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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 21 hours ago

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The Keys Of Heaven [Chapter 1: He Will Come Again In Glory]

A/N: I've had this idea since I saw Conclave in October, but I never imagined it would coincide with an ACTUAL papal conclave 😅 Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoy "volcano fic" at long last!!! 🌋❤️

Series summary: Three years ago, Father Aemond Targaryen performed a miracle. Now he is a cardinal, a media sensation, and a frontrunner to be elected pope. You are a nun who has been brought to Vatican City to assist with the papal conclave. But when your paths cross by happenstance, you must both reckon with your decision to join the Catholic Church...and what you want from the future.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), references to abuse and violence, volcanoes, bodily injury, death, peril, scheming, pining, some drugs/alcohol/smoking, Catholic trivia you never asked to learn, kangaroos!

Word count: 6.6k

🦘 A very special thanks to my Aussie slang consultant @bearwithegg (any mistakes are mine) 🦘

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @lauraneedstochill @ecstaticactus @neithriddle

🗝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🗝️

“Are you responsible for the koi?” a man asks.

You whirl, spilling pellets of fish food across the pebble pathway, sand-colored tuff made of volcanic ash. Cardinal Targaryen is standing there, and of course you recognize him immediately. His hands are clasped behind his back, his head is tilted thoughtfully to the side. He wears a gold cross, a zucchetto upon his still-blonde hair, and a cassock, scarlet to symbolize the blood a martyr is willing to shed for the Faith; it has exactly thirty-three buttons, one for each year Christ spent on earth. You grin proudly. This is a promotion, an escape from doing the washing in a basement full of spiders. “I sure am, Your Eminence!”

“Including that one?” He points: by the edge of the pond, a large red-and-white koi is floating with dull, dead, lidless eyes.

“Oh no,” you moan, taking a closer look. “No, no, no, it’s rooted. This is not good.” You turn back to the cardinal. “Please don’t tell Sister Augustina. She already thinks I’m an idiot because I don’t know how to work a fax machine.”

Cardinal Targaryen chuckles. “A fax machine?”

“I didn’t think people still used those.”

“I didn’t either.” He’s still watching you closely. “Have we met before?”

“I don’t believe so, Your Eminence.” You saw him arriving at the Domus Sanctae Marthae this morning—rolling his luggage, handing over his phone, sequestering himself from the outside world—but it was other nuns who tended to him, not you. You had been assisting Cardinal Bogdi Marcu of Romania, who probably has first-hand experience with stegosauruses and mastodons.

“You remind me of someone, but I can’t recall who...” Cardinal Targaryen studies you for a little longer, then beams benevolently. “Well, the Lord commands us to be compassionate, and so I will help you hide the evidence and spare you from Sister Augustina’s wrath.”

You should protest—surely this is beneath him—but you are so overwhelmed with gratitude that for a moment you forget this. “Oh, bless you!”

As the cardinal scoops the deceased koi out of the pond with two large, cupped hands, you use your fingers to dig a makeshift grave under a lemon tree. It is December, and the Vatican Gardens are not dead but slumbering, the air cool and the sky grey, the soil soft and dark and damp as you burrow until you hit the impassible layer of clay beneath. Cardinal Targaryen lays the koi to rest in the trough, then together you hastily inter it. When the hollow has been filled and the dirt smoothed, he looks around the nearby flower beds for a large stone and finds one, places it atop the koi’s clandestine crypt, and stands back, admiring his work.

“Now you will escape all suspicion,” he says.

“Thank you, Your Eminence.”

“You may call me Aemond.” He bows his head in greeting, holding his hands behind his back again. His speech is formal and measured, crafted in English-taught boarding schools, just a ghost of Mediterranean inflection like the lingering pink of a sunburn. “I’m Cardinal Targaryen of Greece.”

You tap your own left cheek, indicating his scar. “I know who you are.” But you would even if it wasn’t for his mutilation, his eye that was permanently stitched shut. Three years ago when he was thirty-eight, the same age you are now, Aemond commandeered a fishing boat and saved a group of fifty tourists from a volcanic eruption on Santorini, where he was a priest at the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist. He instantly became a pop culture phenomenon—news interviews and televised sermons, statements on current events and viral memes—and was made a cardinal soon after. Miracles are so rare in the modern world; those who wield them must be elevated to prove the magic still exists.

You give him your name, and the cardinal—you cannot bring yourself to think of him as Aemond, too informal, too intimate—surmises: “You’re here for the conclave.”

That is sort of true. “It’s such an honor.”

“Hm.” He is scrutinizing you again, his remaining eye sharp and blue and fascinated. “Are you certain we haven’t met before?”

“I don’t know where we would have, I’ve never been to Greece.”

“Perhaps on one of my diplomatic missions. The Philippines, Indonesia, Colombia, Japan, China, Bangladesh.”

You smile. “Never been to any of those either.”

“You’re from Australia.” Your accent makes this apparent. He’s touching his chin, he’s determined to puzzle it out. “Which part?”

“Up north in Queensland, originally. But I’ve mostly lived in Sydney for the past fifteen years.”

He shakes his head, mystified and frustrated by it; not much eludes him. “I visited Sydney once but it was forever ago, I was just a kid.” He is still thinking. On other pathways through the gardens, red dots of cardinals are walking off their flights from six different continents, murmuring solemnly to their colleagues or lost in the solitude of prayer. “How was this arranged, you traveling to the Vatican?”

And so you tell him the most abbreviated version: Mother Maureen Ashwell of the Sisters of Charity of Australia wrote to Sister Augustina, a friend for decades, a pen pal of sorts, and asked if she could use you. When the cardinals convene each time a new pope must be elected—ten years since the last conclave, or twenty, or thirty—there is a great need for labor, and particularly the labor of women, anonymous and thankless and uncomplaining: washing, cooking, serving, scrubbing, safeguarding, the endless, ever-patient matrilineal caretaking. Sister Augustina acquiesced, and so you flew to Rome with another nun from your convent, Sister Rhaena, who is very young and very in awe of everything all the time. Whatever affection Sister Augustina has for Mother Maureen has not translated to you. She scowls, she huffs, she loathes how you fold clothes and make beds. When Rhaena playfully tried to give her the nickname of Sister Tina, she received a pair of cuffed, ringing ears in return.

As you speak, Cardinal Targaryen gazes at you fixedly; and then his jaw drops open in amazement. “Dear God,” he says, his remaining eye wide and starry. “You’re the girl from the beach.”

~~~~~~~~~~

How old must you have been? It comes back like sandbars revealed by low tide: you are around nine, and Aemond perhaps twelve, and you meet when your parents have—separately yet providentially—planned family vacations to Sydney for the same week in December, when the Northern Hemisphere is shivering and the South is in the early days of summer.

You drove ten hours south from Toowoomba, he flew over nine thousand miles east from Athens, and you fall into step together on wet sand that collapses into the shape of your footprints. And while your respective siblings are elsewhere—getting slathered with marshmallow-white sunscreen, being fished out of the rough waves—you and Aemond build sprawling sandcastles and decorate them with seashells, and make banners out of dried seaweed impaled on pieces of driftwood, and share the picnics your parents packed: you have Vegemite or tuna sandwiches, meat pies, Tim Tams, Granny Smith apples, and Illawarra plums, while Aemond contributes soft triangles of pita and a platter of accompaniments, tzatziki, hummus, other spreads made of feta cheese or eggplant or fish, the cold crisp relief of a Greek salad wet with olive oil.

You find each other each morning of that week, an infinitesimal eternity. He is the first boy you see as a man—his shadow tall, his voice patient and wise—and there is a powerful pure drive to be close to him, a phantom longing for something you don’t know exists yet. You make him smile and laugh; he loves the way you say sanger instead of sandwich, and esky instead of cooler box, and togs instead of bathing suits, and defo instead of definitely. You tell Aemond you want to move to Greece with him. He tells you he wants to marry you one day. He weaves you a ring made of seaweed greener than any emeralds, but you leave it on your nightstand before going to sleep and wake to find that your mum has thrown it away because it smelled like the ocean, salt and sun and eons of lives coming full circle in the depths.

On your last night in Sydney, the four parents arrange to have dinner together at a pizza place by the boardwalk, and you hear them chuckling as they make light, patronizing exchanges: too bad long-distance phone calls are so expensive, awfully sad for them to have to say goodbye, kids have such short memories, they’ll get over it. As Aemond leaves with his family—he’s the last one out the door, glancing back at you again and again—you watch him vanish into the inky darkness and the glare of the streetlights, and from a little black radio beside the till there is a song playing, maybe Dylan or Joel or Springsteen, one you’ve never been able to remember well enough to find again.

And when you arrive home after an impossibly long day of driving and open your suitcase, the seashells you hid in the bottom have been jostled and crushed until only the dust of them is left, and the loss hits you, sharp and deep, and you begin to sob so loudly your mum comes running, thinking you must be bleeding to death.

~~~~~~~~~~

He finds you where you are plating the antipasto to be ferried to the cardinals—cured salami and prosciutto, tomatoes, olives, pepperoncini, artichoke hearts, ribbons of fresh basil, and cubes of provolone and mozzarella glistening with olive oil—and tells you to follow him. You want to listen, and you have to anyway; in the Church all men outrank all women, and the distance between a cardinal and a nun is particularly vast, a transcontinental flight, the depth of an ocean.

You step away from the plates, looking back at your compatriots. Sister Augustina is glaring at you, bruise-blotched hands gnarled but steady, eyes like a basilisk’s. Sister Rhaena’s lineless face is alight; Tell me everything he says! she mouths, as if Cardinal Targaryen is a celebrity she’s had tacked to her bedroom wall since she was in secondary school...and actually, that might not be too far off the mark. The other three nuns you find yourself working with most often—Sister Penny from the U.K., Sister Nuru from Kenya, and Sister Helvi from Finland—watch you leave with puzzled, transfixed stares.

At first you’d found it impossible to use his given name, but now that you remember him, it’s very difficult not to. You have to remind yourself that you are not alone, not children on a beach where roos hop in the rust-fire dawn; you are in the midst of one hundred and six cardinals, plus a few who are eighty or older and therefore ineligible to vote, yet have nonetheless come to lend their wisdom to the deliberations. Some of their faces you know, many others you don’t, even after hours of research before your arrival in Vatican City.

You say as you trail Aemond uncertainly: “Cardinal Targaryen...?”

“Sit,” he orders when he reaches his table, pulling out a chair. You peer back at the nuns again. Sister Rhaena is exuberant; Sister Augustina looks like she’d enjoy burning you at the stake. You drop sheepishly into the red velvet chair and shrink under the intrigued gazes of the four cardinals who are seated with Aemond. You recognize Cardinal Orlando Almazan of the Philippines and Cardinal Luckson Louissaint of Haiti, whose large dark eyes roll to Aemond as he sips his wine and smiles to himself. Aemond tells his allies as he sits down beside you: “This is Sister Sydney.”

“Welcome, Sister Sydney!” booms a chubby man in his fifties, a warm perpetual flush in his full cheeks, salt-and-pepper hair, a short tidy beard.

You titter and bow your head, deferential. Your hands are clasped together in your lap, resting uneasily on the white wool of your habit. “Thank you, Your Eminence, but that’s not actually my name.”

“Are you from Sydney, Sister?” Cardinal Almazan asks; he is a small quiet man who is easy to lose in a crowd. He is presently doling out lollies and bikkies with labels you’ve never seen before; he must have brought them with him from the Philippines. He slides one over to you. Jelly Straws, the colorful package reads.

“We met there as children,” Aemond says. “About thirty years ago. And we hadn’t seen each other since.”

“C’est pas vrai!” Cardinal Louissaint exclaims as the others chatter incredulously. “Really? Is it possible? And now you find that you have both come to the Church by different paths? Incroyable.” He introduces himself with a broad grin and another curious glance at Aemond.

“How fortuitous for the Lord to bring you together again,” Cardinal Almazan says. He tells you his name and gestures for you to open the Jelly Straws.

“Yes,” Aemond muses, almost like it’s an afterthought, as if divine intervention hadn’t occurred to him. While you’re still hesitating, he rips open the Jelly Straws and takes a green one for himself, crystals of sugary coating snowing down on the table. “Mmm. Watermelon.”

“Aemo, give me a mango one,” the loud salt-and-pepper haired man says, holding out an open palm. And you recall abruptly, like something shattering against the floor: Did I call him that on the beach? I think I might have.

Aemond tosses him an orange Jelly Straw, and then tells you, pointing at the man: “Kazimierz Nowak of Poland.” Then he indicates to the last attendee, fluffy brown hair and round glasses, composed, bookish, mid-forties, the second-youngest cardinal here in the dining hall of the Domus Sanctae Marthae, the residence of the cardinals for the duration of the conclave. “Shane Campbell, American by birth, now serving in Mongolia.”

“Easiest assignment,” Cardinal Nowak mutters as he tears open a package of Sky Flakes, and the other men chuckle.

“Kazi, you are being rude again,” Cardinal Almazan scolds him, but he’s smiling. Unfamiliar snacks rotate around the table: Fudgee Barr, Kopiko, Super Stix, Hello Panda. Cautiously, you take a pink Jelly Straw from the package and pass the rest along. It tastes like strawberries, sweet and summery, golden sun beating down like it has in every other December you’ve ever lived through.

Cardinal Campbell tells Kazi: “I would happily die by arrows or being roasted over a gridiron if it would at last win me your esteem.”

“You could just lose four fingers like Jake,” Kazi suggests. He waves to a cardinal at a nearby table: Jacob Green, a Brit serving in Iran. You know his face; last year his capture and torture by a militant group was widely publicized, as well as his commitment to remain in Iran after the Church paid a hefty ransom and arranged for his safe release.

Cardinal Campbell holds up his hands and ponders them. “Which fingers could I spare?”

“Start with the ring fingers,” Cardinal Luckson Louissaint says. “You won’t need them.”

You all laugh, and Rhaena appears with plates of antipasto, including one for you. She cannot disguise her excitement; she is glowing with it, she is beaming, she almost drops Aemond’s serving on the floor as she goes to set it in front of him. “Thank you very much, Sister,” Cardinal Almazan murmurs as she scurries off again.

The men begin to eat. They speak with great familiarity and have nicknames for each other: Aemo, Kazi, Lucky, Lando, Cam. You pick up your fork and peer nervously around the dining hall. Many cardinals are watching you now, some amused, some fond...but others are frowning.

“Eat, Sister, eat,” Lucky urges you. He is short and round and has a gruff voice and hands calloused from the sort of work most cardinals abstain from. “You are in the right place, I promise. This is the kids’ table.”

Cardinal Orlando Almazan, Lando to his friends, appears startled. “I’m sixty.”

“That’s mid-twenties in cardinal years,” Kazi says. “Hey, Lando, did you ever watch that show I emailed you about?”

“Oh, it was awful.” He spears a chunk of salami with his fork.

“What show?” Aemond asks.

“Cribs,” Kazi says, and the others snicker.

“So wasteful!” Lando laments. “All those bedrooms, bowling alleys, movie theaters, garages for ten cars...all I could think about was the good those resources might do elsewhere.”

Kazi sighs. “You can’t look at anything without seeing orphans.”

Lando opens his hands. “And is this such a failing?”

“Well, it’s not very interesting.”

Lando grins. “Interesting men make poor cardinals. We figured that out in the 1500s when they kept murdering each other.”

“Might be a good tradition to revisit,” Lucky jokes, but in a very low voice. And he nods towards a table across the room, where several cardinals are glaring and hissing conspiratorially amongst themselves. You recognize some of them, older men with forceful fields of gravity: Bernardo Ferrari of Italy, Florent Auclair of France, and Matej Jahoda of the Czech Republic, a favorite to be elected pope.

Kazi says: “Jahoda thinks he is entitled to lead the Church because atheists killed his family.”

You are horrorstruck, a palm pressed to the white wool over your heart. “Did they really?”

“Prague Spring,” Aemond tells you, a phrase that carries with it vague connotations from Modern History in secondary school: 1960s, Eastern Bloc, Soviet invasion, self-immolations, tanks and smoke in the streets.

“It is very sad, what happened to his people,” Lando says softly.

“Yes, of course, but you cannot buy the Chair of Saint Peter with tragedies,” Lucky replies, then winks at Aemond. “Although perhaps you can earn it with miracles.”

“It wasn’t a miracle,” Aemond demurs, as he is expected to. To agree would be sanctimonious, prideful, unholy. No cardinal may campaign for himself, nor be seen to covet the papacy. It is disqualifying to be perceived as ambitious; and so those who want it most become good at pretending.

Cam leans across the table to whisper to Aemond: “Jahoda calls you The Cyclops.”

Aemond smiles as he crunches on a hunk of cucumber. “For something to be a monster, you have to be afraid of it.”

