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brookghaib-blog · 1 month ago

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Loose Ends

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: Y/N and Bob meet at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, both struggling with addiction. They form a deep bond that slowly grows into love. When Bob suddenly disappears, Y/N relapses and falls apart. Months later, Bob returns, determined to help her heal. Together, they face their pasts and find hope and love in each other’s arms.

Word count: 11,6k

Warning: Drug addiction, depression, self-esteem issues, sexual themes, suicidal thoughts

Note: Based on this request! I'm back for a bit, responding to the requests, just a reminder that I don't respond to the messages on the box to keep them in order and to read them, I do read everything you send me, and if I feel like your idea it's not meant to be written by me, I'll tell you!

The folding chairs creaked beneath restless bodies, the stale scent of burnt coffee and old books clinging to the small community room like ghosts of relapses past. It was just another Tuesday night, but for Bob Reynolds, it felt like his first day on Earth. The fluorescent lights were too bright, the circle of strangers too close, and every eye felt like it was boring straight through his skin.

He didn’t want to be here. But he didn’t want to be anywhere else, either.

Bob sat hunched, his fingers twitching in his lap. His knuckles were red, cracked from the cold and the endless clenching of fists that used to hold glass pipes. He hadn’t spoken to anyone when he walked in. Just nodded awkwardly at the man with the clipboard and found the nearest empty seat. He could feel the tremors under his skin, the echo of a chemical hunger that had hollowed him out for years. It was his first meeting. The beginning of something he didn’t quite believe in yet.

She was already there when he walked in.

Y/N sat across the circle from him—her back straight, hands resting neatly in her lap, a calmness in her posture that said she had done this before. She looked…clean. Not in the way the program used the word, but in a way that radiated control. Confidence. She was beautiful—he noticed that instantly, though guilt pricked the edge of the thought. Her hair was tucked behind one ear, her eyes sharp but gentle, scanning the room like she was watching for someone who might need saving.

She didn’t look at him.

Not at first.

When it came time for introductions, Bob’s voice almost gave out. His throat burned with dryness and shame. “I’m Bob,” he managed, eyes fixed on the floor. “And I’ve been clean for… three days.”

The silence that followed was heavy but not cruel. It was filled with understanding, a quiet solidarity. A few nodded. One man said, “Keep coming back.” Bob barely heard him.

But she looked at him then.

Y/N’s gaze lifted, met his like a flicker of light through a crack in a door. Something sparked—just for a second. Not recognition. Not sympathy. Something gentler. Something that could have been hope, or maybe just human connection.

After the meeting, people filtered out in quiet pairs and solitary steps. Bob lingered, unsure of whether he should leave or stay, his hands shoved into his hoodie pocket like they might keep him from falling apart. He didn’t notice her approach until she was right in front of him.

“Hey,” she said softly, a small, almost hesitant smile tugging at her lips. “First meeting?”

He blinked. Nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

“I figured. You did good.” Her voice wasn’t patronizing. It wasn’t fake. It was just… kind. “Three days is still three days. That’s something.”

Bob shifted, a bit uncomfortable. “Thanks.”

She extended her hand. “I’m Y/N. I’ve been clean for three months.”

He stared at her hand for a moment before taking it. Her grip was firm but warm. “Bob.”

“I know,” she smiled again, gently teasing, “you said that earlier.”

His face flushed. “Right. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” she said, and he could tell she meant it. “I just… wanted to say hi. First meetings can feel like hell. Thought you might want someone to talk to.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Part of him did want to talk—scream, even—but the words didn’t come easy anymore. Not after the meth, not after the years of silence and paranoia, not after everything he’d lost.

But her kindness… it didn’t ask for anything. It didn’t probe. She was just there, steady and unflinching, like she knew what it was like to come in broken and be too afraid to admit it.

“I appreciate it,” he said finally. And he did.

She nodded. “Maybe I’ll see you next week?”

He almost said “I don’t know.” Almost said “probably not.” But then he caught the faintest trace of something in her eyes—something haunted. Like maybe she hadn’t really come back to these meetings just to stay on track. Maybe she was here because, like him, part of her still longed for the high. Still dreamed of it, teeth grinding in the night, heart racing at phantom memories.

“Yeah,” he said instead. “Maybe.”

She left then, offering him one last soft smile before disappearing through the double doors.

Bob stayed behind a few more minutes, staring at the spot she’d stood. The ghost of her warmth lingered like a handprint on his chest. For the first time in months—maybe years—he didn’t feel entirely alone.

And for the first time since the meth left him hollow, he wanted to come back. Not just to stay clean.

But to see her again.

It started with short glances after meetings—awkward smiles, mumbled goodbyes. Y/N always sat three chairs from the front, her posture perfect, her clothes crisp and clean like she’d stepped out of a magazine ad for recovery itself. She was the kind of person people imagined when they thought of someone who had “made it out.”

Bob… wasn’t.

He always sat in the back. Always kept his hoodie on. Always looked at the floor when he spoke—if he spoke. Most weeks, he didn’t. Most weeks, he just listened. But he watched her. Not in the way men stared at beautiful women, though God, she was beautiful. She had a glow to her—not from makeup or hair or skin, but from something inside her. A steadiness. A quiet strength. Something that felt unreachable to someone like him.

He figured she wouldn’t even notice him. Why would she? She had her life together. She was healing. He was still trying to figure out how to stop shaking in the mornings, how to sleep without his skin crawling. But then, one night, she looked at him. Really looked. And something shifted.

But after every meeting, she walked up to him—confident, open, her smile soft but not pitying.

They talked, just a little, about the weather, the meeting, what he thought of the group. And he barely said more than two sentences, but she didn’t seem to mind. She carried the conversation with warmth and patience, like she knew what it was like to forget how to use your voice.

That was how it started.

Weeks passed, and the after-meeting conversations grew longer. Slowly. Naturally. She never rushed him. Never filled silence with noise. Just stood there beside him, sipping her tea or twisting her car keys in her fingers, letting the minutes stretch as he searched for the right words.

Then came coffee. Then a walk. Then dinner—sober bars, late-night diners, quiet sidewalks lit by streetlamps and the occasional hum of traffic.

They became friends.

Bob didn’t even notice how much he looked forward to her texts until he found himself checking his phone every few hours. She’d send him memes she thought he’d like. Songs with sad lyrics. Random photos of dogs she saw on her lunch break. It wasn’t flirtation—not exactly. It was something deeper. It was her letting him see the pieces of her life she still held close. And she let him into them, one bit at a time.

He couldn’t understand her sometimes—how someone so composed could be so kind to someone like him. She had a nice apartment with bookshelves and candles and a cat that hated everyone but her. She had a real job in a building with windows and desks and coffee machines that weren’t broken. She had friends who called her on weekends and inside jokes he didn’t get but loved hearing. To him, she was the kind of person who made surviving look easy.

But she never made him feel small.

He remembered sitting across from her at that booth in the bar, his fingers wrapped around a club soda, watching her pick at her napkin. Something in her was different that night—quieter, more distant. She wasn’t smiling. Not really.

“You okay?” he’d asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

She paused, then said, “Yeah.” But it didn’t land. Her eyes flickered toward the floor, and her fingers kept pulling the napkin into smaller and smaller pieces. Finally, she looked up and sighed.

“You ever wonder how I ended up at NA?” she asked.

Bob frowned. “No,” he said quietly. “But I bet a lot of people do.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Because you’re the kind of person people look at and think you’ve got it all figured out,” he continued. “You’re… steady. You show up. You laugh at people’s bad jokes. You hold your head up even when you’re having a shit day. You’re the girl everyone wants to believe gets out clean.”

Something cracked in her expression. A flash of pain. A memory rising too fast.

She leaned back, her drink untouched. The light caught her face just right—made her look like someone caught between the past and the present. Then she started to talk.

“I used to work at a club,” she said, slowly. “Not a dive. Not some hole-in-the-wall. This was elite. Velvet ropes, celebrities, champagne towers. Girls like me wore thousand-dollar heels and smiles that hurt by the end of the night. Rich men loved it. We were ornaments to them.”

Bob listened, silent.

“I had friends there. A boyfriend. We were the pretty ones, the ones everyone else envied. Coke was just part of it. Like perfume. Everyone used. Everyone smiled. Nobody asked questions.”

She looked down at her drink, eyes glassy.

“Then he started hitting me.”

Bob’s heart dropped. His grip on the glass tightened.

“Not with fists. Not at first. Just words. Isolation. Manipulation. He said I was his, that he was protecting me. From other men. From myself. I believed him.”

Her voice broke then, and she swallowed hard.

“He started using me. Stole from me. Made me feel like nothing without him. And when I was too broken to fight back, he left. Took my money, my name, everything. Ran off with some other girl who probably believed his lies the way I did.”

She laughed once—sharp and hollow.

“My friends? They turned their backs. One of them slept with him before he even left me. They all knew. They let it happen.”

Bob felt something ache in his chest. Not pity—grief. Anger. Empathy.

“And my job? The one place I thought I still had control?” She shook her head. “It turned ugly. Backroom deals. ‘VIP experiences.’ They called it empowerment. But it wasn’t. I was spiraling, and the only thing that felt good anymore was the coke.”

She finally looked at him, and there were tears she wouldn’t let fall.

“I didn’t want to feel. I just wanted to disappear.”

Bob reached for her hand, unsure at first. But when she didn’t pull away, he held it, firm and steady.

“You’re not that girl anymore,” he said, voice rough. “You got out.”

“Barely.”

“But you did.”

She looked at him like he didn’t understand. But he did. God, he did.

“You think I’m strong,” she whispered. “But I’m not.”

Bob shook his head. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

The silence between them stretched long after she finished speaking. The kind of silence that didn't demand to be filled, only understood. Bob’s hand was still loosely curled around hers, but his thumb had stopped moving. He was frozen in place, staring at her with this look—somewhere between guilt and awe, like he was still trying to understand how someone who had been through that could still look at him the way she did.

Then he broke.

It was quiet at first, a barely-there tremor in his voice. “I’ve been lying,” he said.

Y/N looked up, her eyes soft and tired. “About what?”

Bob’s throat tightened. It felt like trying to swallow glass.

“I’m not… clean,” he whispered. “Not really. I mean—I go to the meetings. I want to stop. God, I do. But… I haven’t. Not fully. Not yet.”

He couldn’t look at her. His shame was too loud. Too real. He kept his eyes on the table, watching the condensation drip from his untouched drink onto the wood. He was bracing himself—for disappointment, disgust, maybe even pity. He didn’t know which would hurt more.

But Y/N didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull her hand away. She didn’t move at all.

“I know,” she said quietly.

That made him look at her. His eyes were wide, startled, and for a moment he looked almost like a child caught sneaking out of the house.

“You… knew?”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah. I figured it out a while ago.”

Bob’s face fell. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because,” she said gently, “I know what that shame feels like. I know what it’s like to wake up every day telling yourself this is the last time—only to fall right back into it by sunset. I know what it’s like to look in the mirror and hate what you see, but still not be able to stop.”

She paused, her voice growing softer, like she was afraid it might crack. “I knew because I used to be you.”

Bob blinked fast, trying to keep the tears from spilling. His throat burned, and the knot in his chest tightened with each word she spoke.

“I used to show up to meetings high out of my mind,” she continued. “Sat in the back row with sunglasses on, nodding like I understood recovery while my brain was still buzzing. I smiled when people clapped for my fake milestones. I told everyone I was clean because I wanted them to believe I could be.”

A shaky breath escaped her. “But I couldn’t even believe it myself.”

Bob felt his shoulders slump. The weight of everything—the guilt, the pretending, the fear—pressed down on him like a thousand bricks. But somehow, her words made it feel just a little bit lighter. Not because she excused him. But because she understood.

“I hate who I am when I use,” he said. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

Y/N leaned in, her voice almost a whisper. “You’re still in there, Bob. He’s still in there. You’re just lost right now. And that’s okay.”

“It doesn’t feel okay.”

“I know,” she said. “It never does.”

He looked at her, his eyes glassy, his hands trembling slightly. “I thought if I got clean, you’d finally see me as someone worth knowing.”

Her face crumpled—not with pity, but something deeper. Something closer to heartbreak.

“I already see you,” she said. “I see how you listen to people when they talk, even when you don’t say much. I see how you text back with full sentences, like you’re trying so hard not to sound messed up even when you feel like you are. I see the way you show up—even when you’re still using. You’re trying. That means something.”

Bob looked away, ashamed all over again. “Trying doesn’t feel like enough.”

She reached out, her hand brushing his cheek. “It is. Right now, it is.”

And then, without asking, she pulled him into a hug. It wasn’t gentle or careful. It was desperate—like she was trying to hold together all the broken pieces of him before they fell through her fingers. And Bob, whose body hadn’t been held without expectation or violence in years, melted into her.

He let the tears fall. Quietly. Messily. Into her shirt, which smelled like vanilla and rain. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t rush him. Just held him tighter, like maybe if she held on long enough, he might start believing in his own worth too.

“I’m scared,” he whispered into her shoulder.

“I know,” she said. “Me too.”

They stayed like that for a long time—two recovering souls on the edge of something raw and fragile, holding onto each other in a world that didn’t offer many safe places.

Bob didn’t know what would happen tomorrow. If he’d relapse again. If he’d lose this fragile thing growing between them. But in that moment, with her arms around him and her voice steady in his ear, he felt something he hadn’t in a long time:

Hope.

Even if it was cracked and trembling.

From that night on, something shifted.

She was there. That was what mattered.

Sometimes it was subtle—a soft text before his meetings, “You’ve got this. Even if you don’t feel like it.” Other times it was more direct. Sitting beside him when the urge itched under his skin so badly he thought he might peel it off. Making tea in her little kitchen while he shook on her couch in the middle of a sleepless, twitching night. She never asked for explanations. She never recoiled from the ugly.

She just stayed.

Bob didn’t know how to thank her, not really. Words felt too small for the way she seemed to see through all the rot and wreckage and still come closer. He hadn’t had that before. Not when he was sober. Not when he was using. Not even before he broke into pieces. Most people ran. But not her.

She stayed.

He lost his apartment two months later.

The landlord had already been breathing down his neck for weeks. Bob had stopped opening his mail, knowing each envelope only echoed his failures in ink and numbers. The eviction came quietly. There wasn’t even a real fight. Just a cold knock on the door, a brief, awkward interaction with a man who wouldn’t make eye contact, and a few garbage bags of his life left on the curb like they were waiting for the trash collector.

