from Donnie. Donnie’s pulse returns and he regains consciousness. Back outside, Eddie approaches Gerrard and tells him he’s there to save the day or whatever. Long story short, he does manage to help Ravi, Buck and Flint West get out of the building using a makeshift zipline. Ugh. I guess we’re supposed to like Eddie again … or whatever.

“I knew I was dead, but Donnie needed help more than me.” – Graham Key

Eddie, Ravi, and Buck join Hen and the two red shirts and the six of them are able to drill their way to Athena, Chimney, Donnie, and Graham. Thankfully, they are able to extract Donnie from underneath the rubble and get him out of harm’s way. Unfortunately, when they go to extract Graham, they discover he is impaled on a piece of rebar. Hen asks him if he’s in pain and he tells her just a little. His belly is hot which means he is bleeding internally. Athena asks him why he didn’t say anything about his injury. Graham tells her he knew he was a goner but Donnie still had a chance to live. Athena asks, “So, you just sacrificed yourself?” Donnie responds by telling her it was the right thing to do. This is the moment where Athena is finally able to make sense of the sacrifice Bobby made to save his team – the 118.

Chimney jumps into captain mode and tells Graham he will not be making a sacrifice today. He commands the Pretty Boys, aka Buck and Ravi, to cut Graham free and for Eddie to get the backboard ready. He tells Hen to help him with the extrication. Graham tells everyone he is feeling chilly. He then loses conscious. Ravi and Buck are able to get him free and Eddie loads him onto a backboard. Graham’s blood pressure drops and he eventually flatlines. Hen starts to perform chest compressions. Athena tells Graham he is not allowed to give up. Chimney checks his pulse but nothing. Chimney says he’s not calling it and tells Hen to keep going with the chest compressions. Chimney checks Graham’s pulse again and smiles. Graham has a pulse. They then began the extrication.

“He’d be so proud of you.” – Sergeant Athena Grant

Outside, Chimney tells Athena everything is going to be okay. She tells him that he saved Graham’s life. Chimney, like his predecessor, tells her it’s a team effort. Athena tells Chimney that it used to drive Bobby crazy whenever he didn’t give himself credit. She then says that Bobby knew he was a smart, talented, capable paramedic, and a great leader. Athena tells Chimney that Bobby would be so proud of him. The two of them hug as the scene goes dark.

“It’s been my honor to take my last ride with men and women of your quality. Thank you.” – Captain Vincent Gerrard.

Back at the firehouse, Gerrard reports there were no fatalities. Chimney sees Eddie on his phone and asks him what he’s doing. Eddie tells him he’s looking for a redeye for him and Chris. Chimney takes Eddie’s phone and tells him he’s not leaving. Chimney then delivers a powerful speech basically saying the very same things that Buck said an episode of go but for some reason I guess it sounds better coming from him. I did like his speech, but I was a bit frustrated that we have yet another example of people not listening to Buck or just plain ignoring him. Buck tried so hard to keep them together by continuing the traditions Bobby established when he became captain, but no one wanted to participate. I hope next season, the show finally has a conversation about the frequent mistreatment of Buck.

“Bobby died so that I could live.” – Howie “Chimney” Han

Chimney tells the team that no one is transferring out and no none is moving back to El Paso. He reminds them this is the 118 and it’s not just a number. Chimney tells Buck he is right. Bobby is gone and things will never be the same. But Buck leaving won’t change things. He tells Buck that leaving won’t make him any less sad; it just means he’ll be sad alone. One could argue that Buck is already sad alone but … I digress. Chimney tells them they can all mourn Bobby and even curse his name for dying, but what they are not going to do is disrespect him by throwing away what he built at the 118. He tells them to hang up their turnouts, hit the showers, go home, and get some rest. He says they will all see each other tomorrow for another shift. Hen slips up and refers to Chimney as captain.