You take shy nibbles of your antipasto. On the other side of the dining hall, Cardinal Jahoda rolls his eyes and glowers at you and Aemond, then turns to say something you can just barely hear to his companions: “He will do anything for attention.”

“What was that, Cardinal Jahoda?” Kazi shouts across the void, and a hush ripples through the men dressed in red, the women in white or blue or black—depending upon which order they belong to—skittering soundlessly on the outskirts as they fetch water and wine and bowls of pancetta and pea risotto, the next course. Over one hundred souls wait to see what will happen next. The lines have been drawn and the frontrunners are no secret: the conservatives favor Jahoda or Leopoldo do Carmo of Portugal, the moderates are split between Jacob Green and Gideon Saati of South Sudan, and the liberals by and large are planning to vote for Aemond when the cardinals are locked in the Sistine Chapel.

Slowly, Cardinal Jahoda rises to his feet. He is an imposing man with iron-grey hair, broad shoulders, and large hands that could have gone to war if he’d chosen a different vocation. His voice is not gravelly like Lucky’s, but clear and deep and colored with a strong Czech accent. “Brothers, this is a time for reflection and solemn prayer, not fraternizing.”

Aemond stands. Enraptured gazes follow him, eyeglasses are put on; some cardinals smile, others glare, others only observe, opening their hearts to be swayed in either direction. “Cardinal Jahoda, surely you do not believe that our sisters are fit to prepare our meals but not to share them with us.”

Jahoda is dismissive, as if Aemond is a child to be shushed. “Ah, you do nothing with pure intentions. Do not pretend you care for her.”

“You are upset,” Aemond says with mock earnestness, and there are chuckles in the audience. “Perhaps you are lonely and in need of better company. Perhaps you would like to invite one of the other sisters to join your table.”

“God has ordained different roles for us. I would not presume to alter them.”

“And this is the thinking that has left our Church in such a precarious state,” Aemond says, and there is a chorus of responses: groans and objections from the conservatives, cheers and water glasses thumped on the tables from the liberals, the moderates splitting the difference. “You would not presume to question anything, and so you are content with an institution that stands still as the world keeps moving.”

“The Holy Father, may God rest his soul, was a progressive,” Jahoda counters, sparring with words like blades that clang together and slice just millimeters from the blue shadows of veins. “And for all his triumphs—serving the poor and the destitute so faithfully, welcoming with open arms migrants and refugees—he failed to strengthen the Church. Millions around the world are leaving Catholicism to become Evangelicals. The Vatican is deeply in debt. Recent press coverage of the Holy See has been marred by misinterpretations and vagueness, mixed messages, claiming to champion human rights while enabling China and Russia—”

“Concessions must be made if we are to have inroads to reach the people of these nations.”

“And so you would negotiate with tyrants.” Jahoda gives Aemond a hard, searing look, as if this is a betrayal. “Appeasement is not the solution to our problems.”

“Neither is alienation from modernity! We can choose to challenge ourselves and our Faith in order to meet the needs of the time we live in and reinvigorate the Church. We can explore the possibility of ordaining female deacons, we can extend blessings to same-sex couples, we can make celibacy optional for our priests as so many other religions have done already, we can do more to protect the climate which will in turn save countless human lives, we can allow the divorced and remarried to participate in communion!”

But this is too much: the conservatives are jeering and the moderates look startled, as if a fire alarm has just gone off. The liberals are gamely trying to drown out the opposition with cheers, applause, bangs of fists and water glasses against the tables. The nuns clutch their rosaries. You exchange a glance with Rhaena, who stands nearby carrying a bowl of risotto she’s completely forgotten about. She is mesmerized by Aemond. She mouths to you: Can you believe him?

You can, but you can’t; he’s exactly the same as the boy from the beach, he is so different, he is still watchful and clever, he is sharper and bolder and scarred.

“Brothers, brothers, please!” Cardinal Blaise Seaborn is pleading. He is the dean of the College of Cardinals, responsible for summoning them for the conclave and presiding over the proceedings. He is eternally flustered, his hair in disarray and his cassock rumpled. “We can discuss these matters in the general congregations tomorrow. Now is not the time. You’ve traveled so far and you must be exhausted. Please, I implore you, take your seats and finish your meals that the sisters have worked so diligently to prepare.”

Jahoda waves a hand flippantly as he lowers himself back into his chair. “You cannot understand, Cardinal Targaryen. But it is not your fault. You do not have the wisdom. You’re just too young.”

And as Jahoda retreats, Cardinal Auclair leaps up from the same table and strides to the center of the dining hall. He is tall and lean like Aemond, white-haired since his thirties, fiendishly quick, a fox, a peacock, a mercenary. No one would ever vote for Florent Auclair to be pope; it is well-known—yet never said aloud—that at home in Paris, there is a widow he has taken a special interest in and three children that share his aquiline nose and small, icy eyes. But this does not mean he is impartial. In your corner of the room, Lucky is drumming his knuckles heavily on the tabletop. Kazi passes you a half-eaten Choc Nut.

“Your Eminences,” Auclair begins with a sweep of his hand. Cardinal Seaborn peers around as if searching for someone to stop this, as if it isn’t his job. “The Holy Father was known for his humility and his gentleness. Let us now bring balance to the Church with a leader who is strong, and experienced, and attuned to the ancient history of our Faith. Not an idealistic youth.”

“I wonder about this fixation upon age,” Aemond says, and all eyes snap back to him. Cardinal Seaborn looks on wearily, feebly. “We believe in a Savior who redeemed the world at thirty-three, but a man at forty or fifty is not fit to lead His flock?”

Auclair is incensed. “You compare yourself to Christ?!”

“You pretend to know my mind!” Aemond thunders. “And the gifts that God has bestowed upon others. There is no greater arrogance.”

Auclair mocks venomously: “What is the saying? He who enters the conclave as pope leaves it as a cardinal.”

“And I have voiced no such aspirations.” But he has led Auclair into the trap of speaking them to life, and now they are loose in the air like fireflies and no one can forget them.

Auclair switches to Latin, and Aemond follows him seamlessly. Then Auclair pivots to French, a language that many of the cardinals have at least some proficiency in, and Aemond hesitates; you have the impression he can understand most of what is being said, but Auclair talks so swiftly—surely this is intentional—and Aemond stumbles over his words when he tries to defend himself.

Lucky surges up from the table and meets them in the middle of the dining hall, assailing Auclair with a deluge of French. Aemond gracefully retreats. As the emperors stand back, the gladiators bloody the floor. Now the cardinals are in uproar, a deafening rumble of palms and fists against the tables, an incomprehensible storm of languages. Kazi and Cam are bellowing to cheer Lucky on. Lando looks at you, smiles placidly, shrugs, takes a bite of his risotto.

“Cardinal Louissant, please!” Cardinal Seaborn begs. “Please, Brothers, let us return to our seats! This is no way to honor the memory of the Holy Father!”

The cardinals fracture away from each other, Auclair returning to one side of the room, Lucky to the other. Auclair hisses at Aemond as he withdraws: “Even your hero Saint Thomas Aquinas agreed that pride is the most reprehensible of the seven deadly sins.”

Aemond says: “And fortunately for you, Your Eminence, lust is the least.”

“Le salaud!” Auclair roars, and again the cardinals erupt into chaos. “Le crétin, la bête!”

As the dining hall is engulfed in jeers and laughter and applause, Aemond stands by his chair and sips his wine, cool, composed, too statuesque to be human. You gaze up at him and think: What happened to that boy from the beach? Cardinal Seaborn physically places himself in Auclair’s path to stop him from crossing the midpoint of the room. Sister Augustina is crossing herself.

“You still need one more miracle to be a saint, Targaryen,” Auclair seethes as Cardinal Ferrari coaxes him back to their table. “Surely that is what you dream of. No throne on earth is high enough for you.”

Aemond does not reply. He sits as if no one has said anything and eats his risotto, neat but famished forkfuls. Lucky, Kazi, Cam, and Lando give him encouraging thumps on the back. In return, Aemond flashes them a sly, crooked smirk. Then he turns to you. “Tell me about the work you’ve done with the Sisters of Charity of Australia.”

It’s a command, not a request; still, you deny him. You stand, casting a wary glance at Sister Augustina, who is lurching towards you on jolty, arthritic legs. “I really must go serve dinner with the rest of the sisters, I’m only here in Vatican City with Sister Augustina’s blessing and I fear she is dangerously close to revoking it.”

Aemond’s companions wish you goodnight, but he’s not quite done with you yet. “That’s not why I did it,” he says, indicating to the seat he led you to. “To prove a point.”

“I know, Aemond.” And you should have called him Your Eminence or Cardinal Targaryen, but you didn’t, because he’s not just a cardinal. He’s your friend.

As you depart, Aemond picks up a pack of chocolate-flavored Sky Flakes from the table and offers them to you. “Bikkies, right?”

You grin. He remembers. “Too right.” You take the Sky Flakes; you’ll share them with Rhaena tonight.

But when dinner is over and the dishes have been cleared, Aemond finds you again, this time at the threshold between the dining hall and the corridor that leads to the stairwells and the elevators. The Domus Sanctae Marthae—Latin for Saint Martha’s House—is essentially a hotel, built in 1996 by Pope John Paul II for guests to Vatican City and to house the College of Cardinals during a conclave. It can accommodate one hundred and thirty-one souls in small, spartan rooms: no televisions, no radios, no computers, no cellphones, no worldly distractions, no undue influences upon the cardinals’ meditations. They are to listen to the whispers of God, not journalists, not family or friends, not bribes or threats or pleas, not even the crowds of faithful Catholics that gather in Saint Peter’s Square with handmade signs and flickering candles.

Aemond asks, spotting the plain iron medallion hanging from your throat: “Who are you wearing?”

“Saint Agatha.”

“Bona of Pisa would have been better. The patron saint of travelers. Or perhaps Mary MacKillop, the patron saint of Australia.”

“Yes, Aemond, you’re very smart.”

He chuckles and watches you, and even when he doesn’t say anything you feel no instinct to leave; this is unfinished. His hands are clasped behind his back again, as if he is afraid of what he will do with them if they are untethered. A scarlet torrent of cardinals lumber past as they journey to their rooms. Rhaena, curious but not wanting to intrude, loiters a ways down the hall as she waits for you.

“I still remember saying goodbye to you, isn’t that mad?” you tell Aemond. “We were with our families at that pizza place, and it was dark outside, and as you left it was like you vanished into the white glow of the streetlights. And there was some song playing...I don’t know, I’ve never been able to find it again. But it was sad, and I think it had a harmonica.”

Surely he thinks you’re a bit gone for holding on to that moment from almost exactly twenty-nine years ago; maybe he’ll even think you’re making it up. But instead, Aemond gazes off into the Red Sea of cardinals—a lava flow, a bloodrush—and then after a while he comes back to you. “It’s a Bruce Springsteen song,” Aemond says quietly. “It’s called Atlantic City. If you look it up when all of this is over and we’re no longer sequestered, I think you’ll discover you recognize it.” And as you stand there, speechless and thunderstruck in your spotless white wool, he begins to leave. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sydney.”

“Defo,” you reply; and when Aemond blinks at you, stunned, you smile.