He didn’t have anywhere to go. He didn’t even call anyone. He just sat on the sidewalk for what felt like hours, his arms wrapped around his knees, a duffle bag pressed against his chest like a shield. The sky went gray and then darker, and he didn’t cry. He just shut down.

Y/N found him like that.

She didn’t say “I told you so,” or ask why he hadn’t called. She just stood over him, arms crossed, a bag of groceries still dangling from her wrist. Her eyes softened the second she saw his face.

“Come home,” she said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Home.

That word hit harder than he expected.

It wasn’t a big place, her apartment. Just a one-bedroom tucked into a quiet neighborhood that smelled like old leaves and coffee in the mornings. Her couch wasn’t comfortable, and her shower leaked sometimes, and her fridge hummed too loudly—but it was safe. It was warm. It was hers. And when she opened that door for him, Bob felt like she was opening it to something bigger than just a place to sleep.

She gave him a key a few weeks later. Not with a big speech or anything. She just placed it on the kitchen counter beside a fresh mug of coffee and said, “Figured it might be easier than buzzing me in every night.”

Bob held the key in his hand for almost an hour before he worked up the nerve to put it on his keychain.

Time passed in fragile, unsteady weeks.

He helped around the apartment—washed dishes, cleaned windows, tried to make himself useful in small, quiet ways that wouldn’t make him feel like a burden. Y/N never made him feel like one, but the weight lived in his bones anyway. He couldn’t help it.

Eventually, she helped him find another job. It wasn’t anything fancy—a delivery driver for a small company on the edge of town—but it paid enough for groceries and gave him something to do that didn’t involve pacing and self-hate. On the days when the cravings got too loud, he’d text her mid-shift and she’d send something back fast. A joke. A memory. A stupid meme. Something to tether him.

He told her once that her words were like sandbags during a flood. She didn’t know what to say to that, so she just hugged him.

Over time, their routines melted together.

He cooked when she worked late. She made playlists to help with his insomnia. They sat on the floor together on Sunday mornings, sorting laundry and talking about nothing in particular. She showed him old childhood photos once, laughing at her awful middle school haircut, and he caught himself smiling so hard it hurt. He hadn’t smiled like that in years.

They still went to meetings together. Sometimes he didn’t want to. Sometimes he said he was tired, or too anxious, or not in the mood. She never forced him. But she always asked if she could drive him anyway. And somehow, her presence always made it feel a little easier.

Bob started counting the days.

Not just his clean days—though he did that too, quietly, afraid of jinxing it—but the days with her. The ones where he woke up to the smell of her shampoo and the soft creak of her kitchen cabinet. The ones where they watched old movies on her laptop and fell asleep side-by-side on the couch, legs tangled like roots.

He didn’t call it love. Not yet. He didn’t think he was allowed to.

But he called it safe.

And for someone who had lived most of his life either chasing the high or drowning in the aftermath, safe felt like the rarest, most impossible thing in the world.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when she was asleep and everything was still, he’d look at her—curled up on the edge of the bed, one hand under her cheek, breathing softly—and wonder what he’d done to deserve any of this. The softness. The safety. Her.

He didn’t know the answer.

But he hoped—desperately, silently—that whatever it was, he could hold onto it a little longer.

They both remembered that day. The moment it shifted—not with drama or confessions, not with a kiss or tears—but with something quieter. Softer. The kind of shift that feels like the slow blooming of spring after a long, bitter winter.

It was a Saturday.

The kind that starts already warm, with golden sunlight leaking through the windows before either of them stirred. Y/N had woken first, barefoot on the creaky floorboards, hair a sleepy mess, moving like someone who didn’t feel the need to rush. Bob followed soon after, drawn to the smell of coffee and the sound of toast popping up from the kitchen. It was simple. Easy. The kind of morning people write poems about—not because it was extraordinary, but because it was still.

They ate breakfast on the balcony. Two mismatched mugs. A chipped plate between them, loaded with scrambled eggs and strawberries, toast buttered to the corners like she always did. The city murmured beneath them—distant laughter, someone walking their dog, a child shrieking joyfully two stories below. A car honked, then another. Life rolled on steadily, like background music.

Y/N was leaned back in her chair, her legs tucked under her, head tilted back with her eyes closed. Her face was bathed in sunlight, and for a moment she looked untouchable. Serene in a way Bob had never known serenity. Her lips were slightly parted, like she’d forgotten the world and was letting the sun warm all the parts of her she usually kept hidden.

Bob watched her. Not like he meant to. Not like he knew how to stop.

She was beautiful, yes. He always thought that. But there was something else about her in that moment. Something real. Not the kind of beauty that came from makeup or a pretty dress, but the kind that came from surviving. From healing. From being the kind of person who made a broken man feel safe again.

He sipped his coffee, trying to distract himself from the way his chest ached.

“This is nice,” he said quietly, more to the air than to her. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt… this peaceful before.”

Y/N hummed, the sound low and soft in her throat. Her eyes stayed closed. She didn’t need to see him to hear the weight in his voice. She knew what peace meant for someone like him—someone whose mind often felt like a battlefield.

“I like Saturdays,” she said simply. “It’s the only day people slow down.”

He looked at her, then. Really looked.

There was sunlight tangled in her lashes. A faint smile resting on her lips. Her skin glowing in that effortless way it always did when she didn’t care how she looked. She was… real. Right in front of him, not some dream or distant kindness, but here. Tangible.

She opened her eyes slowly, as if she’d felt his gaze. And when she looked back at him, it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t fleeting.

It was deliberate.

Like she was seeing him all over again.

Her expression shifted, just slightly—softening at the edges. And in a movement so smooth, so casual and intimate it stole his breath, she reached across the table and took his hand.

Not forcefully. Not nervously.

She simply lifted it and placed it gently on her lap. Her other hand settled on top of his, warm and still. Then, like nothing had changed, she tilted her head back again, letting the sun hit her face as if nothing in the world was worth worrying about.

Bob didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

His heart was beating so loudly he was sure she could hear it through his ribs. His hand, resting in hers, felt clumsy and awkward, like it didn’t know what to do with the sudden weight of tenderness. Her thumb brushed lightly over his knuckles, and that tiny movement nearly undid him.

He looked at her again.

And God, she looked peaceful.

His eyes traced every detail of her face—the soft curve of her mouth, the sunlight catching on the fine strands of her hair, the faint crease between her brows that never quite disappeared, even when she was relaxed. She was everything. She had been everything, and now she was here, holding his hand like it was nothing.

Like it was normal.

And something inside him cracked—not painfully, but openly. Like a locked door finally swinging inward. He felt it happen. Felt the ache in his chest rearrange itself into something terrifying and warm and real.

He was in love with her.

Not in the loud, desperate way he’d felt about people before. Not in the chasing-highs, clinging-to-anything kind of love. This was different. This was the kind of love that crept in when you weren’t looking. That grew roots under your skin while you were busy surviving.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did she.

But that silence was full of things. Full of knowing.

The sunlight stretched across their hands, warm and gold. The sound of life continued beneath them—cars, people, wind through leaves. But none of it mattered. Not really.

Because in that stillness, with her thumb brushing his skin and his heart thudding in his chest, Bob realized what had changed.

Being in love with someone you know isn’t yours wasn’t just painful—it was paralyzing.

Bob never made a move. Not once. But neither did she.

They both danced in that unspoken space between friendship and something more, circling around each other like they were afraid to touch the glass. A look held just a second too long. A brush of fingers that lingered. Long walks in silence that said too much, and late-night conversations that always stopped just short of the truth. The kind of closeness that felt like a secret.

Y/N wasn’t dumb. She felt it. She saw it—in the way he watched her when he thought she wasn’t looking, in the way his voice softened when he said her name. She wasn’t imagining the weight in the air when he sat too close, or how her heart quickened when his hand brushed hers and he didn’t pull away.

She wanted him.

God, she wanted him. And maybe it wasn’t logical or safe or even the right time—but love never listened to reason.

So she planned something.

Just for him.

She spent days thinking about it—what she would cook, what she would wear, how she would decorate the table, how she would finally, finally tell him. Not in some dramatic, tear-filled moment. Not with trembling hands or grand speeches. Just something real. Something warm and quiet, like the way they’d grown close in the first place.

He liked lasagna. She remembered him saying it once, half-laughing over some bland cafeteria food, admitting it was the only thing his mom ever made that felt like home. So she made it from scratch. Spent hours on it, hands dusted in flour and cheeks flushed from leaning over the oven. She lit candles—real ones, not the battery-powered kind—and strung up warm lights in the kitchen so everything looked golden and soft. A single bottle of white wine sat in a bucket of ice—because he never liked red, said it was “too bitter, like medicine.”

She even made a cake. Small and simple, chocolate with vanilla icing, and piped onto the top in slightly messy, trembling letters were three words she’d rehearsed a thousand times but never said: I love you.

The clock ticked.

6 p.m. came and went.

Then 6:15.

7:00.

She didn’t panic at first. Maybe he lost track of time. Maybe he was caught up in something. Maybe he was just being Bob—flighty and quiet and a little scattered when his mind took over.

But then 8:30 arrived. The lasagna was cold. The wine sweat into the tablecloth. The cake sat untouched, the words slowly blurring as the icing melted in the heat of the flickering candles.

She stared at her phone.

No texts.

No missed calls.

No excuses.

Something in her chest started to turn. That creeping kind of worry that starts in the stomach and climbs. Maybe something happened. Maybe he got hurt. Maybe he was using again. Maybe he was lying somewhere in a hospital bed or curled up in some alley trying to remember his name. Maybe he was dead.

Her mind spiraled.

She grabbed her phone again—called this time. Straight to voicemail. Again. Again. Again. Each unanswered ring was like a punch to the ribs.

By 10 p.m., the worry became something else. Something sharp. She stood there in her kitchen, surrounded by the dinner she made in his name, and felt something in her begin to crack. Her eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. Not yet.

She told herself maybe he’d show up. Maybe he’d knock on the door, stammering and apologizing, saying he got caught somewhere or panicked or forgot—but that he cared. That he wanted to be here.

But it never came.

And when the candles began to flicker low, and the silence got too loud, she finally gave up.

She made her way toward her room to grab a jacket—planning to go out and look for him, even if it meant driving through every alley and knocking on every shelter door. Her heart was a thunderstorm in her chest. Her thoughts screaming. She just wanted to see him. To know.

Then she saw it.

Sitting there on her bed.

A piece of paper—ripped from one of the journals he used to scribble in when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. Her name wasn’t on it. There was no date. But the moment she saw it, she knew.

She walked over slowly, her hands shaking before she even touched the paper.

It wasn’t long. Just one sentence, scribbled in a hurried hand that barely looked like his.

You don’t deserve this. I’m sorry.

That was it.

No explanation. No goodbye. Just a wound left open on her bedspread, in the space where she had once dreamed of him waking up beside her.

The paper fell from her hand.

And then she cried.

Not the pretty kind of crying. Not the kind with delicate tears and soft sobs. It was the ugly kind—the kind that split her open from the inside, pulled a scream from her throat that she buried into her palms because she couldn’t let the neighbors hear. She sank to her knees on the floor, arms wrapped around herself like it was the only thing keeping her together.

He was gone.

And the worst part wasn’t even that he left.

It was that he believed she didn’t deserve him. That he couldn’t let her love him. That he thought the best gift he could give her was his absence.

And she would’ve taken him broken. She wanted him broken. She loved him broken. But he never gave her the chance.

The lasagna sat untouched.

The wine lost its chill.

The cake slowly collapsed under the weight of the words she never got to say.

And Y/N, alone in a house full of candlelight and cold food, sat in the ruins of the future she tried to give them.

Losing Bob didn’t feel like a heartbreak.

It felt like death.

A quiet kind of death. The kind that doesn’t come with sirens or funerals, just silence. A sudden stillness in her chest, like her heart stopped beating the moment he left, and never remembered how to start again.

At first, she tried to be strong. She told herself that she was used to pain. She'd survived worse. She’d crawled out of hell once before—out of abuse, betrayal, withdrawal, shaking in cold sweats on cheap apartment floors. She had survived so many versions of herself that died in the dark.

She told herself she could survive this too.

But it didn’t take long to realize that she hadn’t just loved Bob.

She had fallen for him. Tripped and tumbled and crashed headfirst into something raw and consuming and real. She hadn’t seen it coming—not in the quiet mornings on her balcony, not in the way he said her name, not in the long, wordless car rides. But somewhere between those moments, it had happened.

And when he disappeared, it felt like someone had torn out a part of her and left a bleeding hole in its place.

She tried not to spiral. God, she tried.

She went to her meetings. She smiled when her sponsor checked in. She told her friends she was fine, that she was just tired, just busy, just needing space.

But every time she walked down the street, she looked. Every alley. Every shelter. Every bench with someone sleeping under a thin blanket. Every set of shoulders hunched low, every man with blond hair or slumped posture. Her eyes scanned faces like a prayer, like maybe he would just appear, just be there, as if the universe could feel how much she needed him to still exist in it.

Every time her phone buzzed, her heart leapt. And every time it wasn’t him, it sank deeper. And deeper.

Nights were worse.

She’d sit in the same kitchen where she once set out candles and wine and cake and a stupid little lasagna, and she’d stare at the empty chair across from her and ache. Ache in places that weren’t physical. Ache in memories that hadn’t even had a chance to happen. Her mind filled in the blanks—what he might’ve said if he’d shown up, how he would’ve looked smiling across the table, how his hand would’ve felt in hers if he let himself stay.

But he didn’t stay.

He left.

And with that single note, he shattered her belief in being enough. In being someone worth staying for.

The worst part? She didn’t even blame him.

She knew what it was like to feel like poison. To believe that your presence only infected the people who cared. Bob had been fragile, so delicate in his guilt and fear. He wore shame like skin, like every good thing that touched him was going to rot from the inside out.

But even knowing that didn’t dull the sting. It didn’t stop the nightmares. It didn’t stop the longing.

And longing—it’s dangerous.

It’s quiet at first. A whisper in the back of your mind. A thought you tell yourself to shake off: Where is he now?

But it grows. It grows until it becomes obsession. Until your fingers start to shake when you see a syringe in a movie. Until your throat tightens when someone says the word “meth” at a meeting and you think of his face. Until your mind starts to scream just to feel anything again, because loving him was something, and now you feel nothing.

She lasted three weeks.

Three weeks of pretending.

Three weeks of smiling and lying and checking her phone like it might still save her.

And then she relapsed.