“Hello, Bobby.” – Sergeant Athena Grant

In our final scene of the episode, we see Athena walking down a long corridor, very reminiscent of when she arrived at the church for Bobby’s memorial. Instead of funeral black, Athena looks stunning in a light brown, belted jacket. We then get a montage of where she and the 118 are. Athena sells her newly rebuilt home to a couple who will create new memories. Buck is house hunting because of course Eddie’s rash decision to stay in El Paso with Christopher means Buck must move out. Prior to the episode, I’d hoped that Athena would keep her home and then her and Buck could become roommates. That would’ve been a fun dynamic. But that’s not going to happen. I feel bad for Buck because yet again he’s getting the short end of the stick. He came into this season with a loving boyfriend and a new lease on life despite having to deal with Gerrard’s bullshit in the first few episodes and now he’s alone and homeless. Hardly seems fair to a character who has done so much growth over the past few seasons. Hen and Karen officially adopt Mara which means she is a permanent member of the Wilson family. Athena arrives at Maddie’s room where everyone is gathered, and is introduced to her and Chimney’s son. I love that she’s the last to arrive. I love these moments where the entire cast is gathered. Chimney hands Athena the baby and tells her they named him Robert Nash Han. And just in case your tear ducts weren’t already on full blast, Athena ends the episode by saying “Hello, Bobby.” We may have lost one Bobby Nash but we got another one.

That brings season eight to a close and man has this been a rollercoaster of a season. I don’t know how this season will stack up compared to the others but I will say that despite some moronic critiques of some of the latter episodes, I think this season gave us a lot of great moments. For me, the standout episodes of season eight are “Masks”, “Confessions”, “Voices”, “Lab Rats”, “The Last Alarm” and our current episode. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve rewatched “Masks”. Buck ripping off a dead man’s arm and screaming “He’s real” over and over again will never not be absolutely hilarious. On the flip side, seeing Tommy break up with Buck is another moment I will never forget. Speaking of Tommy, I am forever grateful for his inclusion this season. What started as a character we only saw in flashbacks turned into a love interest for Buck. And whether you think Tommy is/was a good partner for Buck, the one thing you can’t deny is that he’s the best romantic partner Buck has ever had, at least from the show’s POV. I hope we get to see more of Tommy and Lou Ferrigno Jr. next season.

We also got to see Hen and Karen win back custody of Mara after that horrible Olivia Ortiz orchestrated Mara’s removal from their home. I’m so glad Maddie and Chimney are in a good place because they went through hell at the start of 8B. I can’t wait to see them be parents to two kids next season. I’m sure Hen and Karen will have plenty of advice for them. Then we have Ravi. I want so much Ravi on this show. He’s so likable and he’s sort of everything Buck wasn’t when Buck joined their 118. I hope we get more of Ravi and Buck next season because I think their friendship is important. Buck needs more friends outside of his toxic friendship with Eddie. Speaking of Eddie, this man has yet to face any real consequences for his actions back in season seven. Unlike our other main characters, I found Eddie particularly frustrating this season. He quits the 118, hands his house over to Buck, buys a new house in El Paso and then a few episodes later he changes his mind. How?!? Surely Eddie is broke right now. Maybe we’ll explore that next season. I hate that we never got a real apology from Eddie regarding the couple of instances where he was really cruel to Buck. I hate that’s the dynamic of their friendship. Eddie messes up and Buck forgives him. Although I must say, Buck seemed pretty lukewarm on Eddie this episode. Then again, we really didn’t get much interaction between the two of them. Oh, by the way, before I forget … EIGHT SEASONS, NO BUDDIE!!! Insert meme of Marie LeVeau cackling. The Buddie shippers are self-destructing and I’m over here eating my popcorn and enjoying every minute of it. Not only did we (the sane part of the 9-1-1 fandom) tell you all that Buck and Eddie were not ending up together, the actors and Tim told you as well. But y’all were so content to live in your delusions.