He smiles back, touches the gold cross that hangs from his neck, turns away from you and is lost in the gore-red current.

~~~~~~~~~~

Everyone agrees he is smart, but how far has that gotten him?

He has leapt from one island to another: born on Nisyros, educated at British boarding schools and seminaries, and finally assigned to Santorini, and it is here that he waits to become someone. The Church has been the refuge of superfluous sons for two thousand years, a throne that requires no inheritance, a ladder to material comforts, security, status, power, fame, immortality for those who climb high enough. And what is the price you must pay? A relatively painless sacrifice when one considers the rewards: you may not marry, you may not have children, you may not experience romantic love if you are still under the belief that such a thing exists.

He came to the Faith through his mother, Irish by birth and always yearning for somewhere that was cool and wet and green. But perhaps its roots cannot thrive here in the dry air and volcanic soil. Of Greece’s ten million inhabitants, only one percent are Catholic, and while that number grows with each new wave of refugees from Lebanon, Syria, or Iraq, he finds himself languishing in scenic Mediterranean irrelevance. At the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist, he ministers to sunburned tourists and dozing old people. He has a plan, but it’s happening so slowly; and patience is a virtue but he has no illusions that he possessed many of those.

It’s summer, hot and glaring and the height of tourist season, when he feels the earth shift beneath his feet as he is ruminating on his disaffection at the Old Port of Fira. Across a narrow strait of the Aegean Sea, he sees the sky change color above Nea Kameni, an uninhabited island and popular site for hiking and sightseeing. Because he was raised on Nisyros, he knows what signs foretell an eruption. Because he’s been on yachts with his boarding school friends—sons of dukes, daughters of prime ministers, bottles of vodka and MDMA pills—he knows how to sail.

It’s late in the day, nearing dusk, and so most of the tours are already back; but there is at least one group left on Nea Kameni, and he knows this because he can just barely see their boat moored to the dock and thrashing on suddenly murderous waves. And then the crater of the volcano explodes, and smoldering rubble pours down onto the dock, and the boat is crushed and they are stranded. He can almost hear their screams. He can imagine the lethal red heat of the lava that will soon be swallowing them like Jonah was wrenched into the belly of a whale.

For the very first time in his life, Aemond could almost believe in God, in divine intervention, in miracles; because in the scorching black plumes of poison rising from Nea Kameni, he sees the white of the smoke when the College of Cardinals has elected a new pope.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Should we have a cuppa?” you ask Rhaena as you place a kettle on a hotplate in the small kitchenette. A corner of the ground floor of the Domus Sanctae Marthae has been set aside for the nuns, each bedroom containing two single-sized beds; you and Rhaena are roommates.

“That’d be lovely.” She sighs as she sits down at the table and rips open the package of chocolate-flavored Sky Flakes. She looks exhausted, shoulders slumped, eyes puffy.

“You alright?”

Rhaena nods. “I’ve just been flat out since the second we got here. And I still have another load of washing to get done tonight. Did you see those spiders in the basement?”

“Oh yeah, heaps of them.”

Rhaena shudders, then perks up when she takes a bite of a Sky Flake. “These are good though.”

“I’ll help you with the washing.”

“Is he like you remember?” she says, and you know who she means. Light floods back into her face; gravity lessens in her bones. She is sitting up straighter. She is entranced. “Was he the same way as a boy? So clever and fearless and magnetic?” Then Rhaena gasps and glances worriedly at the third nun in the room, whom she had forgotten about: Sister Augustina is at the opposite end of the table, collapsed with her head resting on her forearms, her body eerily motionless. She’s always doing this.

You smile. “She’s asleep, Rhaena. She can’t hear us.”

Nonetheless, her voice drops to a whisper. “She won’t stop hitting me.”

“I’m sorry.” You pull back your sleeve to show Rhaena the discoloration of a bruise left by one of Sister Augustina’s clawlike hands. “Keep your distance as much as you can. I’ll try to distract her.”

Rhaena gives her unconscious tormenter one last mistrustful look. Despite Sister Augustina’s mortal faults, you have compassion for her. Wrath comes from pain, a vivid red like stoked flames or fresh blood, and something terrible must have happened to her: a lost loved one, a suffering nation, betrayal, rejection, abuse. But she’s still in the Church, she still has faith, and you find that beautiful. She wears a black habit and a medallion depicting Saint Zita, the patron saint of servants, housekeepers, and lost keys.

Rhaena prompts you: “Well?”

Her question still burns in your skull, low like embers: Is he like you remember? “It’s difficult to explain,” you say slowly. “Sometimes he’s just like that boy from the beach. And then in other moments he looks like a stranger.” He is cunning, he is prideful.

“He would make an extraordinary pope, don’t you think?” Rhaena says wistfully as she nibbles on her Sky Flake. “He’s so well-versed. He’s young, he’s charismatic. And he’s performed a miracle. The lava stopped when he held up his hands, that’s what the tourists he saved told the reporters. What other cardinal can say that? Who else could claim to have been chosen by God?”

Your reply is vague, and not only because you’re supposed to believe God alone will decide who the next Holy Father will be; you aren’t sure how you feel about Aemond being pope. “We’ll have to see what happens.”

“And we get to witness it...right here, where Saint Peter founded the Church two thousand years ago...” Rhaena is in awe of your good fortune, Sister Augustina and the spiders and the endless chores notwithstanding. “What was it that you said to Mother Maureen to convince her to send us to Rome?”

You haven’t told Rhaena the real reason why you’re here. It would hurt her, you think; you are like an older sister to her, or perhaps even a mother, a resurrection of the one she lost to a postpartum hemorrhage when she was a girl. Engraved on her plain iron medallion is Saint Jerome, the patron saint of orphans and abandoned children.

So you lie. “Papal conclaves are so rare, maybe once every ten or twenty years. I won’t have many more opportunities to see one. When the Holy Father passed, Mother Maureen and I were discussing it, and I mentioned how fascinated I’d always been by the process and how I would love to assist with a conclave someday. And she made a call to Sister Augustina that same night.”

Rhaena smiles warmly. “Mother Maureen is so kind.”

She really is. “We are very fortunate to have her.”

You pour boiling water into two cups with one teabag each—Yorkshire Tea, of course, brought in your luggage—and let them steep. Then you turn to contemplate Sister Augustina, still sleeping.

“Don’t,” Rhaena pleads.

You smirk guiltily. You can’t bring yourself to exclude her. It’s not the right thing to do. “Sister Augustina, would you like some tea?” you ask loudly. She doesn’t stir.

“Leave her alone,” Rhaena begs you. “She’ll just find something to snap at us about!”

You try again: “Sister Augustina!”

She still doesn’t move. Now you and Rhaena are perplexed; it’s never been this difficult to rouse her before. You go to Sister Augustina and prod her shoulder, then scream as she spills bonelessly across the floor.

She’s dead.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfiction #conclave au

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danikamariewrites · 2 days ago

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Soft Xaden please💜💜

I hope you’re doing alright and taking care of your self💜

Notes: thank you anon, I hope you’re doing well too♥️

Warning: none

As soon as you’re alone Xaden drops the mask and clings to you

It’s hard being mysterious and brooding all day. When Xaden gets to you at the end of the day and be himself it’s like the weight of the world lifts from his shoulders

You do everything in your power to share the burden Xaden puts on himself

He knows you’re strong but he hates that you feel the need to step up

“Are you going to stop trying to sacrifice yourself?” You ask him, hands in your hips and brows raised. Xaden opens his mouth to give his usual ‘the world needs me’ speech but the tilt of your head has his lips snapping shut. “Mhm that’s what I thought.” You ruffle his hair, kissing the top of his head. “I’m here for you Xaden. Whatever they throw at us we’ll face it together.”

Xaden pulls you onto his lap and hugs you close to his chest, not letting you go for hours

In front of the other riders you two stand a little apart from each other

Everyone knows you’re his

Xaden isn’t huge on PDA but he treasures those sweet, stolen moment with you when you sneak off to a dark alcove or an empty classroom

One day when Xaden is having a rough day you say screw it and hug him in front of everyone

You fully expect him to freeze up. Xaden fully melts into you, wrapping himself around you

You can feel everyone hold their breath behind you then let out a collective sigh of relief

Xaden turns you so his back faces everyone. He leans down and whispers, “I love you.”

Something you picked up on was Xaden’s mood changes. It’s a hard thing to read so you really pride yourself on knowing your boyfriend so well

When Xaden’s angry his jaw clenches more than usual, his fists clench and his shadows curl around his wrists as if they’re ready to hold him back

You come up behind, your hands immediately going to his neck massaging the tension away. Moving up to his jaw forcing him to unclench

Xaden would never in a million years let anyone else do this

He’d probably cut off Bodhi’s hands if he ever tried to relax him

Xaden knows the feel of you, has the softness of your touch memorized and anticipates it when you’re around

When he’s anxious Xaden runs his hands through his hair. Occasionally tugging at the short strands as if he could pull a solution out of his brain

You take his hand placing it on your lap and start tracing his palm

You trace each of his fingers, circling his palm and then start making random shapes. You spell out ‘I love you’ and ‘mine’ u til he calms down. He brings his forehead down to yours and gives you a sweet smile. “Thank you my love.”

Kissing him is typically hurried and passionate

But there are nights when he just needs to take things slow with you

Slow kisses are accompanied by a soft touch you didn’t know Xaden could do. His hands rest on your back and slide up to hold the sides of your face

Before you can fall asleep Xaden pulls you to lay on top of him. Your head resting above his heart

You trace his relic while he plays with your hair, arranging it to fall perfectly down your back

In these quiet moments Xaden lets himself think about the future with you

“When we’re married where do you want to live?” Your heart skips a few beats at the question. “I like it here, at Riorson House.” Xaden is surprised by your answer. “Really? You wouldn’t want somewhere that’s our own?” You shrug. Propping your chin on his chest as you think. “I think we could make here ours. Make it more modern and add our own touches, take some stuff away.” Xaden nods, thinking about how he could remake Riorson house for you

Bonus: the proposal

Xaden wouldn’t want to do a big proposal

You hate attention like that and prefer to keep those intimate moments private

He would ask you to come sit on the roof with him since the stars are so bright tonight

You were dressed up from hosting the leaders of the rebellion for dinner

As a shooting star goes by Xaden takes the opportunity to get down on one knee as you look up in awe

Turning to ask if Xaden saw you gasp at the sight of the ring in his hands and the huge smile on his face

You obviously said yes and couldn’t tear your eyes away from the sparkling ring

#fourth wing #fourth wing fanfiction #fourth wing fanfic #fourth wing fic #fourth wing xaden #fourth wing headcanons #xaden riorson x reader #xaden riorson fic #xaden riorson #xaden fourth wing #xaden riorson x you #xaden x reader #Xaden x you #xaden fanfic #xaden riorson imagine #Xaden headcanon #Xaden fluff

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sanctus-ingenium · 2 days ago

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Hello! Just wanted to let you know that you have been such an inspiration to me for so long, my art style is completely different but seeing your art motivates me to draw, you make me wanna grab my sketchbook and a pencil and just draw. I wanna buy prints from you too but alas I'm Low-key broke rn so I need to save some money so I can run to your shop. I also wanted to ask, how do you approach shapes when drawing? Specially when drawing creatures, I love it when some anatomy is followed and then distorted and bent and twisted around to make a creature look uncanny. I don't know how to explain it well but some of your creature design look uncanny in a way I find fascinating and comforting, I guess I just want to know how to achieve that. Thank you for sharing your art. I've been a silent observer but I just wanted to let you know how much your drawings are appreciated 💜

oh hi thank you! how i approach shapes when drawing... to use an example from earlier today i can show my sketch since i still have the canvas open lol

i think the sketch shows the general approach. big overlapping shapes to build a form. easy to do if you know the construction of the creature in question. i try to get the shapes down in as few strokes as possible so the action doesn't get diluted. as for Shapes in general i try to keep them curved or organic, especially when drawing human forms. i avoid straight lines as much as possible but that's just me yfm. i used to have a far more angular, 'straight lines and zig zags' art style which i used to cover up inadequacies in construction so i've been moving away from that for a few years now and i'm happier now.

to end up with a kind of uncanny or weird take on an existing creature, i do a lot of studies (heavily referenced - in this case, from a video, so i can see the action & follow through in its context. highly recommended) so i know how it looks normal style

and then once i know how to draw it normal style i can draw it weird style

#teensy sneak preview of our new style camera pascal under the cut. idt he's been on this blog yet

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frownyalfred · 1 day ago

Note

WAS ASLEEP WHEN YOU POSTED THE CHAPTER BUT IM HERE NOW I LOVED IT SO MUCH!!!

I was immediately thinking about that parallel between Jason being Bruce’s comfort during the suppressant heats when he was little, vs Bruce being his comfort now, and I’m so glad you also mentioned that!!!! It’s so so so so important to me.

The comment u made about Dan being like “why does he keep trying to get off without me :(((“ is so funny like. Lex you have this alpha who just wants to make you cum So bad just please let him. He’s a service alpha through and through and lex needs to realize that and let it happen, once they have time when all of this settles. LET HIM TAKE CARE OF YOU I KNOW YOU CRAVE IT DEEP DOWN.

Clark chug some tea and get a tan and then go get ur family back Cmon buddy I support you you got this!!!!!

I’m so glad you loved it!!! Yes to all of the above. I hope when Jason wakes up safe in the nest soon he realizes how important of a role he played for Bruce back then! Because Bruce did it for him now. Afhhhhhhhhh the parallels!!

Yeah, Lex and Dan really need to figure stuff out. They’re like that couple that always has something bizarre going on. Somehow I don’t think it’ll get better once Dan is formally in the pack haha. I love them so much it’s not reasonable.

Clark has been sir not appearing for far too long! I’m so excited to finally write him again. He needed to be nerfed for this fic to work but no longer!

#asks #anon #thank you anon 💜#myfic #theresurrectionist #the ninth wave #a room full of coral #Dan the alpha #batman #bruce wayne #dc #batfamily #clark kent #superman #Jason todd #Lex Luthor #a/b/o tw #a/b/o mention

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ludolka · 2 days ago

Text

Commission for @poltergeist-bunn <3

Aaa I’m having so much fun drawing commissions, thank you everyone who asked for one, your support means the world to me 🥹💜 I’ll slowly, but surely get everyone’s done :’)

Alt ver for better colors :D

#artists on tumblr #artwork #drawing #my art #digital art #digital illustration #fanart #trafficblr #trafficshipping #hermitshipping #grian #avian grian #joel smallishbeans #smallishbeans #gribeans #commission

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krirebr · 1 day ago

Text

Lips Like Sugar 1

Pairing: sugar baby Ransom x late 40s female reader

Word Count: ~3.1k

Summary: Finally cut off by his mother and grandfather, Ransom has to find a new way to access the lifestyle he's accustomed to. He figures it won't be too hard to find some rich old lady willing to bankroll him in exchange for sex. You aren't exactly what he expected.

Warnings: sugar baby au, sex work, d/s relationship, power imbalance, explicit language—All of my work is 18+ - Minors DNI

Dividers by me

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

A/N: This one's a little different for me, but I had so much fun writing it! I hope you enjoy it too. But don't worry, my trademarked angst isn't gone forever. 🤭

Huge thanks to @biteofcherry for talking through the initial idea with me and @bigtreefest for being a sounding board throughout the whole writing process.

Any comment, reblog, or ask to let me know what you think will be greatly appreciated. And if you need to come scream at me, that's ok too!

As always, thank you so much for reading! 💜

Sixty days.

That’s what the certified letter said. The one he had to sign for. The one from Linda.

When she and Harlan had told him they were cutting him off, he’d rolled his eyes. What did that actually mean? He wouldn’t have access to his trust anymore? Whatever, that was fine. He had his checking account. He had his house. He had credit cards. The only thing he thought it really meant was that he wouldn’t have to see any of his asshole family ever again. He was coming out ahead, all things considered.

Except. He didn’t actually have much of anything, as it turned out. His parents were on his bank accounts and credit cards. The deed to the house was under Linda’s name. And she was fucking evicting him.

It was this panic, wrapping itself around his chest and squeezing, that he wasn’t used to. That he didn’t know what to do with. He’d gone out of his way, worked hard to make sure he never felt this way. To make sure his life was comfortable and easy. And now his asshole granddad and bitch mother had ruined all that. Now he had sixty days to find a place to live.

He needed to come up with a plan. He could do that. He was good at plans. But where to start? He couldn’t afford a place he’d actually be willing to live in on his own right now (he couldn’t afford a shitty place either, but he wasn’t going to dwell on that). His grandfather, during the announcement of Ransom’s new status, had suggested he get a job, but fuck that. Ransom knew, deep in his bones, that he wasn’t meant for work. And also, any job that wouldn’t make him want to shoot himself required relevant experience and degrees and all sorts of other things Ransom didn’t have. So getting a job was out.

He could sell his things but, as he’d been so rudely informed by this entire situation, he didn’t actually own much. The only thing of significant value that his name was actually on was his car. But he’d rather cut off his own arm than sell his vintage BMW. So he marked that down as an absolute last resort.

He could see if he could stay with a friend until he got things figured out, but all of his friends were assholes and he already knew that none of them would say yes. Plus, all of his friends were assholes and he’d sell his own body before he asked any of them for a favor.

Actually…

Okay, that wasn’t a half-bad idea. He knew exactly how hot he was. He’d been very aware of that since he was a teenager. And if he sat down and actually thought about what his biggest skills were, it’d be fucking and talking. In that order. This could work.

But how to go about it? He wasn’t eager to go out and stand on a corner in barely anything at all hours. Same went for sitting in a hotel bar and hoping for the best. Plus, he didn’t like the uncertainty of all that. He needed a reliable, steady stream of income that would be there whenever he needed it.

And that’s when he remembered Andrea.