She didn’t remember making the choice—not really. It wasn’t a grand decision. It was a moment. A crack in the armor. A single bad night where the world felt too quiet and her heart felt too loud and she thought: Just once. Just something to make this stop.

But addiction doesn’t take “just once” as an answer.

It came back like a flood. Like it had been waiting for her, just behind the door, and the second she opened it, it crashed over her and pulled her under.

And with the high came the silence.

And the shame.

And the slow realization that she had lost not only Bob, but herself.

She started canceling meetings. Ignoring friends. Skipping work until her job sent a warning email. She stayed in bed until the afternoon, curtains drawn, phone face-down on the nightstand. She hated herself. She hated the weakness. She hated that all it took was love—just love—to unravel everything she’d worked so hard to rebuild.

She’d told herself she didn’t need anyone.

She had her life together.

She had her own apartment, a good job, sobriety, control.

And she lost it all for him.

And still, even as the drugs blurred her mind and numbed her pain, she found herself crying in the middle of it. Crying for the way he said her name. Crying for the way he looked at her that last morning on the balcony, when the sun lit his face and his hand sat warm in hers. Crying because maybe, just maybe, he had loved her too.

But she would never know.

Because he was gone.

And she was no longer strong.

And the cocaine didn’t fill the hole. It just made it harder to breathe around it.

She thought she was better than this.

She thought love couldn’t break her.

But it did.

And now she was just another ghost of herself, whispering “I love you” to an empty bed, and trying to remember who she was before she let someone in.

Bob had imagined this moment a thousand times.

He’d practiced what he would say on flights, in mirrors, in the shower, in dreams. He’d imagined her face when she saw him again—maybe surprised, maybe angry, maybe even relieved. But never this.

He stood at her door with a sick feeling in his chest. Four months. Four months of silence, four months of guilt rotting him from the inside out. Every day, he woke up with her name in his mouth. He should’ve stayed. God, he should’ve stayed.

When the door finally opened, Bob braced himself.

But nothing could’ve prepared him for her.

Y/N stood there like a shadow of the girl he left behind.

So thin—painfully thin, her cheekbones sharp, collarbones jutting out beneath a baggy shirt that hung off her frame like a flag of surrender. Her skin had lost its glow, pale and dull, with purple rings under her eyes like bruises of exhaustion and grief. Her hair was a tangled mess, thrown up haphazardly like she hadn’t touched it in days. The light in her eyes—the one that used to make him feel human again—was gone. Just hollow, glassy, and so very tired.

And her apartment… it was chaos.

Pill bottles on the table. Empty glasses. Dishes unwashed in the sink. Blinds closed tight against the sun. It smelled like stillness and sleep and stale air. Like a place where nothing lived, only lingered.

He stepped back like her pain had hit him physically.

“Y/N…” he whispered, stunned, his voice cracking on her name.

She blinked at him like she didn’t believe he was real. Her mouth parted slightly, chest rising and falling as if she’d forgotten how to breathe.

Then her lip trembled. And she began to cry.

Not soft, cinematic tears. But ugly, shattering sobs. Her whole body shook as she clutched the door frame for balance, the sound ripping out of her like it had been waiting—building—for months. A scream with no voice.

“Don’t—don’t look at me,” she whispered between sobs, covering her face. “Please don’t look at me like this…”

He stepped forward instinctively. “Hey—no, no—Y/N, please—”

But she flinched, not away from him, but from herself. Her shame was a weight, choking her, burying her. “I—I was doing so well, Bob. I had it under control,” she choked out. “I was going to tell you. I was going to tell you that I loved you, and that I believed in you, and you left—and I—I thought you died—I thought you were dead or you hated me—”

“I didn’t hate you,” Bob interrupted, tears filling his own eyes now, voice hoarse. “I never hated you. I hated myself.”

She looked up at him finally, really looked at him—his cleaner face, clearer eyes, steadier hands. And then came another wave of tears. She sank down right there on the floor, knees to her chest, sobbing into her arms. “I relapsed,” she confessed in a broken whisper. “I fell apart without you. And I hate that. I hate that I needed you so badly. I hate how weak I am.”

Bob dropped to his knees in front of her, overwhelmed by the wreckage—wreckage he caused. He touched her face with trembling hands, wiping the tears as they kept falling. “You’re not weak,” he said. “You’re not.”

She shook her head. “I was strong. Before you. Before I—before I loved you.”

Bob’s heart cracked wide open.

“I thought I had everything,” she went on, broken and breathless. “I thought I didn’t need anything else. And then you walked into that stupid meeting, and I felt something. And I didn’t know how fast it could all fall apart. How fast I could fall apart.”

“I’m so sorry,” Bob whispered. “I thought I was protecting you. I thought walking away would stop me from ruining your life. I didn’t realize I already had.”

She buried her face in his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around her like he never wanted to let go again. Her body was small against him, fragile, shaking with all the tears that never had a place to go until now.

“I’m clean,” he said against her hair. “I did it. I got better. I wanted to be better. For me. But also for you. Because I knew that if I ever came back, I wanted to stand in front of you and say it honestly. That I fought through it. That I made it.”

Her hands clung to the fabric of his jacket like a lifeline.

“I don’t care,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “I don’t care that you left. I just wanted to know you were okay. I looked for you. For months. Every street corner. Every man with your exact same hair. Every time my phone buzzed, I hoped—God, I hoped—”

Bob kissed the top of her head. “I should’ve come back sooner. I’m so sorry.”

She cried harder, but her arms wrapped around him now, pulling him closer, like even if she couldn’t forgive him yet, she couldn’t bear to let him go again.

He sat there with her, on the floor of the life she’d been drowning in. And he didn’t try to fix it. He didn’t offer empty promises. He just held her. Held her and cried with her and let the silence between them say all the things they couldn’t yet.

He didn’t wait.

The moment he had her in his arms—shaking, thin, breaking—Bob couldn’t hold it back anymore. The words came in a rush, tumbling out between gulps of breath and trembling hands. He told her everything.

About Malaysia. About how he ran, numb and wild, not knowing where he was going, only knowing that he had to disappear before he destroyed her too. About the facility, the experimentation, the people who found him, used him, saved him, controlled him. About what they made him—what he became.

She listened with wide, disbelieving eyes as he spoke of strength he never asked for, powers that tore at his mind, a glowing blue rage that lived inside him like a second heartbeat. The violence. The void. The silence that followed every mission.

“I’m not… just Bob anymore,” he whispered, forehead pressed against hers, voice cracking. “They call me something else now. Sentry. Some hero with power that terrifies the people who made me. But I still feel like me… like the junkie who walked into that meeting room trying not to die. I still feel like the man who forgot how to breathe until you looked at him.”

She stared at him, dazed, her fingers tightening on the sleeves of his coat. Her thoughts were spiraling—circling like vultures around her mind. He was back. And not just back—transformed. Elevated. Resurrected in some impossible way.

The man she loved walked out broken and came back untouchable.

And she was still here. Still small and wrecked and ashamed and relapsed. Her chest felt tight. She didn’t know whether to fall to her knees in worship or scream. Her sobs returned—not because of what he said, but because of what it meant.

“You’re a hero,” she whispered, voice thin and hollow. “And I’m nothing. I couldn’t even make it four months without you. I—” Her voice cracked. “I was doing so good, and I lost it. You went and fought demons, and I couldn’t even fight a line of powder.”

Bob shook his head violently. “Don’t do that. Don’t.”

“It’s true.”

“No,” he whispered. “No, Y/N. You don’t get to erase everything you were to me. You saved me. You gave me a bed when I was sleeping on floors. You made me my favorite meals. You held my hand when I thought I didn’t deserve to be touched.”

His eyes burned.

“And you never asked me to be anything other than a man trying his best. Why would I ask you for more than that now?”

She bit her lip so hard it bled. The tears kept falling. Her voice was barely audible when she spoke again. “But now you’re strong. And good. And whole.”

Bob laughed—choked, broken. “I’m not whole,” he said, almost angry. “Jesus, Y/N, I’m barely keeping it together. I might be glowing and flying and doing missions, but none of it makes sense without you. I still wake up in cold sweats. I still hear the cravings sometimes. I still see your face in every crowd. I still talk to you when I’m alone.”

She looked at him like she couldn’t believe it.

“I thought I lost you forever,” he breathed. “And when I saw you tonight, when I saw what happened… I realized I downplayed my place in your life. I thought I was the weak one. But we needed each other. We need each other.”

Her body was trembling again, shaking like something inside her was coming undone.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to carry me,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be your burden now.”

“You were never a burden.”

“But I am now—”

“No, you’re mine.”

He reached for her hand, placed it on his chest, where his heart was beating wildly.

“You gave me your love when I couldn’t even love myself. Now it’s my turn. Let me take care of you. Let me remind you how strong you are. Let me fight with you.”

She collapsed into him, arms tight around his torso, sobbing against his chest. Not just for him. Not just for herself. For all the time they lost. For the cake that went cold on the table. For the lasagna uneaten. For the mornings he didn’t see her basking in the sun. For the way love didn’t save either of them—but could now.

He didn’t ask her to stand. He didn’t demand anything.

He just held her.

Kneeling in the wreckage of her life, in the ashes of their broken time, holding her like she was still precious—still whole—even if she didn’t believe it yet.

“I’m here,” he whispered into her hair. “And I’m not leaving again.”

He didn’t give her much time to argue. Not when he saw the way her hands still shook. Not when he found the stash she didn’t even remember hiding behind her bookshelf. Not when he saw how she cried in the middle of the night—not from pain, but from absence. Her own. The absence of herself. The one she used to be.

So he asked her to come with him.

Live with him temporarily. Stay in the Watchtower, up in the sky, far away from the street corners and bathrooms and apartment ghosts that called her back every time she blinked too long.

He told her he wanted to keep her close until she was ready to find her own place in New York again. That it wasn’t forever—just until she could feel safe breathing again.

And she said yes.

Not because she believed in herself. But because she believed in him.

At first, it felt like a fever dream.

The Watchtower wasn’t made for someone like her. It was too sterile, too futuristic. Glass walls, strange lights, the hum of technology and power beneath every floor tile. But Bob was there. That’s what mattered.

She became seriously co-dependent—something she’d once told herself she would never allow again. But it wasn’t like with her ex. It wasn’t fear that tied her to Bob. It was need. It was how he looked at her and didn’t flinch. How he made coffee exactly the way she liked it without asking. How he stood in front of her when her hands curled into fists and her chest threatened to explode from the phantom need for a high.

Bob was her gravity.

He found her a job—one she didn’t even apply to. He pulled strings with Valentina, she didn’t know he had. A quiet, well-paying assistant position with flexible hours and no questions asked. The kind of job you only get when someone with serious power wants you to heal.

She hated how easy he made it. How the roles reversed.

At first.

She hated how he caught her when she was falling apart and didn’t scold her. Didn’t tell her to be strong. Just held her, even when she screamed. Even when she tried to hit him. Even when she told him she hated herself, hated this, hated how her body still wanted it. Hated how her blood still sang at night.

He’d just put his forehead to hers and whisper, “I know. I know. I know.”

Free time was dangerous. It always had been.

So Bob made sure she rarely had it. If she wasn’t working, he’d find ways to fill the hours. He’d drag her to the gym, even if she only sat on the mat and watched him lift. He took her on quiet walks above the clouds in the Watchtower, showed her the world from a view few people ever saw.

When the sun rose above Manhattan and she stood next to him with tired eyes, he’d whisper, “We’re still here. That’s a win.”

Some days were okay. Some days they even laughed.

Some days she forgot the weight in her bones and remembered what it felt like to be alive. On those days, she’d smile in the mirror and wonder if it was the beginning of something. But it was always followed by a crash.

And when the crash came, she’d scream at herself.

Because she still wanted it. Still ached for the cold powder and sharp sting. And what kind of monster misses the very thing that ruined her?

But Bob didn’t let her spiral alone.

He knew. He knew.

He’d pull her into his lap, even when she pushed him away. He’d wrap her in a blanket and play music she liked, or just sit in silence and let her sob against his chest. He didn’t fix her—he stayed. Which meant more than anything.

And she started leaning on the others, too.

Turns out, the team—misfits and freaks and weapons, all of them—was good for her.

Yelena would sometimes drop by the tower and plop on the couch with popcorn and zero small talk. “Let’s watch something bloody,” she’d say. “Nothing romantic. Romance is a scam.”

Alexei told awful dad jokes and made her soup when Bob was away, pulled against his will from her by Valentina. She didn’t ask what was in the soup. She didn’t want to know.

Even Walker, gruff and distant, once gave her a protein bar and said, “You look like shit. Eat something.”

Strangely, it meant the world.

But she still struggled.

She still felt like she didn’t belong in the sky, didn’t belong next to someone who glowed when angry, who people whispered about like a god.

And Bob would catch her staring sometimes. He’d take her hand and press it to his chest.

“You got me sober,” he’d remind her.

“You weren't when you left, it wasn't me, and I’m not even one week sober yet.”

“You will be.”

She’d cry again, every time.

Because maybe—just maybe—she believed him.

She felt herself becoming better.

It wasn’t dramatic. There were no fireworks, no moment where the clouds suddenly parted and she woke up healed.

It was slow. Raw. Grueling.

It was the kind of better that came with shaking hands and silent sobs in the shower. The kind of better that meant she didn’t throw up every morning from withdrawal anymore, but still woke up screaming from the dreams. The kind of better that looked like finally holding down breakfast, or laughing once during a dumb movie Bob put on just to see her smile.

There were still days—horrible days.

Days where she’d stare at the sky through the Watchtower windows and think I can’t do this anymore.

Days where her chest tightened and her fingers itched and every molecule of her blood screamed for one more hit, one more line, one more second of peace—even if it meant death.

And those were the nights Bob found her on the floor of the hallway, her knees to her chest, whispering things like:

“I ruined everything.” “I should’ve died months ago.” “You shouldn’t have come back for me.”

And Bob—quiet, patient Bob—would always get down next to her. He didn’t always say the right things. Sometimes he didn’t say anything at all. He just held her. Let her break. Let her be broken, without judgment.

“I’m here,” he’d murmur into her hair, voice shaking. “Even if you can’t love yourself right now, I do. I’m not leaving.”

He made it impossible to relapse.

Not just by removing access—though he did that, completely. The Watchtower had no hidden corners. No dealers. No temptation. He even kept her medication locked, except for what she needed. Not because he didn’t trust her, but because she asked him to. Because she couldn’t trust herself yet.