Lastly, Athena will now have to go it alone. We have watched this woman lose her fiancé, get divorced, and then lose her second husband. How can any one person endure so much pain and heartbreak. But I believe that Athena will be okay. She is surrounded by people who love her. I wonder if we’ll see her date next season or if she’s going to be one of those people who is content with being single. Only time will tell. Thank you Tim Minear and all the writers, actors, producers, and behind-the-scene workers for another amazing season. It’s a wrap on season eight. See you next season! Enjoy your hiatus! Until next time …

[beifong-brainrot]

What are your favorite Beifong family headcanons?

Oooh that's a great ask. I have a lot of headcanons and I'm pretty sure I've talked about them a lot at least a few times, but I've tried to condense them as best I could!

I've rambled about my headcanons surrounding seismic sense but here's some more. The twins and Huan learnt seismic sense very early on in their lives and were provably encouraged to lean into it. Huan particularly has very well developed seismic sense. To the point where it makes him uncomfortable and he tends to shy away from using it by wearing thick socks or shoes.

When Kuvira first arrived to Zaofu, she didn't really get along with Baatar Jr. I can see Baatar Jr being very protective of Opal, since they were the two nonbenders of the family. I can see him not looking too kindly at whom he saw as his mother's attempt at having a "better daughter".

Kuvira and the twins are permanent parts of Suyin's dance troupe. (Canon for Kuvira.)

Due to not having much interaction with people outside the family, the Beifong kids are/were super close. Which leads to even more pain as they slowly untangle and mature.

They were also very close with the staff that worked at the manor and other of their family friends, due to this being their only social interactions outside family. Aiwei and the Chef (he only calls himself chef and never reveals his real name cause he used to be a pirate and is wanted in all four nations) are basically surrogate uncles to the kids.

It having been just the six of them, i can see it being hard for them to fully interact with new people.

Huan wanted to be a doctor as a kid and pretended to do operations on his siblings. Their father, a renown architect, even built them a little play hospital. The other Beifongs... weren't fans.

Kuvira enjoys bubble baths. That's it.

Wei collects crystals and cool looking rocks, similairly to how Su collects meteors. He's a nerd about it too. He has several opals and whenever he's in an argument with Opal he will dramatically move them to the back of his collection.

One of my fave silly headcanons/theories is Baatar Sr being Suki and Sokka's kid. Like, I know it's very unlikely, but it is a lovely idea in my head and I could ramble about it all day. I don't see a lot of people talking about it. I see plenty of people using Suyin's sons looking like Sokka as proof that Su is a Tokka baby, however the Beifong boys actually resemble their father a lot. Also I have plenty headcanons around this idea and Suki would be an epic grandma. Kyoshi warrior Opal (and the twins). Living in my head rent free. Forever.

Wing and Opal formed a little book club and like reading together/talking about books they've read. Their siblings aren't allowed to join. One time Kuvira and Wei crashed the little meeting and Wing was so offended he pretended to run away and join the circus.

When they were children, Kuvira was the ringleader for sure. She'd take the much more well behaved Beifong kids on wild adventures, after which they'd come back to the house covered in mud.

Wing is hard if hearing. Comes from that one scene where he sent Lin and Su to their deaths after misshearing Mako.

Aiwei was the first one to encourage Huan to pursue his artistic talents and most of Huan's first works are still in Aiwei's house.

Wei is named after Aiwei, but they already had a Juniour in the family, so he was named an abbreviation of his namesake.

Aiwei ultimately regrets betraying the Beifongs, to teh point where his nightmares in the Fog of Lost souls are about the Beifongs.

Can't believe Zaheer sent the only confirmed gay man ever shown on screen to super hell. Homophobia at its finest

Ugh you don't know how happy getting asks about the Beifong family makes me. Sorry if these were more focused on the Zaofu crew, I know they're not as popular as Lin and Toph but they are my faves.

[thegentlemanwarrior]

The Furnace and the Forge: How Viktor Frankl Helped Me Survive My Own Fire

I was ten years old when I learned that not all wounds bleed.