His friend Chad had dated her for about six months. Well, “dated.” Everyone in their circle knew exactly what that arrangement was, even if Chad had never admitted it. Ransom pulled out his phone and sent off a quick text.

Hey, where did you meet Andrea?

The dick took two hours to respond.

Andrea? At the grocery store. Why???

Ransom responded immediately with an eyeroll emoji and followed it with

Cut the shit, asshole. What was the app?

The three dots to show Chad was typing appeared and disappeared three separate times before Ransom finally got the truth.

SUGR

But watch out, bro. That shit was way more expensive than it was worth.

Ransom smiled. That was exactly what he was counting on.

He didn’t bother correcting Chad about which side of this arrangement he was hoping to be on. He didn’t need the embarrassment of anyone knowing that mommy and (grand)daddy had finally cut him off. And if this worked the way he hoped it would, no one would ever need to know.

The first setback was that he had to pass a background check before he could join the app. What a fucking hassle. And it took a whole week before he got the email telling him he could move forward with setting up a profile. He could physically feel the number of days he had to find another place to live ticking down. The constriction around his chest got tighter with each one.

But in that week of waiting, he became even more convinced that this was a good idea. There had to be tons of old hags desperate enough to bankroll him in exchange for sex with a hot youngish thing. And he’d be able to suck it up and do what was needed if it meant his lifestyle wouldn’t have to change. Hell, that's what viagra was for.

The other thing he’d done while he waited was take about a hundred pictures of himself. He’d used all his best outfits—designer sweaters, skintight t-shirts, pants that hugged his ass. He did fifty pushups and then took a bunch shirtless so that he was sweaty and his abs popped. He had a few that were just of his junk in gray sweatpants. And then he threw in a couple straight up dick pics for good measure. He was ready.

But, ugh, there were so many forms to fill out first. He had to agree to all of the terms and conditions. The company reserves the right to blah blah blah. The company does not guarantee yada yada yada. Agree, agree, agree.

There were forms that asked him to detail the expenses he wanted covered and another that wanted him to rate kinks based on his interest. These were both optional so he skipped them. Was he the only one who understood what was happening here? He'd do whatever she wanted that guaranteed him the most money. That was it.

Finally, he got to the point where he could build his actual profile. It automatically imported some of the biographical information he had to give to set up his account, which wasn’t ideal. Hugh D. 35, stared back at him. He normally hated his given name, but he didn’t hate the way it kind of seemed like Huge Dick here. He could work with that. But that 35. That– that felt old for this sort of thing. He tried to change it to 30, but it wasn’t editable. Well. That was fine, right? He was going after women. Weren’t they known for being less shallow than men? That was part of the whole thing, wasn’t it? Yeah. It’d be fine. It just meant he knew what he was doing in bed. That’s what mattered.

He moved on to pictures. They only let you add fifteen, so he combed through all the ones he’d taken and picked the fifteen best. He scrolled through the ones he’d chosen before he clicked save and nodded to himself. Yeah, this was good. He was hot as fuck.

He skipped through all of the useless essay questions. Who cared what his interests were or what he was offering?? His dick pics spoke for themselves.

But he did put something in the headline area. Call me Ransom. >20k/month only

Perfect. Done. Save. Now he just needed to sit back and wait for the DMs to roll in.

The DMs did not roll in. It’d been forty-eight hours, and he’d gotten absolutely nothing. He couldn’t understand it. What was wrong with these women? He was offering himself up at a fucking steal.

He’d figured the onus was on the buyer to make the first move, but maybe he’d gotten the etiquette wrong. Maybe he needed to sell himself a little more aggressively.

He went to the browse feature and set his filters for women with the biggest budgets. Then he sent a random ten of them a simple “hey”. Then he made himself close the app.

When he came back a few hours later, he was chagrined to find that he hadn’t gotten any responses. There must be something wrong. When he went to the chats to make sure he hadn't missed something, half of them weren't even there anymore, and he couldn't find the corresponding profiles either. He refreshed the notifications page. He restarted his phone. He uninstalled then reinstalled the app. Nothing made a difference.

Finally, as he was checking his settings, a message popped up.

Honey, what are you doing?

Yes! Finally!

He clicked on the profile. Carolyn M., 55. Under what she was offering was rent, living expenses, and a negotiated allowance. Perfect.

He wrote back

I'm looking at your pictures and touching myself. What are you doing?

The response was immediate.

Oh my god, no. That's not what I meant.

He stared at her message, confused, but then she sent another.

I'm going against all of my instincts to just block you, and I'm going to take pity on you instead.

He was typing before he even fully processed what she'd said.

Excuse me??

This is not the way to get what you want.

What the fuck??

You’re obviously new to this, so let me explain something to you. Yes, these relationships are transactional, but most of us are looking for a genuine connection as well. No one who wants that is going to contact you based on your profile.

Who the hell did she think she was? Ransom knew what he was doing. He’d never had any issues picking up women. He didn’t need help. He locked his phone with a scoff and threw it on the couch as he got up and moved to his bar. He deserved a drink after dealing with that bullshit.

As he poured himself a glass of eighteen-year-old scotch, he paused. This bottle was $700. Who knows what everything in this bar totaled to? And this whole house. Fucking shit. He was down to forty-nine days. He didn’t have time to fuck around.

He took a large gulp of his drink and then picked his phone back up. He could do this. He could play the game. He could fake anything if it meant his life didn’t have to change.

Fine. How do I fix it?

Start by filling out the information. Be honest. Any prospective match will want to get a sense of who you are. Right now the only thing I can tell about you from your profile is how highly you think of your own dick.

This fucking bitch.

Okay, sure. What else?

You are demanding a lot of money without giving any details about how that money will be spent. Anyone who sees that will immediately feel taken advantage of. The best version of these relationships is an equal give and take. A lot of us are here because we enjoy taking care of someone. We don’t enjoy feeling like a faceless ATM. Give an actual, honest account of the expenses you would like covered.

God, this was annoying. But he had to keep his eye on the prize.

Anything else??

Put some actual effort into your first message to someone. Something you think you might have in common, something you liked about their profile, or a relevant fact about yourself. ‘Hey’ isn’t going to get you anywhere. And don't just jump into sexting immediately.

Despite himself, he took a screenshot of the conversation. If it helped him get more money, it was worth it.

Alright. I’ll do it.

You know, it’s customary to say thank you when someone helps you out like this.

He rolled his eyes.

Thank you.

He hoped she could feel the sarcasm coming through the screen.

Well, look at that. Maybe you can be someone’s good boy after all.

The heat that rushed to his face at that– He didn’t know what that was. Annoyance probably. What else could it be?

He was about to send something snarky back when her status suddenly switched to offline. Goddamn bitch.

Ugh. It took so much effort to take things seriously. To act like he cared. This was exhausting.

But he could do it if he kept the goal in mind: being the pampered pet of some rich old lady. Once he’d achieved that, all he’d ever have to do again was get it up for her once or twice a week, tops. He just had to get there.

So he poured himself another glass of whiskey and took a slow sip as he looked at the first section of his profile he’d previously left blank. The About Me header stared back at him as the cursor blinked. Come on. He could do this. What did these women want to hear?? He wished he could see other prospective babies’ profiles. Do some market research.

He skipped down to the next section: Looking For. He’d already selected women with no age restrictions. Now he just had to get into the specifics. Ok, this he could do. Buttering people up was a skill he’d been honing his entire life.

A woman with life experience who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to go out and get it. Someone to share good times, good food, and good sex with. And yes, someone to spoil me rotten. 😉

That was cute, right? Yeah, these old bats would love that.

Ok, now it was on to what he offered. He remembered what Carolyn had said about not wanting to feel like an ATM. He needed to make it seem like he’s was bringing something to the table (more than just his dick, that is, which, honesly, should have been enough).

I’m offering companionship with plenty of intelligent conversation. I’ll keep you from being bored at any functions you may need to attend, and I’ll look great on your arm doing it.

That seemed good enough for now. He could change it up depending on what he found waiting for him out there.

He switched to the form for expenses. For rent, he put approximately 10k a month (he’d looked around the Boston area for what was available and that seemed to be the going price for the sort of place he wanted) with a note that his lease was ending soon and he’d need a new place to stay. That was close enough to the truth and made him seem like more of a charity case, which would normally bother him, but right now was exactly what he wanted. He divided up the rest of his asking price across utilities, clothing, and other expenses.

On the kink list, he started by putting yes to everything, figuring that’d make him more expensive. But would that look weird? Desperate? Fake? He went back and randomly switched a few to maybe and a couple to no. Ok, that was done.

He went back to his photos and removed the straight up dick pics. He left the sweatpants one, but moved it to the end. And he added a couple more of himself in sweaters that he knew made people drool.

There was only one thing left. This fucking About Me. Come on! Okay. Okay.

The only thing I love more than reading is getting to talk about what I’ve read. I’m well-educated, and I’m at a point in my life where I just want to be able to enjoy things with good company. I love trying new restaurants, and I know my way around a whiskey menu. And as for other realms of experience you might be curious about, let’s just say I know what I’m doing. 😏

Ugh. God. He hated this. The whole thing was so fucking corny. That had to be good enough right? The last thing he did was delete everything but Call me Ransom from his header. And then, without overthinking it, he hit save and immediately put down his phone.

Goddamnit, fucking Carolyn was fucking right. The whole thing made his blood boil. But now, finally, the messages were rolling in. Sort of. Moderately. But it was something.

He’d gone back and tweaked a few things based on the response he was getting, and each improvement seemed to have made a difference. He was starting to get the hang of this bullshit.

But, frustratingly, he hadn’t managed to hook a whale yet. He’d had some promising conversations, but none had ultimately gone anywhere. How exactly were these conversations supposed to move from “Hi, how are you?” to “What say we make this official and you bankroll my entire life? I promise I’ll lay the pipe real good.” The one time he’d tried that, it hadn’t gone over well.

But god, the days were running out.

He sat down with his phone, hoping to find something that would help him strategize, when a new message popped up at the top of the screen.

God, you’re pretty.

Ransom stopped and stared at the message.

He couldn’t remember ever being called pretty before. Handsome, sure. Gorgeous, hot, all the time. But pretty– Pretty felt different. And he couldn’t explain why.

He clicked through to the profile.

And there you were.

Don’t you want to be good for me? the line under your profile picture read. Ransom swallowed involuntarily as he kept reading.

You were forty-nine, had founded your own business (although you gave no clues as to what that was), and you were looking for someone to take care of. Glancing at what you were offering, Ransom surmised that what he needed wasn’t outside of your budget.

He moved on to your photos. He picked up a little more caginess there. There were no straight-on pictures of your face, but he spent several moments looking at a close-up of just your smirk, soft lines framing your mouth. Then, as he continued to swipe through the pictures, he stopped again at one that was just of the back of your legs clad in shiny, thigh-high boots, with some of the tallest stilettos he’d ever seen. Something about that image made his breath catch in his throat.

He moved back to your message and stared at it again, his fingers drumming against his leg. After thinking about it for far too long, he fired off a short response.

I know.

Your reply was immediate.

Yeah, I bet you do.

Tag List is open!

@stargazingfangirl18 @yenzys-lucky-charm @thezombieprostitute @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @bval-1 @km-ffluv @texmexdarling @ladyvenera @roxyfan14-blog @darkserenity24 @midnightramyeoncravings @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @ronearoundblindly @brandycranby @steviebbboi @missaprilt23 @thiquefunlover63 @hisredheadedgoddess28 @stellar-solar-flare @alexakeyloveloki @kmc1989 @awkwardgiraffe726 @watermelontidewater @alicedopey @lokislady82 @sassybearfire

#ransom drysdale x female reader #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale #knives out #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans characters #fanfic #sugar baby au #sugar baby ransom drysdale #reader insert #sub ransom drysdale #domme reader #kris wrote something

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klapollo-week · 2 days ago

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The final prompts for Klapollo Week 2025 are here!

Many thanks to those who submitted ideas for our prompts and all who helped to vote for the final seven! Now, the moment you've been waiting for... it’s time to reveal this year’s prompts for Klapollo Week!

Sunday, June 15, 2025: Perceive

Apollo's unique "Perceive" ability aids him in the courtroom, allowing him to get the whole truth out of witnesses and uncooperative councils. He can focus on small habits and movements of people, which, to any regular person, are practically impossible to see. How does this ability affect his and Klavier's trust in their relationship? What secrets of Klavier's would Apollo be able to uncover with such a unique skill?

Monday, June 16, 2025: Hurt/Comfort

A popular and beloved trope for a very good reason. Klavier and Apollo have been through plenty of hardship, both physical and mental, on their own and together. How do these hardships affect their day-to-day lives? How would they console each other if they ever needed comfort? How do they express their love when they're at their most vulnerable?

Tuesday, June 17, 2025: Getting together

The beginnings of a new relationship can be a confusing and tricky territory to navigate. At the start of a blossoming romance, how do Klavier and Apollo learn from each other? How do they connect and grow closer? How do they even start dating, anyways?

Wednesday, June 18, 2025: Soulmates

Bound by strings, connected by clocks, meeting in dreams... there are many ways that destiny and fate can find its way to someone. When the universe has decided their paths for them, how do Klavier and Apollo react? How do they find each other? How do separate roads come together and intertwine?

Thursday, June 19, 2025: Gender

In many people's interpretations, Apollo and Klavier have unique relationships with gender. One's gender identity is oftentimes a big part of how they see themself, and one's gender presentation or expression can sometimes be entirely different from their gender identity. How do Klavier and Apollo express their gender identities? How do they support each other when trying out new labels or presentations? How do they see things differently based on their different (or shared) experiences?

Friday, June 20, 2025: Different first meeting au

We all know the iconic first meeting between Apollo and Klavier, in which the famous line "This is the first time I've felt this way with a man" was first uttered. But what if that never actually happened? What if, instead, Apollo and Klavier had met under completely different circumstances? Would their opinions on each other change or stay the same? Maybe in another universe, Apollo would be the one doing the flirting...

Saturday, June 21, 2025: Guilt

We all make mistakes sometimes, and we all have our screw-ups. But sometimes, no matter how hard we want to forget, the things we've done in the past continue to hang around and haunt us. What would Klavier and Apollo feel guilty about? How do both of them reach reconciliation? How do they make peace with what is long behind them?

Don’t forget to use the tag #KlapolloWeek2025 so your works can be archived to our account! For everyone's convenience, please make sure that you familiarize yourself with our Archive Criteria and FAQ before you submit any work, and send us an ask if you have any questions! We’re very excited to see what you all will make for this event, and we’ll be waiting to see you all soon!

Thanks for sharing, @aafancalendar! ❤💜

#ace attorney #apollo justice #klavier gavin #klapollo #kyodoroki #klavier x apollo #apollo x klavier

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zepskies · 1 day ago

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I wasn't expecting the vampy vibes, but it was definitely something new for me so I 💯 rolled with it!! 💜

And thank you so much, Liane! Honestly this moodboard prompt was a good creative reset for me because I've been kinda stuck in a little rut recently. I'm so glad you liked the sultry, sensuous vibes. 😘💜🖤❤️

Like, oh nooo, whatever would happen if I let her take a little nibble... anything but thaaaaaaat 🤭🤭 Wouldn't blame Dean if he thought about it right then and there, if he could still save her after that ofc, lol.

Ahahaha ikr?? I think he was definitely contemplating how far he'd let her go before he put the "saving" part of the plan into action. 😝 I also debated whether to have her actually bite him, but I remembered that for the canon vamp cure to work, she couldn't actually drink human blood. 😭 But someone has already asked to see a part 2, so maybe I'll do something with his side of things. 🤔

That description is just soooo beautiful. Such a powerful line, I'm a sucker (pun intended) for these atmospheric touches.

Oh thank you so much!! 🥰 The moodboard really inspired me, and not just because I love those colors. It really made me think of moody/sultry/sensuous vibes, where you're not sure if it's gonna end sexy or bloody. 😂

And the bittersweet angst, haaaahh... How she doesn't want to be that monster. And how trusting yet carefully Dean approaches this, so determined to save her. I'll be thinking about this for a while.

I felt like we'd expect nothing less from Dean, right? He's good at improvising, even when he has a loose "plan" in the back of his mind 🤭

Thanks again for this moodboard/prompt! Such a fun game, and I'm so glad this little drabble is good enough to stick with you 💕💕

TASTE

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Vampire!Reader

Summary: It’s a devastating hunger. He finds you, at his own risk.

AN: Surprise! Here’s a short drabble for @chevroletdean's 500 follower celebration! (Moodboard created by Liane!) 💜🖤❤️

Word Count: 900

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Angst, spiciness, set circa season 6, little twist ending…

A tease, a whisper of heated breath, a soft streak of cherry red lipstick drawing a lazy path to his ear; your lips brush against his jawline.

“Dean.”

His breath hitches. Perhaps it’s a reaction to the way you say his name, a sultry beckoning and a plea all at once, like a heady sip of Merlot somehow scarring down the throat.

Perhaps it’s the way you’ve caught him. He clears his throat.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, sweetheart,” he intones.