But more than that—he made it impossible because he gave her reasons to stay.

Every time she got through a hard day, Bob celebrated it like a victory. Every tiny step—making the bed, going to work, brushing her hair—he noticed. He noticed, and that made her want to try again. Want to show up again.

And after months of darkness, she was finally starting to believe in something again.

Believe in him.

Believe in herself.

That’s when she started planning.

It had to be perfect.

Because the first time—when she tried to confess, with the candles and lasagna and wine and the cake that said I love you—he never showed. She’d found a letter instead. Four words that shattered her: You don’t deserve this.

And now, months later, after everything they’d been through, she still remembered the ache of that night. The humiliation of sitting in a chair for hours, watching the lasagna go cold. The cake untouched. The lights flickering softly over an empty table.

But she also remembered how it hadn’t ended there. How he came back.

So this time, she wasn’t afraid.

She asked the team first. Told them the truth—well, most of it. She asked if she and Bob could have a room in the tower for the evening. Just a few hours. A quiet space, uninterrupted. “I want to do something for him,” she’d said. “Something honest.”

Yelena had raised an eyebrow and said nothing—but handed her a lighter for the candles. “Don’t burn the place down.”

Alexei had beamed like a proud uncle and muttered something in Russian that sounded suspiciously like “About time.”

Even Walker gave her a dry nod and cleared the space without question.

No one said no.

She remade it all.

The lights, soft and golden. Candles flickering across the shelves and windows. The air smelled like rosemary, garlic, and hope. Her old lasagna recipe—the one he always said was better than any five-star restaurant—bubbled in the oven. She found white wine again, because he didn’t like red, and she remembered everything. She even made the cake.

But not the same one.

This time, instead of “I love you,” it said in messy pink frosting:

“You came back. So did I.”

She set the table. Two plates. Two glasses. The weight of it all hanging in the air like a heartbeat.

She wasn’t wearing anything fancy. Just a soft, simple sweater he once said made her look peaceful. Her hair still damp from the shower, cheeks flushed from nervous energy.

She wasn’t the woman she used to be.

But she was here. She was trying. And that had to count for something.

When Bob walked in, he stopped cold in the doorway.

He looked at her.

Not just with surprise.

But with everything.

With four months of absence. With every regret he carried like an anchor in his chest. With all the love he never said out loud and all the apologies he had whispered to himself in the dark.

“You... did all this?” he asked softly.

She nodded, heart thudding.

“I know it’s not perfect. But—” her voice cracked, “—I’ve been thinking about this since the day you left. And I never got to say it. Not really. But I love you. I still love you. Even after everything. Even now.”

Bob looked at her like she was the only thing left keeping him alive.

Then he walked forward—slowly, carefully—and cupped her face in his hands.

“I never stopped loving you,” he whispered. “And I promise… I’m not leaving again.”

The movie flickered on the screen in front of them, but neither of them was really watching.

Bob sat propped up against the headboard, a soft grey t-shirt clinging loosely to his chest, a pair of worn joggers sitting low on his hips. Y/N was curled into his side, one of his old hoodies hanging off her frame, sleeves too long, hair tucked messily behind one ear. The room was dim, bathed in the gentle glow of the screen and the golden spill of the hallway light leaking under the door.

Blankets were tangled around them, warm and grounding. Bob’s arm wrapped around her shoulders, his hand resting calmly against her ribcage, feeling every quiet breath she took. Her head was nestled beneath his chin, the smell of her shampoo—lavender, faint but familiar—lingering between them.

They had finished the lasagna hours ago. Cleaned up the dishes while teasing each other about who burned the garlic bread (it was him). Shared cake and laughter, both of which came softer now, tentative, but real. It felt like something out of another life. Something they thought they’d lost for good.

A promise once made in a kitchen full of hope was finally being fulfilled—in the silence of a bedroom, in the safety of arms that didn’t let go.

Bob had waited years for something like this. Years for this kind of peace. For the slow, steady heartbeat of someone trusting him enough to fall asleep against his chest. For a night that didn’t end in pain or running. For a girl like her to look at him and still choose him, even after seeing all of him—torn, addicted, lost.

He hadn't expected what came next.

Y/N shifted beside him, pulling back from the cradle of his chest to look at him. Really look at him.

Her hand came up to his cheek, cradling it. Her thumb brushed against his stubble, her eyes searching his like she was memorizing him all over again.

“Y/N?” he asked, voice hushed, as if afraid he’d scare her off.

But she didn’t answer.

Instead, she leaned forward—and kissed him.

Soft at first. Gentle. Almost like a question. A breath between them, mouths barely touching, her lips tasting of frosting and fear.

Then she kissed him again—harder.

And Bob felt his whole body shudder.

It was everything he had ever wanted. Every quiet longing. Every moment he’d spent staring at her when she wasn’t looking. Every time he’d held her hand and wished it meant something more. Every night she cried in his arms and he ached to tell her how much he loved her but didn’t dare ruin what little they had.

And now—here she was.

Kissing him like she knew what he meant to her. Like he was more than her sponsor, more than a friend, more than a haunted past. Like he was hers.

Bob didn’t waste a second.

He kissed her back.

One arm curled around her waist, the other hand tangled in her hair, pulling her impossibly close. Her body pressed against his, warm and trembling. Her breath hitched as he deepened the kiss, years of restraint melting into a single desperate moment.

She gasped into his mouth, breaking the kiss, only to whisper against his lips:

“I love you, Bob.”

Tears welled in her eyes. She didn’t even try to hide them.

“I love you so much,” she choked, fingers still on his cheeks. “And I don’t care what happens next. I just needed you to know. You saved me. You saved my life.”

Bob’s hands trembled as he pulled her back into him, wrapping her up in his arms like he could shield her from every wound she still carried.

“No,” he murmured into her shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. “You saved me. You remember what I was? I didn’t think I had anything left to live for until I met you. You gave me hope again. You made me fight.”

She pulled back, her eyes locked with his—wet and red and devastatingly alive.

“I almost gave up,” she admitted, her voice barely audible. “When you left... I was already holding on by threads. And then you were gone and I thought I’d imagined the whole thing. I thought I wasn’t enough for you to stay.”

He shook his head furiously, his own eyes shining now.

“I didn’t leave because of you,” he said. “I left because I didn’t think I deserved you. I was still so fucked up, still using, and you were everything pure and kind in my world. I thought if I left, maybe you’d find someone better. Someone whole.”

“I didn’t want someone whole,” she said. “I wanted you.”

Their breath lingered in the space between them, shallow and soft—like a secret.

Y/N could still taste him on her lips, the echoes of their kiss reverberating through her chest. Bob hadn’t moved far from her. His hands were still cradling her waist, his forehead pressed gently to hers, and in that quiet lull between kisses, between confessions, she felt something fragile blooming—something terrifying and beautiful.

She kissed him again, this time slower. A sigh escaped her lips as her fingers slid up under the hem of his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin. Bob leaned into her touch, his mouth meeting hers in deeper waves now, their hearts thundering in sync. And when she tugged at his hoodie—her hoodie, technically, the one she’d stolen weeks ago that still smelled faintly like him—he raised his arms without hesitation, letting her lift it over his head.

She pulled back, eyes trailing down his torso—and gasped quietly.

He had changed.

The gauntness she once knew was gone. In its place were strong arms, broad shoulders, and a chest sculpted with quiet power. His abs—defined, real—moved with every breath he took. His body told the story of someone who had survived, someone who had clawed his way back to life. It was strength built on pain, on discipline, on love.

“You...” she murmured, brushing her hand over his stomach, “you look so different.”

His hand reached for hers, gently interlacing their fingers. “I feel different,” he said. “I had to become someone I could live with again.”

She swallowed hard, trying to ignore the sudden twist in her chest.

Bob looked like he had been forged from fire—meanwhile, she still bore the ashes.

She bit her bottom lip, hesitating. Her arms, still hidden in her oversized hoodie, tightened slightly around herself. Though she had been clean for weeks, her body hadn’t yet caught up. Her cheeks were hollow. Her skin still looked too pale in certain light. Her clothes hung loose. She hadn’t gained back the weight. And standing there, across from someone who had reclaimed his life so completely, she suddenly felt small again.

She looked away.

But Bob noticed.

“Hey,” he said softly, cupping her face and turning her gaze back to him. “What’s going on?”

She hesitated. “I just... I’m not like you right now. You’re... strong. You got better. And I’m still—” Her voice cracked. “I still don’t like what I see.”

His brows furrowed, and for a second, something sharp flickered in his eyes—not anger at her, but heartbreak. He leaned in, kissing her forehead with reverence, then trailed his lips down to her cheek, and finally, her mouth.

“I’m in love with you,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at her. “Not the version of you you think you have to be. You’re not broken, Y/N. You’re surviving. And that’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Tears threatened to rise, but she let them stay where they were. Bob’s hands slid down to the hem of her hoodie, hesitating.

“Can I?” he asked.

She nodded.

He lifted the hoodie slowly, carefully, as if he were unwrapping something precious. As it slipped over her head, she looked away, vulnerable, exposed.

But Bob didn’t let the silence linger. His eyes never wavered, never darted away. He took her in like she was a masterpiece.

“God,” he whispered. “You’re so beautiful.”

And then he kissed her collarbone. His lips warm, soft, trailing to her neck. His arms wrapped around her back as he pulled her into him, his body heat surrounding her, grounding her. His mouth brushed the spot behind her ear, her shoulder, her jaw.

“You don’t have to hide anymore,” he whispered.

She let her hands rest on his back, feeling the firmness of his muscles, the warmth of his skin. He was solid. Steady. And she was safe.

As they undressed the rest of the way—slowly, reverently—there was no rush, no hunger born from lust. Only devotion. Only the aching need to be close, to feel what they had both feared they’d lost.

Bob’s hands never stopped reassuring her, tracing her spine, cradling her face, holding her as if she were made of gold. His voice was a balm, murmuring soft truths against her lips, over her chest, along her ribs, keeping his thrusts steady and soft, almost afraid to hurt her.

“You’re perfect.”

“I love you.”

“You saved me.”

And somewhere between those whispers and the heat of skin on skin, she stopped trembling. She let herself feel his hands without shrinking from them. Let herself be kissed without fear. Let herself be loved.

Because she did love him.

And he loved her.

And for the first time in a long time, that was enough.

They made love quietly, sweetly, like two people who knew what it meant to lose everything—and were finally brave enough to take it back.

They stayed tangled beneath the blankets. Y/N rested her head on Bob’s chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart—steady, strong, unwavering. His fingers traced gentle patterns on her shoulder, his breathing syncing with hers.

Neither of them said much.

They didn’t need to.

893 notes · View notes

solxamber · 5 months ago

Text

Trash Novel Chronicles: My Knight is Too Loyal || Sebek Zigvolt

You wake up as the villainess in a novel that had to be written as a joke. The heroine is trying to ruin your life, but if you refuse to acknowledge her, then it’s not happening. Right? …Right??

It doesn't help that your knight, Sebek, is annoyingly endearing.

Series Masterlist

You were finally done.

After a grueling week of unpacking, assembling furniture that came with instructions written in an eldritch language, and resisting the urge to commit arson when you realized your kitchen had exactly one electrical outlet, your new apartment was finally livable. Spacious, well-lit, and with an actual window that didn’t face another building? A true luxury.

With a sigh of contentment, you set your trusty roomba loose to clean up the dust bunnies while you kicked back with your favorite pastime—reading an absolutely garbage webnovel.

This particular one had come highly recommended in the “so bad it’s good” category, and hoo boy, did it deliver.

The plot, as far as you could tell, was this:

Prince Malleus (overpowered second male lead) was best friends with the villainess (actually cool).

Sebek, loyal knight, was also sworn to protect the villainess. He liked her. They were childhood friends. He was ride or die for her.

Enter the heroine, who spawned out of nowhere, latched onto Malleus, and immediately decided that she needed Sebek’s loyalty so she could get closer to him.

She then proceeded to sabotage the villainess at every turn, and somehow no one thought this was weird.

The villainess, kept fighting back—until she got poisoned on Sebek’s watch.

Sebek, devastated, exiled himself in disgrace.

And then the Duke of the North (where did he come from???) married the heroine.

You had to put your phone down because you were WHEEZING.

How. HOW???

How was this woman out here killing the prince's best friend and still pulling a wedding out of it?? Who was writing this? Why did Sebek go into self-imposed exile when the obvious answer was to punt the heroine into the sun???

You wiped a tear from your eye, clutching your stomach. "Exiled himself in disgrace—oh my god, bro, what are you doing—"

Feeling the desperate need for a snack to recover from this literary war crime, you got up and made your way to the kitchen.

At that moment, your roomba—your once-trusted ally in the battle against dust—made a choice.

It bumped into the precariously stacked pile of moving boxes you had yet to sort through.

You turned just in time to see your doom.

A full avalanche of books, kitchenware, and your entire collection of novelty mugs came crashing down on you.

Your last thought before the world faded to black?

"Should’ve never trusted a roomba."

There were several ways you expected to wake up. A soft ray of sunlight filtering through your curtains? Sure. The soothing sound of birds chirping? Ideal. Maybe even a hangover if past-you made bad decisions? Understandable.

What you did not expect was to be jolted out of unconsciousness by the auditory equivalent of an angry airhorn.

“LORD MALLEUS, SHE'S STILL UNCONSCIOUS—PERHAPS SHE HAS FALLEN INTO AN ETERNAL SLUMBER FROM WHICH SHE WILL NEVER—!!!”

“Sebek,” another voice interrupted, eerily calm in comparison. “It will be fine.”

Sebek?

Like. The Sebek?

Your eyes snapped open like a possessed doll in a horror movie, and standing in front of you were none other than—drumroll please—Malleus Draconia and Sebek Zigvolt, looking like they had been ripped straight out of that godawful webnovel.

Sebek was vibrating with fury, looking a split second away from detonating like a nuclear warhead. Malleus, meanwhile, seemed vaguely relieved that you were awake.

Your brain struggled to reboot.

You looked down. Fancy dress? Check. Lace gloves? Check. Suspiciously villainous vibes? Check.

Oh no.

OH NO.

You were the villainess.

Malleus, in his infinite patience, took your absolutely deranged expression as a cue to explain, “The heroine tripped you, and you lost consciousness.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

You covered your face with your hands. “So now I have to deal with that dumbass?”

Sebek immediately whipped out his glove, preparing to slap someone into another dimension. “THIS INSOLENCE CANNOT STAND. I SHALL CHALLENGE HER TO A DUEL AND—”

“Sebek, no.”