Most kids remember their school years through the lens of friends, field trips, and awkward classroom moments. I remember mine through fists and silence. I was bullied relentlessly—verbally, physically, emotionally. Mocked for how I looked. Targeted for things I couldn’t control. Once, I was thrown through a plate glass window. Not metaphorically. Literally.

The violence was constant. The names stuck. And the worst of it—the absolute worst—was when it happened in front of my younger sister. One afternoon, two boys jumped me on the walk home. I collapsed in the fetal position while she watched, unable to help. I wasn’t just hurting. I was humiliated. I was supposed to protect her. Instead, I was weeping on the pavement.

That was the fracture. Not just of bone, but of identity. A slow, poisonous lie began to form in my mind: “I deserve this. I must be broken.”

The scars weren’t just on my body. They settled into my spirit. And when the people who should have protected me—my parents, my teachers—responded with silence, with excuses, with shame, it confirmed what I feared: I wasn’t worth defending.

I carried that belief for years.

And then I read Man’s Search for Meaning.

Who Was Viktor Frankl?

Viktor Frankl was a neurologist, psychiatrist, and Holocaust survivor. Born in Vienna in 1905, he was a rising intellectual in the field of psychology—until the Nazis took everything from him.

Frankl, his wife, and his parents were deported to concentration camps. Only Frankl survived. He lost his family, his freedom, and the manuscript of his life’s work. He endured starvation, disease, forced labor, and the daily presence of death.

But in that darkness, Frankl discovered something profound.

He realized that even in the worst imaginable circumstances, humans have a choice: to decide how they respond. To find meaning in the suffering. To hold onto a purpose—no matter how small—that makes the pain endurable.

After the war, Frankl rebuilt his life and wrote Man’s Search for Meaning in just nine days. It became one of the most influential books of the 20th century, with over 12 million copies sold. But more than its reach, it was its truth that changed me.

What the Book Says

The book is divided into two parts.

The first is a haunting account of Frankl’s years in the camps. He doesn’t dramatize his suffering—he simply tells the truth. And that truth is brutal. But it’s also illuminating. He describes how prisoners who lost their sense of purpose gave up and died—not always physically, but spiritually. Those who survived, he noticed, often had something to live for: a child they hoped to see again, a manuscript they still hoped to write, a God they still believed in.

The second part introduces Frankl’s psychological philosophy: logotherapy. Unlike Freud’s focus on pleasure or Adler’s focus on power, Frankl insisted that the primary drive in life is meaning. When life loses meaning, we spiral. But when we find it—even in pain—we can endure almost anything.

His central idea is simple but seismic: “He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.”

What It Did to Me

When I first read Frankl’s book, I wasn’t looking for inspiration. I was trying to make sense of years of silent rage and shame. His story didn’t erase my past—but it reframed it.

For the first time, someone put into words what I had felt but couldn’t articulate: that suffering without purpose is unbearable, but suffering with purpose can be redemptive.

Frankl’s survival wasn’t just physical—it was philosophical. He found a reason to endure. And in doing so, he offered the rest of us a path forward.

I began to look at my own pain differently.

What if those years of humiliation weren’t proof that I was worthless, but evidence that I had survived something meant to break me?

What if my story could become fuel—for compassion, for fatherhood, for faith?

What if the blacksmith image Frankl evokes—a sword hammered and heated again and again—wasn’t just theory, but truth? Maybe my suffering wasn’t senseless. Maybe it was the forge.

That’s what Man’s Search for Meaning gave me. Not a way out, but a way through. A reason to keep showing up. A challenge to find purpose, not in spite of the pain, but because of it.

If you're walking through something brutal right now, I won't offer you platitudes. But I’ll echo Frankl:

Your suffering doesn’t have to define you. It can refine you.

Meaning doesn’t erase the pain. But it transforms it—from a weight to a weapon.

And sometimes, that’s what saves you.