You can hear every uptick beat of his heart while his big hands find an achingly familiar stronghold on your parted thighs. You’ve always admired the strength in his hands, and the way he can move you even without their talents—with just his lips, his voice, his eyes.

He’s found you in this hovel. Deep down, you knew he would eventually. You have him trapped beneath you on this dingy couch, your long nails biting into chipped leather instead of his skin. You’re the one who’s stronger now. And no matter how many warnings blare like a fiery lashing in your mind, you can’t help yourself. You want him more than ever.

It’s a devastating hunger.

For every cell that no longer bleeds red inside you, there’s a demand for more. You crave his taste, now in more ways than one. It scares you. This scares you, more than you’ve ever been scared of anything—even though you’re the one who’s in control, grabbing his face with a slender hand. Your fingertips press into his jaw, digging firmly enough into his stubble-covered cheeks to have the jade of his eyes solely on you.

Your eyes are different now. Darker, sharper, a phantom haze of violet and crushed roses. You see the way he takes in your face, trying to find something recognizable in you besides your body.

“You shouldn’t have,” you finally reply, though there’s hesitation in your voice. Conflict. Pain. Need. A small vulnerability, slight tremble. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

And yet, that deep pit of empty, vicious craving deep in your core compels you to move, to take what you need.

“I think we both know I can handle it,” Dean says. His grin is cocky and familiar in its teasing, but his eyes hold the weight of more. He can’t just let you go. His grip tightens on your thighs to deliberately shift you against him, guiding your clothed pussy against the generous, straining bulge in his jeans. You feel the warmth of him already. You utter a soft moan, your brows knitting together.

Fuck. It’s only been days, but you’ve missed him.

Just a taste.

A threat of a kiss against his lips devolves into hungry devouring. A grunt and a groan loosen from the back of his throat. His fingers delve into your hair and slip around the strands, the same way you suck his tongue into your mouth.

Your hand slips around his back to pull him closer. Your nails rake down his spine, gripping the red flannel of his shirt. He hisses at the red lines likely carving across his skin, but his eyes open to you. They’re wild, alive in a way you can’t be.

The scent of his blood is earthy, rich, tantalizing—too much to set aside. What your flesh wants is secondary to the kind of lust that courses through you, black ink of nightshade in your veins.

Your fangs descend on reflex.

Your head moves fast, but your heart manages to win out the slightest bit; your sharp teeth nearly break the skin of his shoulder instead of tearing at his jugular, the way your instincts demand. A visceral cry for blood is trapped painfully in your throat. Your heart tears even more when you realize that you’ve failed. You couldn’t keep yourself away. You couldn’t stop yourself from—

Dean’s grip tightens in your hair, but he doesn’t bother to try and pull you back.

He just jabs the needle into your neck.

A full dose of dark crimson liquid seeps into your sluggish veins, making you gasp in pure shock. Though, you really should’ve known. Dead Man’s Blood.

Your limbs quickly fall beyond your control, and you slump against his shoulder. Your eyes begin to close, no matter how hard you fight to flutter them open. You can still hear his heart beating wildly, even as he holds you.

“Thought you were gonna take a chunk outta me, huh?” he remarks, with a flash of his wry smile. “Well, it’s been tried.”

Still, there’s more tenderness in his calloused hand when he sweeps your hair away from your cheek. He looks down at you with a note of devastation, apology, regret…but also determination. It furrows his brows and presses his lips into a line.

He sits up with you gathered in his arms, and he swiftly carries you out of this terrible old shed. It was the only place you could find in the city to hide yourself, to keep you away from living, breathing, movable feasts.

“It’s okay, baby. We found the cure,” he says. His voice is firm, reassuring, if holding the remnants of grit. “We’re gonna fix this. Just hold on…”

Your eyes have closed against your will, but his voice manages to move your heart that one inch. Hope.

Just hold on…

AN: Finally something short from me, right? 😂 Though it's actually the first time I've written a vampire reader. Felt like that's where the moodboard was leading me. 👌🏽

Join My Patreon 🌟 Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories; send me requests, and more!

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@deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog @leigh70 @aylacavebear @jessjad

@kmc1989 @siampie @rubyvhs @masked-lost-girl @spnbabe67

@deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @supernotnatural2005 @impala-dreamer @spnaquakindgdom

#reader appreciation #lovely mutuals #chevroletdean's 500 #zep replies

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carlos-in-glasses · 1 day ago

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Happy Sunday! The final chapter of Butterflies* will be up tomorrow, so please have exactly seven sentences of Carlos of Carlos missing Gabriel and loving his family:

Gabriel Reyes isn’t here. Carlos can’t talk to him. He can’t ask him for explanations or for advice. He can’t confront him, he can’t forgive him, he can’t tease him or drink margaritas with him or watch him be sweet and mellow with Jonah. He can’t hear him have funny conversations with the little boy, or banter with TK while they turn steaks over barbecue flames. Carlos is the father in the room now, alongside TK, and Jonah is the child who they are showing the beauty of the world to. The world that is his to love, which is what makes a man.

----

*I just want to say another huge thank you to everyone who has read. I adore Tarlos in their dad era, and will always love and do my best with these characters, whether writing post-canon family life or a meet-cute AU. With season 5's ending, I think a fun, emotional and interesting portal into a new dimension to explore has been opened up. So, with my flashlight between my teeth and a song in my heart, I'm going in! Who's with me, lads?!

Butterflies on Ao3

Open tag and tabs below!

@paperstorm @thisbuildinghasfeelings @goodways

@lightningboltreader @bonheur-cafe @strandnreyes @reyesstrand

@heartstringsduet @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @alrightbuckaroo

@orchidscript @freneticfloetry @welcometololaland @rmd-writes

@ladytessa74 @lemonlyman-dotcom @liminalmemories21 @chicgeekgirl89

@theghostofashton @no-goodbyes-no-regrets @mikibwrites

@herefortarlos @tellmegoodbye @pimento-playing-hopscotch

@eclectic-sassycoweyes @kiwichaeng @literateowl @butchreyes

@laelipoo @lavenderrdaughter @captain-gillian @hereghostslive

@ironheartwriter @emsprovisions @sapphic--kiwi @nisbanisba

@the-126-family @carlossreaders @henrygrass @everlastingday

@rangersoup @annoyingcloudearthquake @neversleepuntilfive

@my-beloved-lakes @anactualcaseofthetruth - If you want to share/haven't already! No pressure ever!❤️🩷🧡💛💚💙🩵💜

#911 Lone Star #911 Lone Star fic #Tarlos #Tarlos fic #seven sentence sunday #Butterflies fic #BF fic #cig fic #my fic

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skibasyndrome · 2 days ago

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Oooh for the nsfw prompts 36 or 78? 👀💜 Whichever you like better!!

Hiiii, thank you so much Annika for sending me a prompt!!! 💜💜💜

I went with 36 (“i’ve wanted this for such a long time”) and... exes to lovers anyone?? 👀 cw: nsfw

As soon as the closet door slams shut behind them, Simon is shoving Wille against it, fingers tightly clasping the stupidly soft fabric of his lapels. The gasp of surprise Wille lets out shouldn't be doing it for Simon. But what little bit of self-restraint he's had has been worn down expertly all night.

Every lingering look and every waft of Wille's cologne from a few feet away - still the same cologne he used back then - has contributed to this, every single second of this evening has passed only to get them here. "You shouldn't be here," Simon murmurs, finally closing the little space between them with a determined step. "You shouldn't have-," he starts, then stops, only to lean forward and bury his nose in between Wille's neck and the loose collar of his dress shirt. He inhales deeply, finally getting more. Wille's hands fly up, land on Simon's back, just below his nape. Just shy of Simon's hair. Like he's not sure if he's allowed to, now, like Simon pressing up against him isn't enough for him to get it. "Felice asked Sara if it was okay for me to...," Wille trails off, voice going weak when Simon crowds more closely into his space, noses a line upwards, presses a kiss behind his ear. "Not what I mean," Simon whispers back and finally allows his hands to come up, to slide against the soft skin of Wille's neck, warm and well-shaved and bringing back memories that Simon has been trying to neatly tuck away somewhere in the back of his mind. Unsuccessfully. Wille's skin feels and tastes like it was just yesterday. Seized by a new wave of fervor, Simon presses his chest snugly against Wille's while he trails a line of wet kisses from behind his ear down to his jawline. He's done talking, he's done thinking, he needs to feel now, hasn't been able to in so long, hasn't even thought that he could ever- "Missed you," Wille bursts out, high and shaky and so frustratingly earnestly that Simon has a knife twist inside his chest. Just because he's been thinking it, more often than he'd like to admit to himself, doesn't mean he's ready to hear it or say it or deal with it.

So, instead, he finally crashes his lips against Wille's. After a beat, Wille kisses back, strong lips and open mouth and a tongue that tastes like champagne and like birthday cake and so distinctly like Wille that Simon's keens buckle. He holds on more tightly, feels Wille do the same, feels Wille's body finally catch on, with one hand grabbing onto his hip, the other sinking into his curls. It's so eerily familiar and yet so different. Wille's chest is broader, his movements less timid, his chin more stubbly. And yet it's addicting, it's addicting knowing that this is his Wille, that the lanky boy who broke his heart still kisses like he used to and still holds onto Simon like he's the single best thing he's ever gotten his hands on. When Simon grinds his hips forward, half instinct and half searing need pooling in his middle, Wille lets out a strangled moan. And it still sounds the same, still rushes through Simon's ears and into his bloodstream like it always used to. "Need you," he presses out when he pulls away from Wille's lips, only to kiss the corner of his mouth, the side of his neck. It's easier to say than most other things. And Wille reacts beautifully, perfectly, lets out another moan, finally unguarded, and slides his hand lower and onto Simon's ass, squeezing hotly. Wille nods, rushes out a desperate "yes" and oh god, how did Simon ever think he could let this go. His head is spinning when, suddenly, Wille makes a move to turn them around. He can't help but gasp when Wille suddenly pushed his against the solid wood. But before he's got a chance to complain, Wille is gone, is sinking down onto his knees, is pinning Simon against the door with two wide hands on his hips. "Please," he hears him mutter, and Simon's breath catches in his throat when Wille leans forward and rubs his cheek over where Simon is hard and aching in his dress pants. Fuck.

"Yes," Simon gasps. Yes, a hundred times, he wants to say but doesn't. Wants to tell Wille none of his dreams over those years have ever felt like this, wants to tell him that there's nothing Wille could ask of him right now that he wouldn't do. The knowledge that the boy who loved him with so much breathtaking dedication has turned into this man who's fiddling with Simon's belt and looking up at him with nothing but desperate adoration is making Simon's head spin. "I’ve wanted this for such a long time," Wille says then, finally pulling Simon's belt through the clasp, finally unzipping his pants and pulling them down. "I've had dreams about this," he says when his eyes leave Simon's, slide down the length of his body and scorching him in the process. Me too, Simon wants to say when Wille wraps a hand around him. Me too, all the time, he wants to say when Wille lurches forward and kisses away a bead of precum. I never stopped dreaming about this, he thinks, as he sinks his fingers into Wille's soft floppy hair and feels tight, wet heat envelop him fully.

Feel free to send me some prompts from that list, or just make some up <3 Or read my other ficlets here

#wilmon #wilmon fanfic #yr #young royals #wilmon ficlet #yr ficlet #answered #the-impala-is-my-home #me writing this while sick in bed. the things I do for the blorbos huh (jk. the blorbos and the writing is healing me I am sure)

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lucaanis · 16 hours ago

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OC Traits Rating Tag

I was tagged by @operative-arrow and @commander-krios ‼️ thank you both!!

no pressure tagging: @grymm-gardens @taamlok @ladyinthebluebox @deadrlngers @katsigian @muqington @introvertedfangrl @propenseverbosity @azatas @nyx-de-riva @blightedcrow @flowersforthemachines @faarkas and YOU!!! 🫵

Using Lleyth for these bc yea... 💜 I was probably a lot more verbose with this tag than neccessary but I haven't yapped about them in a bit so whateverrr

Compassion: 7/10 — I would have went higher for this one but they can be vengeful and cruel if pushed. But overall they're very compassionate to most people, especially the people they love, and even as an assassin they would perform quick + clean kills and didn't like letting targets suffer (unless they did something to deserve it, hence the -3)

Bitterness: 8/10 — Crows can hold grudges for like 30+ years and they are no exception 🫡 once you're officially on their bad side good luck ever trying to reverse it, they WILL make it known that they hate you to your face and anyone who asks. They can & will be petty as hell.

Happiness: 3/10 — Who needs happiness when there's gods to kill and contracts to fulfill. And when those things are gone and all that's left is the grief and the guilt and the realization that you've served your purpose... well 😬

Politeness: 8/10 — Mostly polite. Mostly. Until you say or do something stupid that pisses them off, yell at them or talk down to them.

Chivalry: 6/10 — They have SOME knightly qualities. Courage, honor, a strong sense of justice, willingness to help. I think they lose some points though for the whole professional assassin thing. Don't think about the body count. Don't even worry about it.

Pride: 7/10 — Would never admit to being prideful but there's a reason they have a connection with Solas. And their pride being wounded DOES hurt like a motherfucker and makes them scuttle away to hide and lick their wounds lmao

Honesty: 6/10 — Mostly very honest and HATES being misdirected/lied to. If you want to speedrun getting on their shit list, the best way to do so would be to lie to or betray them. But I'm also subtracting a few points here because they're not above using deception as a strategy, especially as an assassin who had to infiltrate situations and get targets alone. They also probably would lie to avoid hurting someone's feelings if they care about them a lot, and they also keep secrets and even lie to themselves about some things, so #nuance

Bravery: 9/10 — Loses a point due to being thalassophobic + after a certain point of trauma and loss they don't want to be brave about it anymore 😭 But in all other situations they will give god the middle finger and walk backwards into hell out of spite

Recklessness: 8/10 — They don't TRY to be reckless but facing dangerous situations with an inherent belief that they are, above all else, expendable... whatever it takes etc etc. Believe it or not they Do try to plan things accordingly. It's just that everything they plan always goes to shit 🥴

Ambition: 4/10 — Despite being a good leader they absolutely hate the job 🤣 They never wanted to become a Talon in the Crows either, which set them apart from the usual expectation of Crows squabbling over power or trying to champion their own House. They don't want the circus or the monkeys, but people keep handing them the keys to the business and the house and the company car against their will 💜

Loyalty: 9/10 — They will stay even at their own expense. They only lose a point here due to nuance (not being loyal to people who they have no reason to trust or who have betrayed them already)

Love: 10/10 — They may be romantically reserved but if you successfully romance them you will be smothered to death with affection for the rest of your life. They have such a big squishy heart. Have fun

Sense of Family: 5/10 — Never had a biological family of their own, doesn't really understand what it's like to have parents/siblings/etc, though they consider Viago & The Crows to fill the definition of family for them. They're a bit of a hypocrite in this area bc they don't understand other peoples' devotions to their family, especially when there's complex/abusive dynamics going on, but at the same time they're loyal to the Crows & people they would consider like family to a fault so 🤷

Attractiveness: 10/10 — To me.

Agility: 10/10 — Something something reach & flexibility...

Sex Drive: 12/10 — By far the horniest OC I have. Sometimes I too fear what I've created. Once you open that door good luck trying to shut it. Physical touch love language + touch & affection starvation + obscene amount of stamina & lust. Good luck 😬

#💾#tag games #c: lleyth de riva #rocking that sexy new armor mashup in the preview pic courtesy of @ladyinthebluebox THANK YOUUU 💜💜💜

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quinn-of-aebradore · 2 days ago

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Oh my gosh, hey! Thank you so much for reaching out. I really appreciate your blessing to make a new blog for it, which I mayyyyy have already gotten started on 😅💜 since I wasn’t sure if any of you would come across this or see my ask! But you have, so thank you, and I hope you can forgive my head start!

So, no worries about passing along the blog and all that entails at this point! It can stay as it is in y’all’s hands 💜

Hey friends, I’m wondering if anyone might know the folks who were running @essek-week and/or @shadowgastweek back in the day? I’ve been somewhat considering restarting those events and I’d love to reach out to the original moderators first, but neither have open DMs and while SG Week has an open askbox, they haven’t posted anything since 2023 and I’m not overly hopeful about them seeing the ask I sent a little while ago. I appreciate any guidance that can be provided!

#wasn’t planning on announcing the new blog until the start of May XD and I’ll still probably do that it’s not fully set up yet #but I guess if anyone sees this and goes poking around you can find it XD

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mrs-delaney · 2 days ago

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Hide | Waiting for the Good | Ten. One

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Riley Carter (OC)

Word Count: 14.9k

Requested: No | Yes

Warnings: Mild language, intense emotional intimacy, longing, slow burn tension, that sense of breathless anticipation when everything you’ve been hoping for is finally about to happen, and two people moving closer without even realizing they’re already there.

A Few Quick Notes:

📌 This story is ONLY posted on Wattpad and Tumblr under miss_delaney. If you see it anywhere else, it’s been stolen. Do NOT copy, repost, translate, or distribute my work on any other platform. Please respect my writing.

📌 Want to be added to the taglist? Drop a comment or message me!

📌 Requests: Open

Author’s Note:

Some moments are loud.

This one isn’t.

This chapter is all about the quiet before everything changes—the slow, almost imperceptible shift from waiting to knowing. It’s about how the air in a room can feel different when you’re expecting someone who matters. About how time contracts, stretching and collapsing around you until it’s just you, and the breath you hold without meaning to, and the sense that something is already moving toward you, even if you can’t see it yet.

For Riley, it’s about the soft, aching hope of making space—for someone else, for something bigger than herself. It’s the instinctive way she starts preparing without realizing it: the fresh towels, the extra charger, the jasmine blooming a little brighter on the porch.

For Joe, it’s about the steadiness of movement—the way he doesn’t need to say much because he’s already coming closer with every mile, every quiet certainty that Riley is a place he wants to land.