“—VANQUISH HER FOR DARING TO—”

“Sebek. Put the glove down.”

“—BESMIRCH YOUR HONOR, MY LADY—”

“Sebek. No.”

Malleus, amused, simply observed as if watching an entertaining stage play. Probably because his solution would be to turn the heroine into a very apologetic pile of ashes.

Sebek begrudgingly reabsorbed his rage (for now), but he was still seething.

Malleus, after ensuring you were probably not about to die, excused himself and left the room. Sebek remained, arms crossed, radiating enough protective energy to function as a personal bodyguard and a security alarm.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Sebek, from now on, I’m just going to ignore her.”

Sebek visibly short-circuited.

“You—you're just going to let this blatant disrespect slide???”

“Yes.”

“But—”

“Yes.”

He looked like he had been personally betrayed by the laws of honor and decency, but after a long moment, he reluctantly agreed. Probably because you had the final say in this.

As soon as he left the room, you immediately face-planted into your pillow and let out the most guttural, despairing scream of your life.

Then, with great suffering, you dragged yourself up, because it was officially time to make a game plan to survive this absolute trash novel.

You did not want to go to this tea party.

In fact, if given the choice between enduring this or being launched via medieval trebuchet into the ocean, you would’ve chosen the ocean. At least drowning would’ve been fast.

But no. Your father insisted.

Something about “maintaining your standing,” and “showing the nobility that you are still strong,” and “not letting some lowborn upstart make a fool of you.”

As if the heroine had any power over you besides the supernatural ability to generate plot conveniences. As if you weren’t already suffering enough in this stupid novel, trying to survive a romance plotline with all the grace of a cat thrown into a bathtub.

And thus, you found yourself seated at an expensive table, sipping lukewarm tea, pretending to be interested in whatever the hell the noble ladies were talking about while resisting the urge to flip the entire table over and walk out.

To make matters worse, Sebek was having an existential crisis.

Not that he’d admit it, of course. But the way he was standing, practically vibrating with tension, scanning the tea party like a very aggressive meerkat—yeah. It was bad.

Sebek was on edge.

At any given moment, his gaze would dart from one thing to another, as if expecting a chandelier to drop on your head, a poisoned biscuit to be slipped onto your plate, or a rogue assassin to emerge from the hedges wielding a butter knife.

You finally had enough.

Turning toward him, you gripped his shoulders. Firmly.

“Sebek.”

His eyes snapped to you.

“Buddy.” You gave him a little shake. “Friend. You need to chill.”

“I AM PERFECTLY COMPOSED—”

Shake, shake. “Sebek. Chill.”

Sebek blinked. For the first time in history, he shut his mouth.

And then—oddly enough—you saw pink.

Like, an actual blush. A faint, barely-there dusting of color across his cheeks, the kind you’d associate with a lovestruck noble maiden, not a half-fae knight who could probably break your spine with his bare hands.

For a moment, you wondered if he was overheating. Should you dunk him in ice water?

But miraculously, Sebek actually calmed down.

At least, he stopped looking like he was about to tackle a waiter for breathing too close to you. That was progress.

And just when you thought you could finally coast through the rest of this miserable tea party in peace—

You saw her.

The Heroine.

She was across the garden, standing under a carefully curated arrangement of roses, twirling a delicate teacup in her dainty hands, looking exactly as picturesque as a main character should.

And she was batting her eyelashes at Sebek.

Like a lot.

Like some kind of malfunctioning Victorian doll trying to send Morse code with her eyelids.

Sebek, for his part, was slowly backing away. It was clear he wanted nothing to do with her.

Unfortunately, his retreat only seemed to embolden the heroine further. As if she had mistaken his disgust for shyness.

Sebek Zigzagged.

She Zigzagged.

Sebek took a sharp left.

She matched him, too fast, like an NPC with broken pathing.

And that’s when you decided enough was enough.

With the most subtle movement possible, you lifted a hand and motioned for him to come to you.

Sebek sprinted.

Like, full-speed, knocking over at least one butler in the process sprinted. By the time he reached you, he was breathing hard, eyes wide like he had just escaped something truly horrifying.

“Sebek,” you said, voice casual, “Stick by my side.”

"UNDERSTOOD," he immediately responded, standing directly next to you like a sentient stone wall.

And thus began the worst tea party of the heroine’s life.

For months, the heroine had followed the same battle strategy.

She’d make small, calculated jabs at you—little insults hidden under layers of fake concern, “Oh, you look rather pale today, are you unwell?” or “That color looks so… unique on you! Not many would be bold enough to wear it!”

The old villainess would always take the bait.

She’d snap back, argue, cause a scene. And in the process, the heroine would look like the poor, innocent victim just trying her best to be kind.

But you?

You ignored her.

And that? That was unacceptable.

The first attempt was a comment about your shoes.

She tilted her head, voice sickly sweet. “Oh, those shoes are… interesting. Are they custom-made?”

You blinked.

That was it. Just blinked.

Nothing more.

Then, without breaking eye contact, you turned to Sebek and pointed at the cake.

"Sebek, do you want some cake?"

“OF COURSE—”

The heroine twitched.

The second attempt was a jab at your hair.

She giggled, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear, voice dripping with faux innocence. “Oh dear, your hair looks a little tangled today! Perhaps you should try this new serum I discovered—”

You did not react.

Instead, you casually picked up a sugar cube, inspected it like it was the most fascinating thing in existence, and dropped it into your tea.

Then you slowly turned away.

Like she was scenery.

Like she was part of the background.

The heroine’s eye twitched.

Then came the third and final straw.

She physically stood in your path.

Like, full-on NPC blocking a hallway in a video game levels of obstructive.

Waiting.

Wanting you to react.

You did not.

You simply stepped to the left and walked around her.

As if she were a particularly annoying potted plant.

That was it.

That was the moment.

The moment she realized you were not playing her game.

And she SNAPPED.

In a last-ditch effort, she actually grabbed at your dress like a cranky toddler in a tantrum. Unfortunately for her, you were faster.

With all the grace of a trained assassin, you sidestepped her so effortlessly that she nearly tripped forward. For one horrifying second, she flailed—arms windmilling—before catching herself.

Then, with a furious huff, she turned bright red, grabbed her skirts, and stormed out of the tea party.

Absolutely. Defeated.

The entire garden was dead silent.

Then, softly, Sebek cleared his throat.

“…Does this mean I can have another slice of cake?”

You took a victorious sip of your tea.

+1 point for you.

This was a mistake. A grave, sweaty mistake.

Sebek, in all his knightly wisdom, had decided that you needed to learn self-defense. That was fine in theory. In practice?

You were dying.

It had started simple—stance, grip, footwork. Except your stance was wobbly, your grip was weak, and your footwork consisted of tripping over absolutely nothing .

Sebek, ever the determined instructor, refused to give up on you.

“Again!” he barked, adjusting your posture for the hundredth time. “You must hold the blade firmly!”

You tried. You really did. But the moment he stepped back, the sword dipped dangerously in your grasp like it was actively trying to escape you.

Sebek sighed through his nose. “You need to engage your core!”

“Sebek,” you panted, struggling to lift the sword back up. “I have a core. It just doesn’t want to engage.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose like a disappointed tutor watching their pupil fail basic math.

“Again.”

You half-heartedly swung the sword. It wobbled like a particularly useless noodle.

Sebek looked physically pained.

After several more embarrassing attempts—including a particularly tragic one where you almost dropped the sword on your own foot—you finally gave up.

You collapsed onto the ground, dramatically splaying out in the dirt like a knight who had perished not in battle, but in sheer spiritual defeat.

“I can’t do this,” you groaned, flopping an arm over your face. “I’m not built for the knight life.”

Sebek’s shadow loomed over you, exasperated. “You’re giving up already?”

“Yes.”

“Unacceptable. A true warrior never surrenders!”

“Well, I’m not a warrior, Sebek. I am a delicate aristocrat. My hobbies include drinking tea and not getting stabbed.”

Sebek crossed his arms, preparing to argue—but before he could launch into a speech about honor and duty and the sacred art of not dying, you simply muttered:

“That’s why you have to be my knight forever.”

The complaints instantly stopped.

Sebek didn’t say a word.

You assumed he had accepted your logic.

You didn’t see the way his back straightened slightly, or the way his expression softened into something oddly pleased. You definitely didn’t catch the way a smug, satisfied little smile flickered across his face—like a knight who had just secured his lifelong oath without even trying.

Instead, you remained on the ground, still dramatically sprawled out, waiting for him to launch into another lecture.

But nothing came.

“…Sebek?”

“Hmph.” He turned, suddenly far too content to argue. “If that is the case, then I suppose there’s no need to force you into training.”

You squinted up at him. “Wait. That’s it? You’re giving up?”

“I am merely accepting my duty,” he said smoothly. “After all, a knight must always protect their charge.”

You stared.

Suspicious.

Sebek was never this agreeable.

But, ultimately, you were too tired to question it.

With a sigh of relief, you let yourself fully relax into the grass, already looking forward to a nap.

Meanwhile, Sebek stood guard over you, looking far too smug for someone who had just lost an argument.

This was supposed to be a normal afternoon.

A nice, quiet, peaceful moment of watching Sebek ride his horse like he was leading an army into battle while Silver sat on his, perfectly relaxed, looking like the human embodiment of a soft exhale.

Meanwhile, to your right, Malleus and Lilia were having a debate that was growing increasingly unhinged.

"I'm telling you, Malleus," Lilia said with the confidence of a man who had never once been stopped from committing a crime. "If you want someone, you simply steal them away! That’s romance!"

Malleus, who had the power to obliterate reality with a flick of his wrist, rubbed his temples like a deeply tired office worker. "Lilia, that is not romance. That is abduction."

Lilia waved him off like he was swatting at a fly. "Semantics."

You turned your head just in time to see Malleus pinching the bridge of his nose, which was deeply funny because what did he even have to be stressed about? He was practically untouchable. And yet, somehow, Lilia was succeeding in emotionally exhausting him.

You had no idea how to contribute to this conversation, so you simply accepted that your afternoon would be full of crimes against logic.

But then Lilia’s sharp, ancient gaze zeroed in on you like a sniper locking onto a target.

"So," he said smoothly, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Have you decided who you'll take to the ball?"

You blinked.

The ball? Oh. Right. That was a thing.

You mulled it over for a second, tapping your fingers against your knee.

Logically, Sebek was already glued to your side at all times. He was practically your own personal security alarm, complete with flashing lights, blaring sirens, and the sheer, undying volume of a man who had never whispered in his entire life.

Taking him would be easy.

"I'll probably take Sebek," you said casually.

There was a beat of silence.

Then—

Lilia’s smile widened.

Not just any smile. A knowing smile. The kind that said, I have seen civilizations rise and fall, and yet nothing amuses me more than whatever is about to happen next.

Malleus, previously neutral, now looked deeply, deeply intrigued.

You squinted at them. "Why are you both looking at me like I'm a stray dog that just solved a math problem?"

Before you could demand answers, Sebek and Silver came back.

And Lilia—menace incarnate—immediately turned to Sebek and declared, with the utmost delight:

"Sebek! You've been chosen as their escort for the ball!"

Silver looked politely interested. Sebek—

Sebek crashed.

Like he hit an invisible wall.

For a second, he just stood there, expression frozen in a mix of shock, honor, and the sheer terror of being handed a social situation he wasn’t prepared for.

Then, in a grand act of buffering, he stiffened, clenched his fists, and proclaimed with all the force of a man declaring war:

"OF COURSE! AS YOUR LOYAL KNIGHT, IT IS ONLY NATURAL THAT I ACCOMPANY YOU!"

And then—before you could so much as blink—he turned on his heel and stomped off, as if he had just been given an urgent mission from Malleus himself.

The moment he was gone, you turned back to the three remaining culprits—only to find all of them looking at you like you were the underdog in a sports movie who had just pulled off a game-winning shot.

Lilia’s grin was downright diabolical.

Malleus was observing you like a scientist who had just discovered a new species.

Silver nodded, as if he had been let in on a joke you weren’t privy to.

Your eye twitched. "Okay. WHAT."

Lilia clapped you on the back like a proud father. "Oh, don’t mind us," he said airily. "We’re simply excited to see how this unfolds!"

Malleus inclined his head. "Indeed. It will be most… fascinating."

Silver hummed in agreement, eyes twinkling with something dangerously close to amusement.

You stared.

Sebek was still stomping off in the distance, probably preparing himself for battle against an imaginary threat.

Meanwhile, these three looked like they had just bet on a winning horse.

You were so bored.

As someone who had once lived in the glorious era of internet, memes, and instant entertainment, being isekai’d into a medieval fantasy novel was actual hell.

Your choices for passing the time were:

Sitting at a tea party listening to Lady Whatever gossip about how her second cousin’s neighbor allegedly married his horse (scandalous).

Shopping, which involved pretending to care about embroidery while avoiding getting guilt-tripped into buying a hat the size of a carriage wheel.

But today? Today was different.

There was a theater performance. And you were going.

Sebek, of course, was accompanying you, because you weren’t allowed to go anywhere without your personal security system.

The two of you arrived, found your seats, and settled in as the play began.

It was a forbidden romance between a noblewoman and her loyal knight.

You squinted.

That was it? That was the forbidden part?

What, was it slightly inconvenient for them to date? Were they going to act like this was the most tragic love story of all time when the biggest obstacle was mild disapproval?

You were expecting a real problem—an ancient family feud, a cursed bloodline, maybe even a dragon kidnapping someone for fun.

But no. It was just a noble and her knight, staring deeply into each other’s eyes while the orchestra swelled dramatically.

You side-eyed Sebek, about to make a snide comment.

And that’s when you noticed. Sebek was sweating.

His jaw was clenched. His hands were gripping the arms of his seat like the very concept of upholstery had personally insulted him.

And most importantly?

He was actively avoiding looking at you.

On stage, the knight fell to one knee, passionately declaring, “My lady, I have sworn to protect you—but in truth, my heart has belonged to you from the moment we met.”

Sebek’s grip on his seat tightened.

You turned back to the stage, more confused now.

The noblewoman gasped, placing a delicate hand on her chest. “Sir Knight, I—!”

Cue dramatic embrace. Cue Sebek looking like he was experiencing an existential crisis in real time.

For the next twenty minutes, Sebek refused to so much as glance in your direction.

The show ended with a completely unnecessary death scene (the knight got stabbed protecting the noblewoman from a bandit with the world’s worst aim), and as soon as the curtains fell, Sebek practically launched himself out of his seat.