This isn’t about fireworks or declarations.

This is about the space between heartbeats—the part where you stop bracing for the fall because you already know you’ve jumped.

It’s a quieter chapter. A breath before the rush. But sometimes those quiet moments are the ones that change everything.

Also, just a quick note that my posting schedule may vary a little over the next few weeks as the school quarter winds down and final assignments pick up. I’ve had a lot of this story prewritten (and have been writing pretty steadily behind the scenes), but with the way the end of the quarter is shaping up, I may run out of prewritten chapters temporarily. I’ll keep updating as consistently as I can, but just wanted to give you a heads-up that life might throw a few delays into the mix. Thank you for being patient and amazing. 💜

I’m also planning to spend some time this weekend responding to asks! Sorry I haven’t gotten to them sooner — things have been a little hectic. Feel free to drop some in if you want to chat, scream, theorize, or just say hi. I love hearing from you. 💬✨

Thank you, as always. 💛🏈

Happy reading!

Taglist: @wickedfun9@starsyoongi@amiets2@palmettogal508@throwaway12356123@lilfreakjez

---

Joe’s kitchen was dark except for the low glow from the under-cabinet lights. He sat at the counter with a protein shake, still in his training gear, his phone propped up in front of him. Riley’s face filled the screen, blurry at first as she adjusted her angle.

“Better?” she asked, voice a little hoarse. She looked tired in a way that wasn’t unattractive—makeup smudged, hair pulled into a high knot, wearing one of his old hoodies he hadn’t even realized was missing yet.

He smiled. “Yeah. Better.”

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

Riley stretched, her bare legs disappearing under a blanket. “I’m gonna crash after this,” she said. “Tomorrow’s a long one.”

“What’s on deck?” Joe asked, leaning back against the counter.

“Mastering. Then a mix note review with Nick. Then we’re trying to wrap two shoots for the video content,” she said, closing her eyes for a second. “You?”

“Lift early. Might throw a little with the guys after, but keeping it light. Mark wants to sit down about scheduling too.”

She cracked one eye open. “Scheduling nightmares. Now featuring me.”

Joe smiled, small and easy. “Something like that.”

She breathed out a laugh, barely there. “He’s not gonna love that.”

Joe didn’t look away. “Doesn’t matter.”

Riley blinked at him, something soft catching in her chest.

He didn’t look away.

"You’re the quiet in all of it,” he said.

For a second, neither of them said anything.

Then she sighed, soft and amused. “Don’t say shit like that before bed, Burrow. You’ll mess me up.”

“Sorry,” he said, not meaning it.

Her eyes traced his face. “You miss me?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I miss you.”

She smiled, small and tired. “Good. I miss you too.”

“When do you fly out?”

“Wednesday. Scout booked the late flight.”

Joe nodded. “I’ll be there Friday.”

“Good.” Her voice dropped a little. “I’m tired of wanting.”

He didn’t reply right away. Just watched her, soaking in the way she looked at him like she already had his coordinates mapped in her bones.

She shifted under the blanket. “Hey,” she said, a flicker of that teasing smile pulling at her lips. “Want me to leave you with something to think about?”

His eyes darkened a fraction. “Yeah.”

Riley tilted the camera just enough to show the edge of the gray T-shirt lifting at her thigh. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to make his jaw clench.

Then she was back in frame, laughing softly. “Okay. That’s all you get.”

Joe blinked, leaning forward like he could pull her closer through the screen. “Wait,” he said, voice low. “You sure I can’t see a little more?”

Riley’s smile sharpened—slow, wicked, knowing. She didn’t say a word. Just tilted the camera down again.

More this time. Way more.

Long, bare lines of her. The shirt barely hanging on. No artifice. Just her, confident and unbothered and very aware of what she was doing to him.

“Jesus,” he muttered, already leaning forward.

But she was laughing now, shameless and sweet. “BUYYYEEEE,” she said, sing-song, and hung up.

Joe sat in the dark, jaw slack, one hand still on the screen.

Totally wrecked.

He sat there for another minute, like if he stayed still enough, the call might rewind itself. Play again. Let him see her one more time, hear her laugh.

But the screen had gone black, and she was already slipping into sleep two time zones away.

Joe finally stood, stretched out his back, and padded over to the fridge. The kitchen was quiet but not empty—not with her voice still echoing in the corners. Not with the faint trace of her teasing still on his skin.

He opened the fridge out of habit, then closed it without grabbing anything.

His eyes caught on the magnet.

“Love from Louisiana,” bold and unapologetic in red and blue. A crawfish with its claws up, an alligator stiff and mid-stride, the whole thing shaped like the state. It looked like something picked up at a roadside gas station—cheap, plastic, too proud of itself.

It hadn’t meant anything when he took it. The magnet had been stuck to her cluttered fridge—half-buried under flyers, old photos, a faded festival pass. He’d taken it without thinking. A dumb little thing to hold onto. He figured she wouldn’t notice.

Now it was stuck to his fridge in Cincinnati.

He reached out and tapped it once, like it might tap back. Like it might make her closer.

* * *

Joe was lying flat on the training table, a bag of ice strapped to his shoulder, scrolling mindlessly through film cut-ups when his phone buzzed.

Riley: [Photo attachment]

He tapped it open—and froze.

She was standing in front of her mirror, golden-hour light cutting across her body like it was in on the game. No clothes. Just skin and shadow, her waist turned so he could see the slope of her back, curve of her hip, a hint of breast. Her face was in the shot too—chin slightly tilted, eyes locked on the reflection like she knew exactly what she was doing to him. Because she did.

The message underneath read:

“Three things you’d be doing if you were here right now. Go.”

He blinked, throat tightening.

The ice bag suddenly felt like a joke.

Joe glanced around the empty training room, thankful no one was there to see the flush creeping up his neck.

Three things.

It was never just the words with her. She wanted the real things—the ones he usually kept locked up, the ones that made him feel like he was handing her something breakable.

Finally, he typed:

"1. Hands on your waist."

Simple. Direct. True.

2. You looking at me like that.

He swallowed hard. That one cost him a little.

"3. No talking for a while."

He hit send, then placed the phone screen-down on the table. Joe didn't overthink things on the field, and he wasn't about to start now. But with Riley, his usual calculated control felt increasingly difficult to maintain.

His phone buzzed almost immediately.

Buzz.

Riley: Wish I could get my hands on you right now, lovey.

Joe’s jaw flexed.

Buzz.

Riley: But you’ve got ice on your shoulder and people walking around, so… I’ll be good.

For now.

He couldn’t even lift his head. Face half-pressed into the table, body still pinned under the ice wrap, arms hanging down like deadweight. The worst possible position to be in when someone like her was on the other end of his phone, casually detonating his nervous system.

He closed his eyes.

Tried to breathe through it.

Did not succeed.

* * *

Joe answered on the second ring.

He was in bed, one arm folded behind his head, the room dim except for the soft blue glow of the TV—muted, forgotten. Riley’s face filled the screen, her curls damp and pulled back, her skin clean, collarbone bare, one strap slipping slightly off her shoulder. No makeup. No posing. Just her.

“Hi,” she said, voice low, the kind of low that only came out after a long day.

Joe’s mouth twitched into something close to a smile. “Hey.”

They looked at each other for a second, not saying much.

“You survive the ice?” she asked, tugging the blanket up over her knees.

“Barely,” he said. “You ruined any shot I had at recovering.”

She grinned, pleased with herself. “Good.”

He let his eyes drift across her face, slow. “You look tired.”

“I am.” She moved on the bed, the screen slipping sideways for a second, flashing the suitcase behind her. “Everything’s too much this week. I just… need out.”

“You still leave tomorrow?”

“Yup. Should be back in the city by dinner.”

She didn’t say it, but he could feel it, the need to be home, to get closer to stillness. To something that felt more like them.

He nodded. “Good. You’ll feel better there.”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I always do.”

Another beat of quiet. Not heavy—just familiar.

She looked at him again. “I don’t like sleeping without you.”

Joe exhaled. “I don’t like anything without you.”

Her mouth curved, eyes flickering down like she didn’t quite know what to do with that.

“You always say the exact right thing,” she murmured.

“I’m only like this with you. You make it easy.”

She shifted onto her side, tucking the phone into the pillow next to her. The screen tilted slightly, gave him a closer view of her—just her cheek, the edge of her mouth, the soft line of her neck.

She didn’t look right at him when she said it.

“What would you do if you were here?”

He let out a breath through his nose. Thought about playing it off. Thought about saying something easy, like kiss you or make you forget your name.

But she was quiet. Not teasing.

“I’d just want to lay with you,” he said. “Stay close. Be quiet for a while.”

That made her glance at the screen.

She didn’t say anything, but she tucked her face into the pillow like she couldn’t quite look at him straight-on.

Joe looked down, a quiet smile pulling at him. “Not a big plan. Just… you.”

“It is,” she said. “It’s perfect.”

His chest tightened a little. He didn’t reply.

Riley’s voice dropped as she settled deeper into the pillow. “I’m gonna fall asleep if I stay like this.”

“Then stay,” he said. “I’ll hang on ‘til you do.”

She didn’t look away this time. Just stayed there, eyes soft, like she was trying to memorize him.

“I like you like this, you know.”

“Like what?”

“Soft,” she murmured. “Even when it’s not natural for you.”

He stayed still, like moving might break whatever was happening between them

“I just… I love that you let me see it.”

Joe stared at her for a second, throat tight. Thought about deflecting. Didn’t.

Instead, he shifted just slightly on the pillow, voice low and rough:

“I am trying, Birdie.”

A pause.

“I’m trying really hard.”

That made her smile, soft and certain. Like she knew—but still needed to hear it.

She closed her eyes, her voice barely a breath now. “It’s enough.”

He watched her breathing slow, body relaxing into sleep.

And he stayed.

Just watching her breathing slow, screen dimming as the light around her shifted. Her face soft, mouth relaxed, fingers curled loosely under her chin like she’d been holding the day and finally let go.

Joe lay there, phone in hand, heart pulled tight in his chest.

I’m trying really hard.

He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. But it was true.

Maybe the truest thing he’d said in a while.

She made it feel possible. Not easy. Just…worth it.

He stayed on the call long after her breathing evened out, long after her screen stilled.

* * *

Riley woke to a slant of light cutting through the curtain and the faint buzz of a plane overhead.

For a second, she didn’t move.

Her body felt heavy, the way it always did after too many days in the studio—stretched thin, nerves still humming underneath. But her chest wasn’t tight anymore. Something inside her had eased, like a quiet she hadn’t been able to find all week.

She blinked at her phone still propped against the pillow.

The call had ended sometime in the night. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep on him, but she knew he’d stayed. Knew it the way she knew other things about him now—without needing proof.

She reached for the phone, screen lighting up in her hand. No new messages, just the soft glow of it against her fingers, and the quiet he’d left behind.

Riley stared at it for a moment anyway, then locked the screen and got up.

The house was soft around her, sun warming the rugs, the lingering smell of incense from the night before still curling through the air. Laurel Canyon always felt like it was breathing—like her house shifted with her.

She moved through the morning slowly—making coffee, feeding the plants, throwing her last few things into the suitcase. She didn’t rush. There was no reason to.

She was going home.

Riley's flight home wasn't until the afternoon, giving her time to move through her morning rituals without the usual rush. She dug into her bag until her fingers brushed the talisman she’d been carrying since Mardi Gras. The weight of it against her palm felt like a promise.

She abandoned her half-packed suitcase and wandered onto the deck, coffee mug warming her palms. The canyon stretched below, morning haze still clinging to the hills. Los Angeles had never quite felt like home, not the way New Orleans did. She'd bought this place because she needed somewhere to land between tours, somewhere to write that wasn't a hotel room. But it remained a way station—beautiful but temporary.

New Orleans pulled at her, especially now. The crawfish boil with her family was this weekend, and she'd promised to help with prep. Joe would fly in Friday night. The thought sent a flutter through her chest that wasn't entirely comfortable. Bringing him home felt big in a way she didn’t have words for yet.

Her phone buzzed again. Joe this time.

Joe: Good morning. How'd you sleep?

She could picture him, probably already finished with his morning workout, protein shake in hand, methodically moving through his day.

Riley: Like the dead after you talked me to sleep. Ready to be headed home today.

His response came quickly: Text me when you land or if you get board?

Riley: Yes sir.

Riley set her phone down and leaned against the railing. Home. The word carried more weight now, like it was expanding to include more than just a place. She wasn't sure when that had happened or what to do with it. But as she looked out over the canyon, she felt something settle inside her—a certainty that whatever came next, she was ready for it.

* * *

She slid into an open seat by the window, backpack thumping against her feet, iced coffee sweating against her knee. The terminal buzzed — babies crying, boarding calls echoing, someone’s voice sharp on speakerphone — but inside, she just felt… still. Like she was waiting for something to break.

One AirPod in. Dylan LeBlanc in her ear, low and scratchy. Her phone was face-up in her lap. She didn't think. Just picked up her phone and texted Joe.

Riley: Made it to the airport. Text me if you can—keep me occupied while I wait on this damn plane.

She hit send, then leaned her head back against the wall behind her and closed her eyes.

Three dots appeared almost immediately. Riley felt a small smile tug at her lips.

Joe: Perfect timing. I was just thinking about you.

Riley: Yeah? Good thoughts, I hope.

Joe: The best kind. How long until your flight?

Riley glanced up at the departure board, fingers absently tracing the edge of the LSU bracelet on her wrist.

Riley: About an hour.

Joe: Who’s picking you up?

Riley: Egan. She offered before I even asked. Said she misses my face.

There was a pause.

Joe: Lucky her.

She didn't answer right away. Just sat there, feeling it settle in her chest.

Riley: You’ll see me soon.

Joe: Not soon enough.

Joe: Send me a picture?

Riley smiled, wider this time. He didn’t usually ask for things but she loved when he did.

Riley: Of what? This glamorous airport scene?

Joe: Of you.

She glanced around, suddenly self-conscious in the crowded terminal. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, no makeup, just oversized sunglasses pushed up on her head. She was wearing an LSU sweatshirt she'd grabbed from his place in Cincinnati when she was there. She hadn't told him.

Riley: I look like a disaster right now.

Joe: I doubt that.

She hesitated, then switched to her front camera. She didn't pose, didn't try to find her angles or fix her hair. Just held the phone up, half-smile, tired eyes, vintage LSU gold visible in the frame. She looked at herself for a second, she looked exhausted, but she sent it anyway.

The three dots appeared immediately.

Joe: Is that my sweatshirt?!

She could practically hear the surprise in his text. Busted.

Riley: Maybe.

Joe: When did you even take that?

Riley: Busted

Riley: I may have borrowed it when I was packing up at your place. It smelled like you.

She watched the three dots appear, disappear, then reappear. Joe was choosing his words carefully.

Joe: Keep it. Looks better on you anyway.

Heat rose to her cheeks. She pulled the sleeves down over her hands, letting herself feel enveloped by the soft, worn fabric that somehow still carried traces of his cologne beneath the scent of her own perfume.

Riley: You sure? It's kinda a classic.

Joe: I'm sure.

She smiled, small and real. Pulled the sleeves down a little tighter, like it might bring him closer.

Around her, the terminal carried on—boarding groups called, luggage rolled past, some kid screaming in the distance—but it all felt a little farther away now.

Her phone buzzed again.

Joe: I like knowing you’ve got something of mine.

She stared at that one for a second, throat tightening.

Riley: I just saw it and… took it. Didn’t want to leave without something that felt like you.

Three dots. Pause. Disappear.

She pulled the sleeves down over her hands, head tilting slightly against the terminal wall.

Joe: Been trying to come up with something clever, but seeing you in my sweatshirt might be the best thing I've seen all week. There’s just something about knowing you’ve got a piece of me with you.

Riley stared at the screen.

The buzz of the terminal faded—boarding announcements, rolling luggage, someone asking for directions on speakerphone. All of it moved around her.

She didn’t overthink it.

Riley: I didn’t realize I needed it until I had it.

Her thumb hovered. Then she sent it. No extra punctuation. No backspace. Just truth.

Joe: I know exactly what you mean.

Simple. Direct. But it stopped her just the same.

A voice crackled over the loudspeaker, cutting through her thoughts: "We'd like to begin boarding Flight 1873 to New Orleans, starting with our first class and priority passengers..."

Riley glanced up at the boarding screen, then back at her phone.

Riley: They're calling my group. Gotta go.

She hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard. There was more she wanted to say, but the line was already forming at her gate.

Joe: Text me when you land.

It wasn't a question this time. She smiled at that—his quiet certainty, the way he'd slipped from vulnerability back to his usual steady self.

Riley: I will.

She stood, slinging her backpack over one shoulder, phone still in hand. The message notification lit up as she joined the boarding line.

Joe: And Riley?

Riley: Yeah?

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then:

Joe: I'm glad you took it.

Riley tucked her phone into her pocket without responding, but the smile stayed on her face as she handed her boarding pass to the gate agent. Some things didn't need a reply.

As she walked down the jet bridge, she pulled the sleeves of his sweatshirt down over her hands again, feeling the weight of something shifting between them—something neither of them had put into words yet, but both felt just the same.

* * *

Riley squinted against the bright New Orleans sunshine as she stepped out of Louis Armstrong Airport. The air hit her like a wall – thick, heavy, and familiar. Home. She inhaled deeply, feeling the humidity wrap around her like an old friend.

"There she is!"

She turned to see Egan leaning against her battered blue Jeep, sunglasses pushed up into her wild curls, grinning widely.

“Get your ass over here,” Egan called, pushing off the car.

Riley laughed, dragging her suitcase across the pickup lane. “Your chariot looks as reliable as ever.”

“Hey, don’t insult Stella. She’s been through enough.” Egan reached for Riley’s bag, tossing it into the back. Her eyes flicked to Riley’s sweatshirt as she did, brow raised.

“That new?”

She glanced down at the sweatshirt, sleeves swallowed around her hands. It still smelled a little like him.

“Sort of.”

Egan’s grin sharpened. “Sort of as in not yours?”

Riley didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.

“That’s what I thought,” Egan said, sliding into the driver’s seat. “How's the quarterback anyway?”

As they pulled away from the curb, Riley felt her phone in her pocket. She'd promised Joe she'd text when she landed. She'd meant to do it the moment the plane touched down, but the chaos of deplaning and baggage claim had distracted her.

She pulled it out now, typing quickly while Egan navigated through airport traffic.

Riley: Landed safe. Egan's already giving me shit about wearing your sweatshirt.

Joe's response came almost immediately.

Joe: Tell her it was a gift.

Riley smiled, looking out at the familiar landscape passing by. New Orleans stretched before her, wild and chaotic and completely different from Cincinnati's tidy neighborhoods or LA's sprawling highways.

Riley: Was it?

Joe: It is now.

She tucked the phone away, still smiling, as Egan launched into stories about what Riley had missed while she was gone. But part of her attention remained on the weight of her phone in her pocket, and the man on the other end who was somehow becoming a constant in her unpredictable life.

They turned onto her block just as the sun dipped low enough to spill amber across the rooftops. Riley sat up a little straighter as the familiar silhouette of her house came into view—painted lilac with coral shutters and cream trim, still somehow managing to look both proud and soft beneath the arms of the big oak tree that shaded the porch.

The garden had flourished in her absence. Green everywhere—ferns brushing the iron fence, climbing jasmine curling around the gatepost, red blooms nodding in the breeze like they knew her name. Everything looked exactly how she’d left it, only more alive.

Egan pulled up in front and cut the engine. “Damn,” she said, looking at the house. “She’s showing off today.”

Riley smiled, already reaching for her bag. “She knows I’m back.”

She stepped out into the thick, sweet air—jasmine and earth and the faint metallic hum of the city settling for the night. Her boots clicked on the slate path. She ran her fingers along the gate latch, brushing a spot of rust, then pushed it open and stepped through like she was crossing a threshold in her own skin.

The porch creaked beneath her as she climbed the steps, the old swing shifting slightly in the breeze like it remembered her. She didn’t rush to unlock the door. Just stood for a second, one hand on the railing, eyes on the plants that framed the stairs—neat rows of herbs in ceramic pots, glossy elephant ears fanning wide near the steps, the fountain gurgling low near the corner.

Egan came up behind her. “Place feels calmer with you here."

Riley turned the key and pushed the door open. The air inside was cool and still, laced with the scent of lavender and cedar from the incense she’d burned before leaving. Light filtered through the lace curtain in the parlor, catching on old records, picture frames, and the curl of a half-finished setlist taped to the fridge.

“I’ll hang for a bit,” Egan said, brushing past her and collapsing onto the couch like she owned the place. “But I want drinks and a breakdown of every spicy FaceTime you’ve had with the quarterback since we last spoke.”

Riley let out a low laugh, rolling her eyes as she dropped her bag by the door and followed her friend into the kitchen. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm-hmm. And you’re in his sweatshirt.”

Riley glanced down, pulling the hem reflexively. “Maybe.”

Egan leaned over the counter, smirking. “Girl.”

Riley just shook her head, busying her hands and making cocktails.

* * *

Riley mixed two gin fizzes with practiced hands, adding a splash of elderflower liqueur that wasn't in the traditional recipe but that she knew Egan loved. The familiar motions grounded her, even as Egan's knowing gaze followed her around the kitchen.

"So," Egan said, accepting the drink Riley slid across the counter. "Scale of one to ten. How bad do you have it for Cincinnati's golden boy?"

Riley took a long sip from her own glass, the bubbles fizzing pleasantly against her tongue. "I don't rate these things."

"That means at least an eight." Egan stretched her legs onto the coffee table. "You've never been this tight-lipped about someone before."

Riley dropped into the armchair across from her, folding into herself without meaning to. The sweatshirt—Joe’s—was warm against her skin. Her hand found the sleeve and stayed there.

"It's different," she finally said. "With him, it's just... different."

Egan's eyebrows shot up as she leaned forward, suddenly interested. "Different how? And don't give me that 'you wouldn't understand' crap. I've known you since you were stealing my eyeliner in high school."

Riley swirled the ice in her glass, searching for the right words. How did you explain someone who didn’t fit into any category you’d known before? The steady way he looked at her. The careful consideration behind everything he did. The feeling that he saw past her stage persona to something real underneath.

"He listens," Riley said finally. "Not just waiting for his turn to talk, but actually hearing me. And he remembers everything—not in that creepy way Ethan did to use against me later, but because he's genuinely paying attention."

She took another sip, feeling warmth spread through her chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

"He's structured and disciplined in ways I never could be. His entire life runs on this color-coded calendar, and at first I thought we'd drive each other crazy. But it's like..." Riley paused, staring into her drink. "It's like he brings this calm to my chaos. And maybe I bring a little chaos to his calm. But in a good way."

Egan studied her face. "I've never seen you like this before."

"That's what I'm saying. It's different." Riley pulled her knees up to her chest. "When I'm with him, I don't feel like I need to be 'on' all the time. I can just exist. And he doesn't want me to be anything other than what I am."

"Even with the distance? The schedules? The whole 'he plays football and you're a rock star' thing?"

Riley nodded slowly. "We're figuring it out. He's worth figuring it out for."

Egan watched Riley with a mixture of surprise and concern. In all the years she'd known her, Riley had never described anyone as "worth figuring it out for." There had been passionate flings, creative partnerships, and of course the disaster with Ethan—but this quiet certainty was new.

“Shit,” Egan said, taking a slow sip of her drink. “You’re really gone for him, huh?”

Riley rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress her smile.

“Maybe I am,” she admitted. It's just... I don't know. He challenges me."

"Challenges you how?"

Riley set her glass down on the coffee table, searching for the right words. "He makes me think about what I actually want, not just what feels good in the moment." She tugged at the sleeve of his sweatshirt. "And he's not impressed by any of it—the fame, the music, none of that matters to him."

"Of course not. The man's got his own spotlight," Egan pointed out.

"That's part of it. But it's more than that." Riley ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her face. "He sees the real stuff. The stuff I don't show everyone."

Egan leaned forward, her expression softening. "Like what?"

"Like how sometimes I need quiet. How I get scared about losing myself in all this." Riley gestured vaguely around her. "He notices when I'm tired before I even say anything. He'll just... create space for me."

"And the sex?" Egan wiggled her eyebrows dramatically.

Riley threw a decorative pillow at her, laughing. "None of your business."

"That good, huh?"

Riley felt heat rise to her cheeks, grateful for the dim lighting in the living room. "That's definitely not a complaint I have," she admitted, taking another sip of her drink.

"I knew it." Egan's triumphant smile stretched across her face. "I could tell there was something about him, even during Mardi Gras when you two were trying to be all casual."

We weren’t trying to be casual,” Riley protested.

Egan gave her a look, the kind that said sure, babe, without needing to say anything at all.

Riley sighed, setting her glass down. “Okay. Maybe I was. For like, five minutes.”

“And then?”

“And then he looked at me like he already knew where I’d end up,” she said quietly. “Like he wasn’t in a rush, but he wasn’t going anywhere either.”

Egan’s grin faded into something softer. “That sounds serious.”

Riley traced the rim of her glass with her fingertip, surprised by how easy it was to admit this to Egan when she'd barely admitted it to herself.

“I didn’t think I had it in me to do this again after Ethan,” she said, voice low. “I was just… supposed to focus. Keep my walls up.”

"And then Joe Burrow happened," Egan supplied.

Riley nodded, a small smile playing at her lips. "And then Joe happened. One minute we're awkwardly flirting on a talk show, and the next..."

"The next you're wearing his clothes and getting that dopey look on your face when your phone buzzes."

"I don't get a dopey look," Riley protested, but even she could hear the lack of conviction in her voice.

Egan just raised an eyebrow.

"Fine. Maybe a little dopey." Riley pulled the sleeves of Joe's sweatshirt over her hands. "But it wasn't supposed to go this way. We were just going to have dinner. One dinner."

"And?"

"And then he cooked for me. He was nervous about it—Joe Burrow, nervous about cooking dinner." Riley shook her head at the memory. "Not about facing three-hundred-pound linemen trying to crush him, but about whether I'd like his pasta."

Egan smiled. "That's actually kind of sweet."

"It was. And then we talked for hours, and it was just... easy. Like we'd known each other forever." Riley took another sip of her drink. "I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. For him to say something awful or be controlling or just—I don't know—turn out to be another disappointment."

"But he didn't."

"No." Riley's voice softened. "He didn't. Instead, he showed up. He keeps showing up, even when it's complicated. Even when it would be easier not to."

Egan studied her friend's face. "You're falling in love with him."

It wasn't a question.

Riley felt the words hit her like a physical force. The glass in her hand suddenly seemed too heavy, and she set it down with a shaky hand, liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

"Oh my god." Her eyes widened as the realization crystallized. "Oh no. Egan, I think I am."

She pressed her palms against her face, the soft material of Joe's sweatshirt brushing her cheeks.

"What do I do?" she groaned through her fingers. "How am I even supposed to talk to him later knowing this? We have a call scheduled in like three hours."

Egan leaned back, clearly enjoying Riley's sudden panic. "You could just tell him."

"Tell him?" Riley's voice pitched higher. "Are you insane? We've barely been together for—" She counted mentally. "We haven't even been together that long!"

"Since when do you care about timelines?"

"Since now! Since this!" Riley gestured wildly at herself. "This wasn't supposed to happen. Not with him. Not with anyone."

She stood up and began pacing the living room, her bare feet silent against the wooden floors. "Do you think he'll be able to tell? I'm terrible at hiding things. He's going to look at me through the screen and just know."

"Would that be so bad?" Egan asked, watching Riley's frantic movement.

Riley stopped pacing, hands still braced against her face like they might hold her together.

Riley let her fingers slide down, eyes meeting hers across the room. “It would be terrifying.”

Egan nodded. “Yeah. But maybe also… kind of beautiful?”

Riley didn’t answer. She just stood there, heart rattling in her chest, that ridiculous sweatshirt swallowing her whole. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or cry or call him right then and there.

Instead, she sat back down.

The couch cushions exhaled under her weight. She pulled her knees up again, arms wrapping tight around them. Her voice came out quieter this time.

“I feel everything with him,” she said. “All at once. And it scares the fuck outta me.”

“I know,” Egan said, like she felt it too.

Riley stared down at the curve of her glass on the table. Her chest felt too full. Like if she moved too fast, it might all spill out.

“I think I need to calm down before the call,” she said eventually.

Egan smirked, but gently. “You gonna write a song about it first?”

“I might write five.”

They both laughed, but it was softer now. Muted.

The moment hung there, not fully resolved—but more settled. Like the truth had landed and they were just learning how to hold it.

Egan stood and stretched again. “Alright. I’m leaving before I say something too heartfelt and ruin my street cred. Call me after the call.”

“You know I will.”

She walked her friend to the door, gave her a long, quiet hug on the porch. And then it was just her again—the garden humming outside, the house breathing steady around her, and the screen on her phone showing 2 hours, 47 minutes until their call.

* * *

Riley closed the door behind Egan and leaned her forehead against the cool wood. The house settled around her, familiar creaks and sighs that had always been a comfort. Now they only emphasized how alone she was with this new, terrifying knowledge.

She was falling in love with Joe Burrow.

The thought sent another wave of panic through her chest. She pushed off from the door and moved to the kitchen, where she filled a glass with water and drank it in long gulps. The clock on the microwave blinked at her: 2 hours, 42 minutes until their call.

Riley wandered into her living room, fingers trailing along the spines of vinyl records that lined the shelves. She pulled one out—an old Etta James album—and set it on the turntable. The needle scratched, then the warm, rich voice filled the room.

She needed to get her head straight before talking to Joe. Her gaze fell on her notebook sitting on the coffee table. Writing had always been her way of processing feelings, of making sense of the chaos in her head.

Riley grabbed the notebook and a pen, curling up in the window seat that overlooked her small garden. Outside, the evening light filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows across the ground. She opened to a blank page and let her pen hover above it.

The words didn't come immediately. Instead, she found herself sketching little stars in the margin, thinking about Joe's smile, about the way he'd looked at her in the studio, about how his voice sounded when he was half-asleep.

She didn’t mean to write anything. Just needed to move her hand, keep from unraveling.

But somewhere between the sketches and the half-formed thoughts, it slipped out—quick, instinctive, truer than she meant it to be.

He’s golden like daylight

I gotta step into the daylight and let it go

Riley stared at the words.

She didn’t read them back. Just felt them. They sat there on the page like a held breath, like something that had been waiting for her to name it.

She closed the notebook before she could second-guess it, tucking it beneath the stack of books on the coffee table like burying it made it less real.

Then she stood, moving through the house like someone walking off a dream. The record had long since stopped spinning. Outside, the sky had gone that dusky watercolor blue-gray, the kind that made everything feel a little softer.

Riley glanced at the microwave clock.

1 hour, 18 minutes.

She pressed her palm flat against the center of her chest. Just to feel her heart still working.

Riley stared at the notebook for a long moment after she closed it, fingers resting lightly on the cover. The words still echoed in her head, quiet but insistent.

He’s golden like daylight

I gotta step into the daylight and let it go

Her phone was on the table beside her, screen dark. She picked it up, hesitated, then tapped into her favorites. Her thumb hovered over Joe’s name for a second before sliding to the one several below it.

Laura.

She pressed call.

It rang once.

“Hey, Riles,” came the soft voice on the other end—warm, familiar, a little sleepy. “You okay?”

Riley exhaled through her nose. Of course Laura would know.

“I think I’m in love with him,” she said, no lead-in, no buildup. Just the truth.

She was quiet for a moment. “You sound scared.”

“I am.”

“Okay,” Laura said gently. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Riley shifted in the window seat, pulling her knees close again, her voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t want it to. After Ethan, I promised myself—”

“—that it would never feel this big again,” Laura finished quietly.

Riley closed her eyes. “Yeah.”

There was silence on the line, but not the kind that made her anxious. The kind that said I’m here, take your time.

“It’s not about what he says,” she said. “It’s just… how he is. The way he notices things. The way he looks at me like I’m enough already.”

Laura hummed. “That sounds like peace.”

“It is,” Riley said. “And it terrifies me.”

She paused, the words catching in her throat before they slipped out.

“Because what if I can never give him peace, Laura?”

Her voice was smaller now, like she didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Laura was quiet for a moment, and then: “That’s not something you owe him, Riley.”

Riley stared at the far wall, blinking back the pressure behind her eyes.

“I know. But he makes things quiet for me. Like I can actually breathe. What if all I do is make things louder for him?”

“Then he’ll tell you,” Laura said gently. “But I don’t think that’s what this is.”

A pause.

“You feel big, I know. But you’re not too much. You’re you. And I think he sees that for what it is—something good.”

Riley didn’t say anything right away. She just sat there, letting the words wash over her like warm water—soft, steady, unflinching.

She blinked hard once, then again, swallowing the knot in her throat.

“Thanks,” she murmured, voice rough around the edges. “I didn’t know I needed to hear that.”

Laura’s voice was calm, no rush in it. “You don’t always have to hold it all by yourself.”

“I know,” Riley said. “I just forget sometimes.”

“Well,” Laura said, a hint of a smile threading through, “you’ve got people to remind you.”

They stayed on the line for a few more breaths—no pressure to fill the silence. Just the sound of the evening settling in on both ends of the call.

“I should go,” Riley said eventually, glancing toward the clock. “I need to pull it together before he calls.”

“Don’t pull it too far,” Laura said gently. “Let him see you.”

Riley exhaled, the smallest smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah. Okay.”

They said their quiet goodbyes, and the call ended with a soft click that left the house feeling still again—but not as heavy.

Riley set the phone down on the arm of the chair and stretched her arms overhead, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. She could still hear Laura’s voice echoing in the quiet.

You feel big, I know. But you’re not too much.

She stood and moved through the house without hurrying—brushed her teeth, splashed cool water on her face, lit the candle on the windowsill. The air smelled like lavender and lemon peel.

When she checked the clock again, there were twenty-three minutes left.

She didn’t pick up the notebook. Didn’t touch her guitar. Just curled up on the couch in Joe’s sweatshirt, feet tucked under her, phone facedown beside her knee.

And waited.

* * *

Time dragged. Riley's fingers fidgeted with the cuff of Joe's sweatshirt, rolling and unrolling the fabric between her thumb and forefinger. The silence pressed in, filling all the spaces she usually knew how to live inside.

She reached for her phone, checked the screen—nineteen minutes left—and set it back down.

The confession sat in her chest like a stone. I think I'm in love with him. Not something she could take back once spoken aloud. Not something she could pretend wasn't there, either.

Riley pulled her knees closer, burying her nose in the collar of the sweatshirt. It still smelled like him—that clean, sharp scent that wasn't quite cologne but something distinctly Joe. Her eyes drifted closed.

What would his face look like if she told him? Would his expression shift in that subtle way it did when something surprised him—the almost imperceptible widening of his eyes, the slight pause before he spoke?

The thought made her stomach flip.

She'd spent years building walls around herself, crafting songs about heartbreak while keeping the deepest parts locked away. Then Joe had walked in, no dramatic entrance, just steady and present, and suddenly those walls felt paper-thin.

The phone buzzed against her knee.

Riley's eyes snapped open. She stared at it for a long moment before turning it over.

Her phone buzzed. Joe's name lit up the screen, fifteen minutes early, no warning.

That was so like him. Plan for eight, arrive at seven forty-five. Just in case.

Riley stared at the screen, heart suddenly drumming against her ribs. There was no way he could know what she was thinking—what she'd realized today. The screen kept buzzing, insistent.

She swiped to answer, not bothering to fix her hair or find better light.

His face appeared, shadowed—dark bathroom tile behind him, hair slightly damp from a shower. His eyes found hers immediately, that quiet laser focus that never wavered.