You walked out together, the evening air cool against your skin.

Sebek, still refusing to look at you, was marching forward with the kind of stiff, overly formal movements that meant his brain was short-circuiting.

You raised an eyebrow. "Are you good?"

"I am perfectly fine," he said, a little too quickly.

You shrugged, brushing it off. Sebek being Sebek. He was always like this.

You didn’t notice how his hands twitched at his sides.

Or how, for one painfully fleeting moment during the play, he had imagined what it would be like—just once—to take your hand, without the excuse of duty.

But only Sebek and the dark theater would ever know that.

Festivals were supposed to be fun.

Supposed to be.

But for Sebek, this was nothing short of a battlefield.

The night had started normally enough. Malleus, Lilia, Silver, Sebek, and you had all arrived together, the festival in full swing around you. Lanterns glowed softly in the trees, music played from all corners of the square, and the air was thick with the smell of food—grilled meats, sweet pastries, roasted nuts. It was the perfect evening for a carefree stroll.

And then, suspiciously quickly, things took a turn.

“Ah,” Lilia suddenly said, snapping his fingers. “I just remembered—I must go investigate the historical significance of festival games.”

Silver, who had been mid-bite into a fried pastry, blinked. “What?”

Lilia was already gone.

Malleus nodded sagely. “Indeed, I must also depart. There are… matters of great importance I must attend to.”

You stared at him. “You’re about to go stare at gargoyles, aren’t you?”

Malleus did not dignify this with an answer.

Then came Silver’s turn. He at least tried to make it convincing.

“I, um—” He paused, brain clearly short-circuiting. “I have to—”

Sebek, ever the loyal soldier, stepped forward. “SILVER, WHEREVER YOU GO, WE SHALL—”

Silver immediately put a hand on Sebek’s shoulder. “No. You both stay.”

Sebek froze.

Suspicion bloomed in his sharp green eyes. “Why?”

Silver looked at you. Then back at Sebek. Then at you again. And then—like a father setting his son off into the world—he simply patted Sebek’s shoulder and said, “Have fun.”

Then he left.

Just like that, you and Sebek were alone.

You turned to Sebek, shrugged, and grabbed his hand. “Alright then! Let’s go have fun.”

Sebek ascended into a new state of panic.

One: You Held His Hand.

His hand.

Which was now holding your hand.

He was a knight. A protector. His hand had wielded swords, raised shields, sworn loyalty—

His hand had never done this.

“W-Wait, I—!”

You, completely oblivious to the fact that you were literally ruining him, simply smiled. “Come on, let’s get food first!”

And just like that, he was dragged into the festival.

Two: You Fed Him.

Sebek had prepared for many things in life.

Betrayal? Yes. Combat? Absolutely. The burden of responsibility? Without question.

But he had not prepared for you pressing a warm pastry into his hands and saying, “Try this! It’s really good.”

He stared at it like it was an enemy.

“I—this is unnecessary! I should be watching for threats, not—”

Then you, with absolutely zero hesitation, took a bite from your own pastry, hummed thoughtfully, and then just—just held it up to his mouth.

Sebek froze.

“…What,” he said, voice dangerously unstable, “are you doing?”

“Letting you try mine.”

Unacceptable.

UNACCEPTABLE.

This was wrong. You were a noble, he was your knight. His duty was to protect you, not to—to—

To have feelings.

To want things.

But you were still holding the pastry up, completely unaware of the sheer war happening in his mind.

So, with the slow hesitation of a man walking into a death trap, Sebek leaned down and took a small, precise bite.

…It was delicious.

…This was still unacceptable.

“See?” you said brightly, taking another bite yourself. “Tastes better when you share.”

Sebek almost dropped dead on the spot.

Three: The Smile.

Oh, that smile.

You were leading him from stall to stall, still holding his hand, still treating this like a perfectly normal outing and not the absolute nightmare it was for his fragile, suffering heart.

And every time you turned back to him—every time you laughed at something ridiculous, or smiled when he grumbled about stall vendors trying to scam you, or simply looked at him with that casual, easy warmth—

Something in him broke.

Not in a bad way. But absolutely in a way that would jeopardize his purpose. In the way that made him want to 1v1 the entire world just to make sure you always smiled like that.

Sebek was not meant for this.

He was a knight. A warrior. A protector.

He was not meant to look at you and wish, with every inch of his being, that he could hold your hand not because of duty, but because you wanted him to.

The ball was going well.

Which, frankly, was a miracle.

You were three glasses of wine in, the music was pleasant, and—most importantly—there was no heroine in sight.

Malleus was at peace, sipping his drink like an ancient dragon who had finally hoarded enough gold. Lilia was across the room, very seriously trying to convince a noble to invest in bat jousting (“Picture it, my dear baron—tiny suits of armor, high-speed aerial combat, think of the prestige!”). Silver was half-asleep at the table, so still that he was practically furniture.

And Sebek? Sebek was eating with the sheer intensity of a man who had never been allowed to sit and enjoy a meal in his life.

You were basking in the rare moment of peace when—

She arrived.

The heroine waltzed in, all curls and delicate elegance, scanning the room like she owned the place.

Immediately, you activated Ignore Mode.

But then—

Then she spoke.

“I challenge you!”

You blinked.

Challenge me to what? A duel? A political debate? A staring contest??

And then, with the smuggest expression known to man, she stepped aside to reveal her new(?) knight. You choked on your drink.

Because her knight—

Looked like Sebek.

Like, exactly like Sebek.

Same height, same build, suspiciously similar armor—but the worst part?

His hair was green.

Like she had dyed it.

You nearly dropped your wine.

You turned to Sebek.

Then to knockoff Sebek.

Then to Malleus—who was so absorbed in his perfect night that he hadn’t even registered the incoming disaster.

Then back to fake Sebek.

Sebek, who had been peacefully eating his steak, suddenly froze.

“WHAT IN THE GREAT SEVEN—” His chair scraped across the floor as he stood, eyes wide with pure fury.

The heroine beamed. “My knight will prove his superiority over yours! A true battle of skill and honor!”

You were still stuck on the hair.

"DID YOU DYE THIS MAN’S HAIR GREEN?!"

Fake Sebek smirked, folding his arms. “A knight should be willing to make sacrifices for his lady.”

Sebek looked ready to commit several war crimes.

“This is an INSULT!” He stepped forward, eyes blazing, voice booming. “YOU THINK YOU CAN MATCH ME WITH A PALE IMITATION?! I—”

Oh, hell no.

You had already suffered through so much stupidity in this world. You were not about to let Sebek engage in a battle of the bootlegs just because the heroine had gone completely off the rails.

You grabbed Sebek’s arm.

He whipped around like an enraged storm god. “MY LADY, I MUST—”

“No,” you said flatly. “Not worth it.”

“But—”

“Sebek.”

“She—”

“Sebek.”

“She dares—”

“Sebek. Please.”

His jaw locked. He looked like he wanted to argue. Like he needed to argue. But then you let out a long, exhausted sigh and said,

“Just dance with me instead.”

Sebek stopped breathing.

The entire ballroom faded. The heroine? Gone. Bootleg Sebek? Who? The audience of nosy nobles? Irrelevant.

All that mattered was that you—the person he had sworn to protect, the one he had dedicated his entire being to—had just asked him to dance.

He swallowed thickly. “O-Of course.”

And so, you took his hand and led him to the ballroom floor.

Sebek was stiff at first, like he was concentrating too hard on being perfect, but as the music swelled, he relaxed into the rhythm, his movements smoother, more natural.

And as he guided you across the floor, one hand firm at your waist, the other clasping yours, Sebek couldn’t help but stare.

You were laughing softly, still tipsy, the golden chandeliers casting a warm glow on your skin. The silk of your gown shimmered as you moved, and your smile—

Gods. Your smile.

Sebek knew, without a doubt, that he would do anything to keep it on your face.

And you?

You had no idea.

Because to you, this was just a dance.

But to Sebek—

You looked like a dream come true.

It was finally here. The moment where, according to the absolute literary war crime that was this novel, you were supposed to get poisoned, collapse dramatically, and set off a chain reaction that would end with Sebek exiling himself like a tragic Shakespearean protagonist.

Except this time?

You knew it was coming.

And you were about to flip the script so hard the author would feel it in whatever dimension they were in.

The heroine, as predictable as ever, had invited you to yet another tea party—probably hoping that by the time the poison kicked in, she'd have a perfect view of your untimely demise. You, of course, had accepted with a sweet smile and a mind full of schemes.

Now, seated at a pristine garden table with floral arrangements worth more than some small villages, you watched as she made her move. It was almost laughable how obvious she was. Her eyes flickered towards the maid as your tea was poured, the subtle anticipation in her expression so transparent you were honestly a little embarrassed for her.

You daintily lifted the cup, swirling the tea, inhaling its floral scent. Then, you pretended to take a sip.

Then, you threw yourself into the most dramatic, gut-wrenching, Oscar-worthy performance of your life.

Your body convulsed. Your hand flew to your throat. You gasped, choked, wheezed like a dying fish, and flung your arms out as if desperately grasping at the heavens themselves. You knocked over a plate. A fork clattered to the ground. A lesser noble screamed.

And then, with the grace of a Victorian woman in a corset two sizes too small, you collapsed onto the ground, limbs twitching for good measure.

Chaos erupted.

Ladies shrieked. Servants scrambled. One elderly duke fainted in the background. Even you were impressed. If this world had award shows, you would’ve already been giving an acceptance speech.

And then.

You heard it.

A chair screeching against stone. The heavy, unmistakable clang of armor.

Oh.

Oh, no.

You had made a critical miscalculation.

Sebek.

Sebek, who had been standing behind you the entire time. Sebek, who had just witnessed his charge collapse in agony.

Sebek, who was now standing over the heroine with his sword at her throat.

The entire tea party came to a screeching halt.

The heroine was frozen in terror, because Sebek wasn’t just angry—he was absolutely seething. His hands were steady, his grip unwavering, but the rage in his eyes? The barely-restrained fury crackling in the air around him? That was the look of a man seconds away from turning this entire tea party into a medieval execution.

“How dare you,” Sebek growled, his voice low and deadly, “I swear upon my honor—you will not leave this garden alive.”

You were so close to victory. So close. But no. No, Sebek had to go and initiate an actual murder.

The heroine, pale as a ghost, opened her mouth—probably to sob out some terrible excuse—but Sebek applied just the tiniest bit of pressure with his blade. A thin line of blood beaded at her neck.

The heroine whimpered.

Sebek narrowed his eyes.

Oh, he was fully committed to this.

Then, from your position on the ground, you made a small choking noise.

Sebek snapped around so fast he nearly decapitated her anyway.

His fury instantly shifted into sheer, unfiltered panic.

“My lady—!” He abandoned the heroine entirely, dropping to his knees and scooping you up into his arms as if you were seconds from death. "Stay with me!" His voice wavered, as if sheer willpower alone could force you to keep breathing. "You will not die here, I swear it!"

Okay. Maybe you should have accounted for this.

Before you could get a word in, Sebek scooped you up like a sack of potatoes and booked it inside.

The moment he deposited you onto a chaise lounge like a damsel in distress, you sat up and gave him your best sheepish grin.

“Sebek, I—”

But Sebek did not look relieved.

Sebek looked furious.

"You mean to tell me," he began, his voice escalating, "THAT WAS A LIE?!"

You winced. “Sebek, I—”

"You were NEVER in danger?! NEVER TRULY POISONED?!" His entire body was vibrating. "YOU—"

His voice kept rising.

He was pacing now, movements erratic, his heavy boots thudding against the floor. His breathing was uneven. His hands were shaking.

Gods. Gods, you felt bad.

Before he could work himself into an early grave, you grabbed his face and pulled him close.

"Sebek," you said firmly. "Breathe."

His breath hitched.

You could feel the tension in his jaw, the way his entire being was still radiating panic and betrayal.

Slowly, his breathing evened out. His hands, still clenched at his sides, relaxed.

"I'm sorry," you murmured, thumbs brushing lightly against his cheeks. "I should have told you."

Sebek swallowed hard, staring at you like he had just walked through hell itself.

"I could never bear to lose you." His voice was raw, barely above a whisper.

And then, as if exhaling the weight of the entire world, he bowed his head slightly and said, “Forgive me for my insolence.”

Before you could even process what that meant—

His lips were on yours.

Soft, hesitant, yet utterly consuming.

It lasted one perfect moment—

And then reality kicked in.

Sebek stiffened. His eyes snapped open.

"I— I HAVE OVERSTEPPED— I APOLOGIZE—"

And then.

Sebek fled.

Full-speed.

Out the door.

Down the hall.

Possibly into another plane of existence.

You sat there, dazed, stunned, blushing so hard you were about to burst into flames.

You were losing your mind.

Malleus, on the other hand, was having the time of his life.

He sat there, sipping his tea with the serene patience of a man who had definitely seen this coming, while you paced back and forth in front of him, unraveling like a badly-knitted sweater.

"It was just stress!" you declared, throwing your hands in the air. "Right? I mean, high emotions, near-death experience, classic knightly panic—textbook impulse decision!"

Malleus hummed, his expression one of deep, profound amusement. "Oh?"

You pointed at him like you had just presented irrefutable evidence in a murder trial. "YES. Right?! That has to be it!"

Malleus took a slow sip of his tea. "Or…"

You froze.

Malleus paused dramatically—like he was a host on some medieval reality show about to drop a major plot twist—then said, "Perhaps he has feelings for you."

You made a noise. A noise that had never existed before, somewhere between a gasp, a wheeze, and the sound of a tea kettle violently exploding.

Malleus raised an eyebrow, watching as your soul actively left your body.

"That’s—" You flailed. Actually flailed. "That’s absurd!"

Malleus nodded sagely. "Yes. Very absurd." He took another sip of tea, his tone so dry you nearly threw something at him.

You began pacing again, hands on your head, thoughts spiraling into the abyss.

"Maybe—maybe he thinks he has feelings for me," you reasoned, grasping at straws like your life depended on it. "But really, it’s just—devotion! Yes! Classic knightly devotion! It’s not romantic, it’s duty! He admires me, respects me, honors me—"

"—Kissed you."

You choked.

Malleus was smirking now. He was actually enjoying this.

"Okay, but," you continued, desperately trying to dig yourself out of the emotional pit you had fallen into, "what if—what if it was just a slip-up? A moment of weakness? What if he didn’t mean it—?"

Malleus tilted his head. "Then why did he run away? Why did he not apologize?"

You stopped dead in your tracks.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Because he did run away. Full speed. Maximum acceleration. Like a man who had just realized what he had done and could not face the consequences.

Your hands slowly lowered from your head.

Malleus set his teacup down with a soft clink. "I would say that is not the behavior of a man who does not have feelings for someone."

You sat down in the nearest chair, staring into the void.

Malleus observed you with quiet satisfaction.

The way you were actively short-circuiting before his eyes? The absolute catastrophic mental gymnastics you were performing to deny the obvious?

Oh, yes.

This was better than theater.

Meanwhile, Sebek was also suffering.

And Lilia was having the best day of his life.

Sebek was pacing, marching back and forth across the room like he was preparing for battle, arms gesturing wildly as he ranted to no one in particular.

"I—I do not—I cannot—" His voice cracked slightly before he squared his shoulders, forcing himself into a state of denial so powerful it could deflect magic. "IT WAS MERELY A MOMENT OF TEMPORARY EMOTIONAL INSTABILITY!"

Lilia, sitting cross-legged on the sofa, was vibrating. His hands were clasped in front of his mouth, his entire body shaking as he barely contained his laughter. His eyes gleamed with pure, unfiltered joy.

"Ah, young love," he sighed dramatically, swaying slightly as if overcome by emotion. "So passionate! So tumultuous!" He clutched his chest. "So full of suffering!"

Sebek whirled around, offended to his very core.

"It is NOT love!" he practically roared, and Silver, who had been trying to stay calm, rubbed his temples like a tired therapist dealing with a particularly stubborn client.

"Sebek," Silver said, voice steady, soothing, rational. "You kissed her."

Sebek's eye twitched.

"It was an accident!"

Silver raised an eyebrow. "How do you accidentally kiss someone?"

Sebek flailed. "IT WAS THE HEAT OF THE MOMENT!"

"Mmhm~" Lilia hummed, practically swaying with delight.

Sebek turned to him, pointing like he was about to declare war. "STOP—STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!"

"Like what?" Lilia grinned. "Like I just witnessed the most entertaining thing to happen in centuries?"

"YES!"

Lilia cackled.

Sebek turned back to Silver, desperate for support, but Silver was already shaking his head.

"Sebek," Silver said patiently. "You’re in love."

Sebek physically recoiled. His entire soul left his body for a second before it returned, but not before his brain short-circuited.

"NO!"

"Yes," Silver said simply.

"Preposterous!" Sebek thundered, arms flailing again. "I am a knight! Her protector! I have sworn my loyalty to her! I would give my LIFE for her—!"

"Yes," Silver interrupted, nodding. "Because you love her."

Sebek froze.

His mouth opened. Then closed.

Then opened again.

Nothing came out.

Lilia, who was practically incandescent with joy, clasped his hands together and leaned in, eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Oh my," Lilia purred. "He's realizing it."

Sebek visibly malfunctioned.

His arms tensed, his jaw clenched, his brain clearly trying to override the obvious conclusion with pure willpower alone.

And then, because he had absolutely no idea what to do with himself—

Sebek turned on his heel and sprinted out of the room at full speed.

Lilia howled with laughter, throwing himself back onto the couch.

Silver simply sighed, rubbing his temples again. "You know he's going to deny this for at least another week, right?"

"Oh, let him struggle~" Lilia giggled, delighted beyond words. "This is better than theater."

The heroine was losing her goddamn mind.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. She was the main character. She was supposed to triumph over adversity! She was supposed to defeat her rival, claim her rightful place at Malleus’s side, and bask in the admiration of high society as they all realized how special and wonderful she was!

And yet—

You.

You, the person who was supposed to be her greatest adversary, her foil, her dramatic counterpart—

Did. Not. Care.

Every time she tried to one-up you, every time she schemed and plotted and prepared some devastating social maneuver to put you in your place—

You ignored her.

Not even with thinly veiled contempt. Not with cold, calculated disdain. No.

You ignored her like you would ignore a particularly unimpressive rock on the side of the road.

Like a piece of furniture. Like she was a background character in her own goddamn story.

She had thrown everything at you.

She had made subtle barbs about your outfits—Oh, what a… bold choice of color. Not everyone could pull that off.

You had simply nodded and thanked her before returning to making googly eyes at your knight.

She had gone out of her way to outshine you at every event—grander gowns, more dramatic entrances, carefully curated conversations that should have drawn everyone’s attention to her.

You?

You barely registered that she was there.

She had even dyed her own knight’s hair green for fuck’s sake.

And you had just—

Ignored it.

You hadn’t even looked surprised. No scandalized gasp, no pointed glances, no passive-aggressive remark about imitation being the sincerest form of flattery.

Nothing.

The absolute indifference nearly sent her into a breakdown right then and there.

But still—still—she had held out hope.

Because there was one final, tried-and-true method to defeat a villainess.

Poison.

A noblewoman’s tea party. A carefully laced cup. A gasp, a choke, a dramatic collapse.

It was foolproof.

Except—

Except you had pretended to drink it.

She hadn’t even noticed at first. She had simply sipped her tea, waiting for your inevitable demise—only to watch you pull off an Oscar worthy performance.

And now?

Now the entirety of high society hated her.

Not because they actually cared about you, no—

But because attempting to poison someone at a social gathering was just so terribly gauche.

It was uncivilized. It was desperate. It was cringe.

And worse?

She had failed.

One noblewoman had sighed, shaking her head. “Poisoning your rival? How utterly common. If she were going to do it, the least she could’ve done was be subtle.”

Another had tsked, “Imagine—spending all that effort trying to destroy someone only for them to sit back and make googly eyes at their knight instead.”

That one nearly made her explode.

Because that? That was the worst part.

Through all of this, you weren’t even fighting back.

You weren’t scheming. You weren’t plotting revenge. You weren’t even paying attention to her anymore.

No.

You were too busy pining over Sebek.

At first, she thought it was coincidence. A weird little side note in this battle.

But no.

She saw it everywhere now.

You, brushing your hand against his as he held a door open for you. You, laughing at something he said in that ridiculous, overly loud voice. You, looking at him like he was the most precious thing in existence while he continued to act like a knight-shaped golden retriever with too many feelings.

It was infuriating.

And now, after everything, after all the time and energy and sanity she had lost trying to make you engage, she woke up one morning and realized—

She had lost.

Not in some grand, cinematic battle of wits. Not in an explosive confrontation.

No.

She had lost in the most humiliating way possible.

Because you never even considered her a threat to begin with.

She had spent all this time clawing her way to the top of a rivalry that only existed in her own head.

And the person she had chosen as her nemesis had treated her with the same level of importance as a salad garnish.

It was over.

She was done.

She picked up a pen, wrote a letter, and signed it with the exhausted resignation of a woman who had fully accepted defeat.

Lady,

I give up. I’m leaving. Enjoy your ridiculous romance with your ridiculous knight.

—Heroine

Then, without any fanfare, she packed her things, walked out of her estate, and left the country.

And you?

You didn’t even notice until a servant handed you the letter over breakfast.

You blinked at it, took a bite of toast, and read the whole thing while casually sipping your tea.

Then you folded it neatly, set it aside, and promptly forgot about it.

Sebek Zigvolt was avoiding you.

Not in the dramatic, storming-off, I-shall-never-speak-to-you-again way that some lovesick noble might after a scandalous incident at a ball. No, that would have been too easy.

Instead, he had apparently decided that the most rational way to handle his predicament was to maintain a perfect six-foot gap between the two of you at all times.

Like some sort of ridiculous, self-imposed restraining order.

You noticed it immediately, of course, because how could you not?

The first morning, you stepped into the drawing room, still slightly groggy from waking up, and found Sebek already there, standing so rigidly that he looked like he had been installed into the floorboards.

“Good morning, Sebek.”

Sebek, a man who had never once in his life failed to respond to you immediately, took a full three seconds to react, his head snapping toward you like a marionette whose strings had been yanked too hard.

“MY LADY!” he barked, far too loud for this early in the morning. “GOOD MORNING TO YOU AS WELL!”

Then, before you could say another word, he pivoted sharply and took three steps back.

Three big, deliberate, backward steps.

And then?

He stared past you.

Not at you. Past you.

Like he had suddenly developed an intense fascination with the wall.

And this? This continued.

For three. Entire. Days.

At breakfast, he sat exactly six feet away from your chair and stabbed his eggs with the precision and fury of a man attempting to exorcise a demon from his plate.

At social events, he positioned himself like some tragically lovesick ghost, haunting the edge of the room with a tormented expression, still very much guarding you but now also acting like being within arm’s reach might cause him to spontaneously combust.

Even in casual conversations, if you took a step forward?

Sebek took a step back.

And the worst part?

He was so obvious about it.

Like, if he was actually trying to be subtle, you could at least pretend it wasn’t happening. But no, this man was out here moving like an NPC whose pathfinding AI was breaking.

By the third day, you had reached your limit.

You had tolerated his weird little knightly existential crisis long enough.

So, that morning, when you saw him standing—once again—exactly six feet away, rigid as a lamppost, pointedly pretending that the tree outside the window was the most interesting thing he had ever seen in his life, you snapped.

“Sebek.”

No response.

“Sebek.”

Nothing.

You took a step forward.

Sebek immediately took a step back.

You took another step.

Sebek tried to escape.

Absolutely not.

With all the swiftness of a person completely done with this nonsense, you closed the gap, stepping right into his space, and before he could even think about scrambling backward like some flustered fawn, you grabbed his face and squished his stupid, handsome, stubborn cheeks between your hands.

Sebek made an absolutely incomprehensible noise.

“W-WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! THIS IS HIGHLY—!!”

He was spluttering. Stammering. Eyes darting around wildly like he was searching for an escape route despite the fact that you were holding his actual face.

“Sebek,” you said, exasperated, thumbs pressing into his cheeks as he failed spectacularly to regain any of his usual knightly composure. “Do you like me?”

Sebek, in his infinite, ridiculous wisdom, chose the absolute worst possible response.

“I—! I AM YOUR KNIGHT! TO ENTERTAIN SUCH FRIVOLITIES WOULD BE A DERELECTION OF DUTY!”

You closed your eyes, took a deep breath, and then, with the patience of someone trying to explain basic math to a particularly dense brick wall, you groaned, “Sebek, we are not in a play. Do you like me or not!?”

Sebek made a noise somewhere between a strangled honk and a dying animal.

His entire face turned so red that for a moment, you were genuinely concerned that he might be about to pass out.

Then—

He nodded.

It was tiny, barely perceptible, like he was afraid saying it too loudly would cause the heavens to smite him on the spot, but it was there.

And that was all you needed.

Before he could start raving about duty or oaths or whatever dramatic monologue he was preparing, you surged forward and kissed him.

Sebek froze.

Completely, entirely, utterly still.

For half a second, you worried that you had broken him.

But then—

Sebek kissed you back.

With the fervor of a man who had been waiting his entire life for this exact moment.

It took thirty full minutes to convince Sebek that you were, in fact, not in a tragic, forbidden love story.

Ten minutes of him pacing, ranting about duty and propriety, gripping the air like an overdramatic stage actor monologuing in the rain.

Thirty minutes of you, standing there, patiently waiting for his brain to catch up to reality.

"Sebek," you said for the fifteenth time, arms crossed, exasperated but fond. "We are not in a Shakespearean tragedy."

Sebek opened his mouth to argue, paused, frowned, then slowly closed it.

You could see the war happening inside him. His knightly instincts were screaming about honor and responsibility, while the part of him that had just kissed you—twice now—was standing in the corner, sweating profusely.

He inhaled deeply, squared his shoulders, and nodded.

"...Very well," he said, stiffly, as if forcing himself to accept that the universe had, in fact, allowed him to be happy.

You smirked and reached for his hand. "Great. Now come on, we’re late."

Sebek made a dying noise when you intertwined your fingers with his.

When you arrived, Malleus, Lilia, and Silver were already gathered in the garden, basking in the afternoon sun.

The moment you and Sebek showed up—hand in hand—Lilia's entire face lit up.

"Ah-ha!" Lilia cried, delighted, spinning toward the others with a mischievous flourish. "Pay up!"

Malleus sighed, deeply, as if betrayed by fate itself. Silver grunted, reaching into his pocket.

And then, right in front of you, the two of them handed Lilia actual money.

You blinked. “Wait. What just happened?”

Lilia grinned, tucking his winnings away. “Oh, just a little wager~”

You narrowed your eyes. "What kind of wager?"

Lilia, positively glowing with mischief, said, "I bet that you two would get together sooner rather than later."

Malleus, looking far too composed for someone who had just lost a bet, adjusted his sleeves and said, "I, on the other hand, estimated that it would take at least another year."

Silver sighed. "I thought it’d take two."

You gawked. "YOU WERE TAKING BETS ON THIS?!"

Sebek was mortified.

"YOU GAMBLED ON OUR HONOR?!" he thundered, appalled, offended, visibly vibrating.

Lilia cackled. “Oh, relax, dear boy! I was simply invested in your happiness!"

Sebek looked like he wanted to die.

So, naturally, you turned toward him, leaned in, and kissed him on the cheek.

Sebek stopped yelling immediately.

You could physically see the protest die in his throat. His entire body locked up, his ears turned red, and his eyes darted away as if you had just knocked the ability to argue right out of him.

Malleus, entirely too amused, hummed. “Curious. That seems to be an effective method of silencing him.”

Lilia beamed. “Oh, I love this development.”

Silver, utterly exhausted, rubbed his temple. "I don't even know why I bother at this point."

You just laughed, perfectly content, sitting beside your knight and the people you loved.

Masterlist

Can't believe this is the 15th part already!

#twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #sebek zigvolt x reader #sebek x reader #sebek zigvolt #twst sebek #twisted wonderland sebek #trash novel chronicles

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kaiser1ns · 1 year ago

Text

#. IT SUITS YOU . . . !

featuring 𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗱𝗯𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸𝗲𝗿 𝘅 𝗳𝗲𝗺!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 ıllı. umemiya hajime, takiishi chika togame jo, kaji ren, suo hayato, kiryu mitsuki, sakura haruka, endo yamato

fluff. he thought there was no other way to make him love you more until he saw you in his clothes.

UMEMIYA HAJIME

It was unbearably hot outside, so you and Umemiya decided to spend the day indoors, lounging on the couch and eating ice cream while watching some random show on Netflix. You thank the people who decided to create the air conditioning, and the ice cream felt heavenly against your tongue.

Halfway through the second episode, you managed to get a dollop of ice cream on your shirt. "Ugh, I'll be right back," you said, heading to the bedroom to change.

You rummaged through your drawers but couldn't find anything, then you stopped at a very interesting design as you grabbed one of Umemiya's shirts from the closet. It was soft and smelled like him, instantly making you feel cozy.

When you returned to the living room, you saw Umemiya's eyes widen and his jaw drop. In his shock, he accidentally let go of his ice cream, which fell to the ground with a splat.

"Ume, what was that for?" you asked, grabbing a wipe to clean up the mess.

It was strangely quiet, and when you looked up, you saw him staring at you with heart eyes, a blush spreading across his cheeks, and a huge, adoring smile on his face. His hand was clutching his chest dramatically.

"PUMPKIN, YOU ARE SO CUTE!" he screamed, fangirling, waving his imaginary tail like a little puppy. The sight was absolutely adorable. He started to pull off his own t-shirt, "PLEASE PUT THIS ONE!" You laughed and stopped him, "Another time, baby."

Days later, you were doing the laundry and noticed most of the clothes in the basket were Umemiya's. Little did you know, he had secretly left most of his shirts in your wardrobe during his sleepovers. But that was a secret, a sweet gesture of his love that you didn't need to know about.

TAKIISHI CHIKA

You woke up early on a lazy Sunday morning, the sun just beginning to filter through the curtains as you stroll into the kitchen, trying to find something to eat while dressed in your boyfriend's shirt that somehow became your pajama. The faint scent of his cologne that still lingers on was very comforting and calming, it made you more lovesick.

Takiishi, still half-asleep, shuffles into the kitchen, wondering why did you left. His hair is tousled and his eyes are still heavy with sleep, but when he sees you standing by the counter in his shirt ... he doesn't say anything per usual, as he wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his head on your shoulder. It's his shirt, the one you brought, not Endo. His warmth envelops you, and you can feel his steady heartbeat against your back. Despite just waking up, he finds peace, feeling so comfortable that he can drift back to sleep.

"You'd make a good teddy bear," you tease gently, turning in his embrace to face him. His expression is as calm as ever, but you can't help but notice the small smile that he tried to hide. "My pillow disappeared," he murmurs, his voice still husky with sleep. Well, of course, you are his personal pillow and blanket, but you didn't mind that at all.

With a groan, you realize you'll have to bring him back to bed. Gently, you guide him out of the kitchen, his arms still loosely around you playing with the shirt, as you lead him down the hallway. He leans on you heavily, his steps slow and relaxed, completely trusting you to guide him to where he can rest again.

As you reach the bedroom, he stirs slightly, murmuring a soft thank you against your neck. You can't help but smile at his sleepy self, carefully helping him settle into bed. He snuggles under the covers, pulling you close so you're curled up against his chest and he will always be close to you either with his arms around your body or with his shirt on you.

TOGAME JO

You really wanted to go to the store, and so you did, grabbing the first jacket you saw on your way out. It was a bit oversized, and you didn't think much about it. When you returned home, you were met with a scene of mild chaos. Your boyfriend, Togame Jo, had turned the house upside down.

"Jo, what are you doing?" you asked, taking off your shoes and looking at the scattered items.

"I can't find my Shishitoren jacke—" He paused mid-sentence, turning to look at you. There you were, standing in the doorway, wearing the very jacket he was searching for. A soft smile spread across his face. "It looks good on you, doll."

Realization dawned on you. You had grabbed his jacket by mistake. Well, you wouldn't lie—you did look pretty good in it. "I'm sorry, I'll take it off," you said, starting to remove it. Togame made a slow, dismissive gesture with his hand. "No, no. Keep it on."

"But don't you need it right now?" you asked, puzzled. "Won't Choji complain because—"

He cut you off with a teasing grin, "They already know who I am. Wear it so they know who that jacket belongs to."

Your heart fluttered at his words. Snuggling into the jacket, you smiled back at him, feeling a warm sense of belonging. Togame stepped closer, wrapping an arm around you.

"Besides," he whispered, "you make it look way better than I ever could."

KAJI REN

Kaji seemed to like hoodies, no he loved hoodies. And he especially loved when you wore them. The sight of you, cozy and snug in his oversized clothing, always made him somehow melt. But now, as he stood shivering at the bus stop, he started to regret his choice of giving you his favorite one. After all, it was cold, and you had forgotten to bring something warmer, leaving him only in his shirt.

"I'm sorry, Ren," you said softly, guilty as you glanced at him. Your boyfriend stood there, his arms wrapped around himself, his breath visible in the chilly air. The bus wouldn’t be here for another 30 minutes, and you could see he was freezing.

He wasn’t that mad, just a little bit, a tiny little bit. But he preferred you to be warm and safe, so when boyfriend duty called, he answered. With a small sigh, you snuggled closer to him, wrapping your arms around his torso, hoping the soft material of the hoodie would warm him up. His initial shiver softened as he felt your embrace, and he glanced down at you.

"Please don't be mad at me," you pleaded, looking up at him with those big, apologetic eyes.

"I am not," he replied, shaking his head. "Just next time, wear one of my hoodies or put something with sleeves," he sounded calm, well his other senses didn't work that well when freezing, as you hummed in response, pressing yourself closer to him as a way to share whatever warmth you could muster.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the bus arrived. As you both climbed aboard and found a seat. The heater was a blessing, and you leaned into Kaji, feeling him gradually warm up. He wasn’t mad, but you noticed the sniffles starting the next morning.

Now, as he lays on the couch, wrapped in blankets and surrounded by tissues, you felt even more guilty. Kaji has come down with a cold, and you are taking care of him. You brought him hot tea, fluffed his pillows, and made sure he had everything he needed.

"Ren, I'm so sorry," you said again, placing a hand on his forehead to check his temperature. He looked up at you, his eyes a bit glassy but still filled with affection. And you knew that he would rather be sick than have you catch a cold.

SUO HAYATO

As you finish the final touches in front of the mirror, you can't help but feel a bit nervous. The smooth white silk of the changshan glides against your skin, as you admire how the elegant fabric hugs your form, the intricate patterns catching the light just so. Suo's appreciation for Chinese-styled fashion has always intrigued you, and today, you decided to surprise him by matching his style.

A quick glance at your phone reminds you that Suo is waiting outside, though he texted you saying he’d be there for a while, giving you more time to get ready. With a deep breath, you grab your bag and head out the door.

Stepping outside, you spot him immediately. Your boyfriend stands there, looking effortlessly handsome as always in his own changshan, and a smile playing on his lips. But as his eyes land on you, his expression shifts to one of pleasant surprise.

"Y/N?" he calls out, the amusement and admiration can be heard and seen as he takes a few steps closer, his gaze never leaving you. "Is that my changshan?"

You nod, feeling a blush rise to your cheeks. "I wanted to match with you today. Do you like it?" He chuckles, the sound warm and teasing. "Like it? You look amazing. But I must say, you pull it off better than I do."

"I just wanted to try it out. You always look so good in these, and I thought it might be fun." Suo reaches out, gently adjusting a strand of hair that had fallen out of place, his touch is warm, "Well, you certainly succeeded. But now I’m worried everyone will be looking at you instead of me."

You roll your eyes, knowing he's just teasing. "Oh, please. You know you always steal the spotlight." He grins, his hand holding yours as you start to walk together. "Maybe so, but today, you’re the star. I’m really happy you did this, Y/N. It means a lot."

The honesty in his voice makes your heart flutter. "I just wanted to show you how much I appreciate you. And maybe… steal some of your fashion secrets."

Suo chuckles, squeezing your hand. "Anytime, Y/N. You know, we could make this a regular thing. Matching outfits and all."

You smile, the idea sounding more and more appealing, "So I will see you wearing Hello Kitty pajama's?" and as you think about how cute he will look in pink pjs while you apply a face mask and watch movies, it makes your heart melt, and he just laughs softly. "Who am I to deny you?"

KIRYU MITSUKI for my pookie @heartkaji

You’ve borrowed his shirt for the day, its soft fabric with vibrant pastel colors and shapes, a comforting reminder of him, paired with your pink skirt and cute Converse sneakers. The combination makes you feel especially adorable, and you notice the admiring glances from your boyfriend who undoubtedly thinks the same.

Kiryu’s been quiet, his phone in hand more than usual. You’ve caught glimpses of him smiling subtly at the screen, making you assume he’s checking something interesting. Perhaps a new game or a video that caught his eye.

You find a cozy bench and settle down together, your head finding its familiar spot on his shoulder. The day has been perfect, and you close your eyes for a moment, to get a rest from all the walking. When you open them, you notice his phone gallery is open, the screen filled with so many photos.

You tilted your head for a better look. The gallery is full of pictures of you—captured candidly throughout the day. These aren’t just any blurry photos; they look professionally taken, each one perfectly framed and lit. Your heart skips a beat as you realize Kiryu’s secret. Blushing, you nudge him playfully.

"Why didn’t you tell me?”

He looks at you with that calm, gentle cat like smile that always makes your heart melt. “I didn’t want your facial expression to be forced for the picture only.”

His words make your cheeks flush even more. You feel an overwhelming rush of affection for this boy who loves you so deeply, capturing your natural moments with such care. Leaning up, you press a soft kiss to his cheek.

“You’re amazing, you know that?”

Kiryu’s smile widens just a bit, and he pulls you closer. “And you’re beautiful. Wear my clothes more often, they suit you.”

ENDO YAMATO

Endo often went shopping with you, spoiling you with many bags that would pile up during your hangouts. You appreciated his generosity, but sometimes, the sheer number of bags was overwhelming.

Today, home alone, you found yourself rifling through Endo's closet. You slipped into one of his oversized shirts and a pair of his jeans, the latter needing a makeshift belt to stay up. To complete the look, you even drew some lines on your arms to replicate his intricate sleeve tattoos. Standing in front of the mirror, you struck a pose and imitated his voice, "I am Endo Yamato and I'm going to tell you some philosophy shit I don't understand myself." You couldn't help but giggle at your own 'cosplay'' if you can even call it one.

Unbeknownst to you, Endo had come home. He stepped into the room whistling, his phone held up and recording. You froze, eyes wide as you locked gazes with him. He was grinning ear to ear, clearly entertained, while you felt a wave of embarrassment wash over you.

Before you could react, the makeshift belt gave way, and his jeans slipped down to the floor. Luckily, the oversized shirt and tank top you wore covered you just enough.

"You didn't see anything. Get out," you stammered, cheeks burning. Endo chuckled, the phone still capturing every moment. "Good impression, although, one note: you forgot to draw this tattoo," he said, pointing to a specific spot on his arm.

You grabbed a pillow and hurled it at him. "I said get out!"

"Right, right," he replied, backing out of the room with a mischievous smile. "But don't beg me to delete the video; you were so cute."

You groaned, knowing you were in for a relentless teasing. "Endo, I swear, if you don't stop…"

But his laughter was already echoing through the hallway, leaving you to change and try to remove the tattoos you drew with a permanent marker. It can't get any worse than this, can it?

SAKURA HARUKA

The sky was clear when you and Sakura set out to run errands for Kotoha, but halfway through your way to the store, the heavens opened up, and a heavy rain began to pour. You dashed for cover, but it was too late. Your white blouse quickly became soaked, clinging to your skin, making you aware of how exposed you felt. With your hands crossed in front of your chest, you glanced over at Sakura.

He was blushing furiously, doing his best not to look directly at you. His eyes darted nervously, and then he shrugged off his jacket. Holding it out to you, he kept his head turned away, the redness creeping up his neck and ears to the tip of his fingers. "H-here," he stammered, his voice soft and gentle.

"Thank you," you said, taking the jacket from his trembling hands. You slipped it on, the warmth from his body still lingering in the fabric. Sakura's scent enveloped you, and you could see him stealing a few glances, his face turning an even deeper shade of red. It was clear he was trying hard to keep his composure.

You stepped closer to him, your heart pounding in your chest. Standing on your toes, you placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. "I'll return it tomorrow if it's not a problem."

Sakura.exe had officially stopped working. He stood frozen, eyes wide and lips slightly parted, unable to process what just happened. His cheeks were burning, not from the cold rain but from your touch. "Sure, keep it, yeah," he finally managed to say, his voice shaky.

You laughed softly at his reaction, making a mental note to treat him to something nice next time as a thank you. The rain stopped after not too long, but you were still with his jacket on, and he didn't mind at all. Sakura will probably make you run in the rain again, or do anything else, just to have an excuse to give you the jacket.

BONUS !

KOTOHA + TSUBAKI using he/him for tsubaki

Guess what time it is? It’s the casual Girl’s Night that occurs on most Fridays. Tonight, you, Kotoha, and Tsubaki are at Tsubaki's house for a sleepover, and the evening is already filled with gossip and laughter. The three of you sit on the living room floor, painting your nails in bright, fun colors while a horror movie plays in the background. You all giggle at the ridiculous actions of the main characters, the jump scares only adding to the fun.

Soon, the nail polish is drying, and you move on to your next activity: karaoke. The living room transforms into your stage as you each take turns singing loudly, the music echoing through the house. Your voices blend together in a chorus of joy, rockstars quite literally.

After the concert, it’s time for the fashion show. You rummage through Tsubaki's closet, matching your clothes with pieces from Kotoha's and Tsubaki's collections. With a dramatic flair, Tsubaki sets up the "runway" in the hallway, grabbing a flashlight to act as the spotlight.

"Lights, camera, action!" Tsubaki shouts, and you begin your strut down the hallway, feeling like a top model. Tsubaki's enthusiasm is infectious as he cheer, "You are so beautiful, Y/N-chan! I knew that skirt would suit you!"

Kotoha's eyes light up with admiration as she sees how her makeup looks on you. "You look stunning, Y/N," she says, her smile genuine and warm, clapping her hands.

The three of you take turns walking the runway, posing and twirling as you go. Tsubaki snaps photos, capturing every glamorous moment. Once satisfied, you all crowd around his phone, reviewing the photos and choosing the best ones to post on your socials.

Just as you hit "post," your phones buzz with notifications. The Bofurin group chat, which is 99% boys, suddenly goes crazy when Tsubaki sends a video of your model walk. Messages flood in, filled with surprised reactions and compliments.

"Is that Y/N?" Tsubaki reads Hiragi's message. "SO CUTE!" Umemiya added, and for some reason, Sakura sent a thumbs-up emoji, don't judge him, he is still learning to use a phone properly.

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