"Hey," he said, voice low.

Riley pulled her knees in tighter. "You're early."

"Meeting ended faster than I thought," Joe said. No apology, no unnecessary explanation. Just fact. "You okay with that?"

"Yeah," she said. Then, "You're all showered. I'm a disaster."

Joe didn't immediately counter with reassurance like most people would. His eyes just moved across her face, taking her in.

"You look tired," he said finally.

"I am," she admitted. "Talked to Egan today. Then Laura."

"How are they?"

"Good. Egan's already giving me shit about us, and Laura's being all wise and supportive as usual."

Joe smiled, lazy and low, like it was just for her.

Riley didn’t rush to fill the silence. With Joe, she didn’t have to. He waited, steady as ever, until she was ready.

"I've been in my head," she said finally, her voice quieter. "A lot."

"About what?"

She started to speak, then stopped. Started again.

"About us. About Vegas."

Something shifted in Joe's eyes, a flicker of recognition. He didn't move, didn't stiffen. But she could see his focus sharpen.

"It wasn't—" She paused, searching for words. "It's not that I need you to do some big public declaration. I just didn't like feeling like..."

Joe waited.

"Like a liability," she finished.

"You're not a liability." There was a firmness in his voice that wasn't there before. No hesitation, no qualification.

"In Vegas, it just felt like... I don't know." Riley ran a hand through her hair, gathering it at the nape of her neck before letting it fall again. "Like I was complicating things just by being there."

Joe was quiet for a minute — the kind of quiet that meant he was working for the right words. Riley had learned to tell the difference.

“I keep things separate,” he said finally. “Football. Family. Relationships. It’s easier that way. Cleaner.”

She nodded, unsurprised. This wasn't news.

"But you don't fit in a box, Riley."

That made her look at him more directly.

"I didn't know what to do with that in Vegas." Joe's jaw tensed slightly. "I'm better when I've had time to... to think through all the angles."

It was as close to I panicked as Joe Burrow would ever get.

"You don't have to have it all figured out," Riley said, the corner of her mouth lifting. "That's kind of my whole approach to life."

"I know," Joe said, and there was almost something fond in it. "but one of us has to have some structure."

Riley laughed, soft and surprised by the gentle teasing. It eased something in her chest.

"I didn't need you to introduce me to everyone," she continued. "I just needed to know where I stood with you."

Joe nodded, once. "You stand with me." Simple, direct. Not poetry, but somehow better for its clarity.

Riley felt warmth spread through her chest at the certainty in his voice. This was why she kept coming back to him—to them. The steadiness that she'd never found anywhere else.

"I don't always know how to trust that," she admitted, her voice softer. "Especially after Vegas."

The words hung between them, honest in a way that cost her. After Ethan, she'd built walls so high she wasn't sure how anyone would climb them. Then Joe had come along, steady and certain—until Vegas had shown her that even he had moments where she became something to manage rather than someone to stand beside.

"Vegas wasn't my best," Joe said after a moment. His jaw tightened slightly—the closest he came to showing regret. "It won't happen again."

Three words, no elaborate explanation. That was Joe—economical even with his promises. But there was something in his eyes that made her want to believe him, despite the voice in her head that remembered how Ethan's pretty words had evaporated when tested.

Riley looked down, twisting the edge of the blanket between her fingers. "It's hard for me to know that for sure."

Joe was quiet for a moment, his gaze steady even through the screen. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, more certain.

"Then I'll prove it to you."

He didn't elaborate with flowery promises or detailed plans. That wasn't Joe's way. But there was a quiet determination in those five words that felt different from Ethan's practiced declarations—solid where Ethan had been all flash.

Riley looked up, meeting his eyes. "Okay."

One word that carried the weight of everything they weren't saying. A cautious opening, not a guarantee.

It surprised her, that simplicity. Most men would rush to differentiate themselves, to prove something. Joe just... waited. Like he understood time would matter more than words.

Riley let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The miles between them still stretched, but something about his steady gaze made them feel less insurmountable.

"Tell me something good," Riley said, softer now. "Something from today."

Joe's mouth quirked. "You're wearing my sweatshirt. That's pretty good."

Riley glanced down, suddenly aware of the faded LSU across her chest. She'd put it on after her shower without thinking. "Oh. Yeah."

“Yeah,” Joe said, voice low. “And I’ll be there Friday.”

Riley pulled her knees closer, settling deeper into the window seat. "What's your schedule tomorrow?"

“Meetings most of the morning. Lift after. Might run a couple routes if my shoulder’s good. I’ll be free by afternoon.”

They talked for a while longer—easy, winding conversation about nothing significant. How the jasmine had taken over her garden. A perfect pass Joe had thrown at practice. The étouffée disaster story her grandfather was planning to tell.

The house darkened around her as they talked, but Riley didn't move to turn on lights. There was something intimate about the soft blue glow from her screen, about being half-hidden in shadow while still letting him see her.

"You nervous?" Joe asked after a lull. "About me meeting them?"

Riley considered deflecting with humor, but something in his eyes made her answer honestly.

"Not nervous," she said. "Maybe a little... heightened."

Joe's brow lifted slightly. "Heightened?"

"It's crawfish on the bayou with my family. It's loud, and messy, and a little overwhelming if you're not used to it."

"Riley," Joe said, with the barest hint of a smile, "I played for LSU for two years. I know what a Louisiana family gathering looks like."

She laughed, soft and surprised. "Okay, fair."

"I know what I'm walking into," he said. "And anyway—" he paused, eyes steady on hers. "I work best under pressure. You forget what I do for a living?"

Riley let out a quiet laugh. "You say that now..."

"I got this," he said, voice low. "And I got you."

The words weren't loud or poetic. Just quiet, certain.

Riley looked down, trying to steady her breathing. The inside of her chest felt too full, like something might spill over if she moved too quickly.

"I know," she said after a moment. "I just needed to hear it."

Joe didn't respond with more reassurance. He just nodded, once, like he understood exactly what she meant.

Riley shifted, pulling a blanket higher around her shoulders, fatigue suddenly washing over her. The screen stayed propped against her knees.

"Don't hang up yet," she murmured, eyes already growing heavy.

"I wasn't planning to," Joe replied.

She closed her eyes. "Just... talk a little. Doesn't matter what."

Joe settled back against his headboard. "Alright," he said. "Today Sam dropped a weight on his foot during training. Didn't tell anyone for an hour because he didn't want to admit he was limping..."

His voice continued, low and steady like a current underneath her breathing. No flourishes, no dramatic storytelling. Just that even, measured cadence that somehow made everything feel more manageable.

Riley didn't answer. Her breathing slowed, deepened.

Still, Joe kept talking.

Just in case.

* * *

Morning came soft and warm, the way it always did in New Orleans this time of year. Riley woke to sunlight filtering through lace curtains, casting intricate patterns across her bedroom floor. For a moment, she just lay there, letting the familiar sounds of home settle around her—distant church bells, birds in the oak tree outside her window, the gentle hum of the ceiling fan circling above.

Her phone lay beside her pillow, dead. She must have fallen asleep during the call with Joe, the phone's battery draining quietly in the night. The realization brought a small smile to her lips, remembering his voice as she'd drifted off.

Riley stretched, then padded barefoot through the house, plugging in her phone before heading to the kitchen. The routine was automatic—coffee first, always. She moved through the familiar motions with her eyes half-closed, the rich scent of chicory gradually pulling her fully awake.

When the coffee was ready, she poured it into her favorite mug—chipped at the handle but too sentimental to replace—and carried it through the front room to the porch. The screen door creaked in protest as she pushed it open with her hip, the sound as familiar as her own heartbeat.

The morning air hit her skin like a warm breath—thick, sweet, already heavy with humidity. Her porch swing beckoned, its faded cushions still bearing the slight indentation from where she'd last sat. Riley settled into it, tucking one bare foot beneath her, the swing groaning softly as it accepted her weight.

From here, she could see most of her block—the neighbor's wind chimes swaying lazily in the breeze, Mrs. Guidry already sweeping her sidewalk across the street, the community garden on the corner bursting with life. Everything exactly where it should be, down to the tabby cat watching her suspiciously from beneath the hydrangea bush.

"Morning to you too, Max," she murmured, taking a slow sip of coffee.

Her street was waking up — the slam of a screen door, the low rumble of a truck a few blocks over, a burst of laughter carried on the thick morning air. Somewhere, faint music drifted from an open window — brass and drums, bright and lazy.

Riley closed her eyes, letting her head rest against the back of the swing. The confession from last night still sat in her chest, no less true in the morning light. I think I'm in love with him. The words didn't feel as frightening now, here in the soft morning air of the place that had always held her truest self.

Her phone buzzed inside the house, the sound barely audible through the screen door. Probably Joe, awake and already finished with his morning workout. The thought made her smile again—their different rhythms somehow finding ways to align.

She would go in soon. She would call him back, tell him about the neighbor's cat and the church bells and how the morning light turned her garden gold. But for now, she let herself sit a moment longer, feet pushing gently against the porch floor, setting the swing in motion.

The movement was hypnotic—forward and back, the subtle creak of chains, the world rocking gently. Riley took another sip of coffee, eyes drifting to the edge of her porch where she'd planted jasmine last spring. It had nearly taken over the railing now, white flowers nodding in the breeze, filling the air with sweetness.

Her grandfather had always said plants bloomed best for people who talked to them. She'd never been sure if she believed him, but found herself doing it anyway.

“He’s coming on Friday,” she told the jasmine quietly. “Make sure you show off for him, yeah?”

The jasmine didn't respond, but a breeze ruffled through it, sending a trace of fragrance her way. Riley smiled into her coffee.

Her phone buzzed again, more insistent this time. With a soft sigh—not of irritation, just of transition—she rose from the swing and padded back toward the screen door. The wood was warm beneath her bare feet, still holding yesterday's sunshine.

As she reached for the handle, she paused, turning back to look at her little corner of New Orleans one more time. The morning light caught on the wrought iron of her fence, the dew on the elephant ears, the wind chimes swaying lazily in the corner.

"We're doing this," she whispered to no one in particular. "We're really doing this."

Then she pulled open the door and stepped inside, ready to start her day in earnest—ready to call him back, ready to face whatever came next.

The house seemed to sigh around her in agreement.

* * *

Riley padded back inside, the screen door clicking shut behind her. The house welcomed her with familiar creaks and whispers—old wood settling, ceiling fans stirring the air. She moved through the front room, fingers trailing along the edge of her record collection, the vintage guitar propped in the corner, the stack of books that never seemed to get any smaller no matter how many she read.

Her phone buzzed again from where she'd left it charging on the kitchen island. She picked it up, the screen lighting to reveal three missed calls and a string of texts—all from Joe. The last one had just come through:

Joe: Phone dead?

She smiled, thumbing through the earlier messages.

Joe: You conked out during the call. I stayed on until your breathing evened out.

Joe: Finished workout. Thought you might want to see the damage.

And then, surprisingly, a photo.

Riley's eyebrows rose slightly. Joe rarely sent selfies—a stark contrast to how often he asked for them from her. It wasn't that he had anything against them; he just didn't think to document himself the way she did naturally. But when he did send one, it always felt like a small gift, an unspoken acknowledgment that he was thinking of her enough to break his usual patterns.

But there he was on her screen. Hair damp with sweat, face flushed from exertion, gray workout shirt clinging to his shoulders. He wasn't smiling exactly—Joe never gave a full smile in photos—but there was something soft around his eyes, something private in the slight curve of his mouth. Behind him, the early morning light of the training facility cast everything in a clean, bright glow.

He looked... happy. And a little tired. And very much like someone who'd been thinking about her while he went through his routine.

Riley leaned against the counter, something warm unfurling in her chest. She tapped the image, studying the details—the slight shadow of stubble he hadn't yet shaved, the barely visible scar above his eyebrow from a college game, the way his hair stuck up slightly at the crown where he'd probably run his hand through it.

He looked good. Of course he looked good—that was never in question. But this wasn't the polished, media-ready Joe Burrow that most people saw. This was just... Joe. Her Joe. Sweaty and rumpled and real.

She tapped reply, suddenly eager to connect.

Riley: Sorry for the radio silence. Woke up and took my coffee to the porch. Phone was dead from our call.

She hesitated, then added:

Riley: You look good all sweaty. Send these more often.

Riley set the phone down and moved to the refrigerator, pulling out eggs and the remains of a bell pepper. She'd need more than coffee if she was going to face the day—especially a day that included a visit to Papa.

The phone buzzed again as she was cracking eggs into a bowl.

Joe: Don't get used to it. Just happened to look decent today.

She laughed out loud, nearly dropping the whisk.

Riley: Decent is an understatement. Any chance of seeing more next time?

Three dots appeared immediately, then disappeared. Appeared again.

Joe: Maybe. If you ask nice.

Riley grinned, setting the phone down to continue making her breakfast. The morning light streamed through the kitchen window, catching on the copper pans hanging above the island, the collection of vintage concert posters on the far wall, the plants crowding every available surface.

She moved through the familiar space with practiced ease, whisking eggs, chopping vegetables, the rhythms of home coming back to her body without conscious thought. The house felt different this morning—lighter somehow, like her confession to Egan and Laura had shifted something inside her that the walls could sense.

I think I'm in love with him.

The words still sent a flutter of panic through her chest, but it was softer now. Less sharp. More like anticipation than fear.

Her phone buzzed one more time as she was plating her eggs.

Joe: Plans today?

She picked it up, typing one-handed while she carried her plate to the small table by the window.

Riley: Breakfast. Then Papa at the retirement home. Need to prepare him for your arrival.

Joe: He need preparing?

Riley smiled, thinking of her grandfather's endless stories and embarrassing photo albums.

Riley: Let's just say he's got 25 years of Riley stories and zero filter. Damage control is needed.

Three dots. A pause.

Joe: Looking forward to it.

Riley took a bite of her eggs, considering her response. She could warn Joe more specifically about Papa's tendency to overshare, tell him how the sweet old man had no concept of boundaries when it came to his "songbird." But that wasn't how they operated. Not anymore.

Riley: He'll talk your ear off, but he's the best person I know. Just need to remind him which stories are off-limits.

Joe: The more embarrassing, the better.

She set the phone down, focusing on her breakfast for a few minutes. The eggs were perfect—just the right amount of pepper, the way her mother had taught her. Through the window, she could see the garden coming alive with morning activity—a hummingbird darting between flowers, the neighbor's cat stalking through the bushes, sunlight catching on dew that hadn't yet burned away.

One more day until Joe arrived. Two until the crawfish boil. Her world was about to collide with his in a way they hadn't yet experienced—not the careful boundaries of their separate cities, not the controlled environment of a weekend visit. This was her home, her family, her deepest roots.

She should be terrified. Part of her was.

But mostly, she just wanted him here—wanted to see him in her space, sitting on her porch swing, talking with her grandfather, his hand steady on the small of her back while chaos swirled around them.

Riley finished her breakfast and carried the plate to the sink, glancing at the clock on the microwave. If she left now, she'd have plenty of time to stop for beignets before reaching Magnolia Gardens.

* * *

The Magnolia Gardens Retirement Community sat on three lush acres just outside the city limits, close enough to New Orleans to feel connected but far enough to escape the constant noise. Unlike many of the sterile facilities Riley had toured, this one had character—garden plots for residents who still wanted to grow their own tomatoes, a music room with instruments available day and night, and a bar that served actual drinks during happy hour. It was the only place Willis Carter had agreed to even consider.

Riley pulled into a visitor spot, grabbing the bag of fresh beignets she'd picked up on the way. She didn't bother checking her reflection—her grandfather had seen her in every possible state and never once commented on her appearance, except to say she looked like her grandmother when she smiled.

The receptionist brightened when she walked in. "Miss Carter! Your grandfather's been up since dawn waiting for you. He's checked his watch about twenty times in the last hour alone."

Riley laughed. "That sounds like him. I'm not even late."

"Try telling him that," Darlene said with a fond shake of her head. "He's out in the garden pavilion. Said something about the light being better out there for showing you some new photos his brother sent."

Riley stepped through the sliding glass doors into the garden pavilion, where sunlight filtered through the latticed roof, casting dappled patterns across the wooden tables. She spotted her grandfather immediately, his silver hair catching the light as he bent over a photo album.

"Papa," she called, and Willis Carter looked up, his weathered face breaking into a smile that transformed him from stern patriarch to delighted grandparent in an instant.

“Well, there she is,” he said, pushing back from the table. “I was just about to go hunt you down.”

“I’m on time,” Riley said, grinning as she walked over.

“Didn’t say you weren’t. Just said I was about to come get you.” He leaned in, kissed her temple, then zeroed in on the bag in her hand. “Tell me that’s what I think it is.”

“Still warm,” she said, holding out the beignets like a peace offering.

Willis made a satisfied sound deep in his throat. “That’s my girl.”

She sat down beside him, setting the bag between them as he pulled one out and bit into it like it was the first real food he’d had in weeks.

“They don’t make ’em like this in the cafeteria,” he said around a mouthful. “Tastes like the Quarter. Before they ruined it.”

“You say that every time.”

“And I’ll keep saying it.” He dusted sugar from his hands and nudged a photo album toward her. “Now come look. Your uncle finally mailed those pictures from their trip to Orange Beach. Took him long enough. I already had to call and pretend I was dying just to get him to send ‘em.”

Riley snorted. “You really did that?”

“Course not,” he said, flipping the album open. “I just sighed real heavy on the phone. He got the message.”

She leaned in to look. There were sun-faded snapshots of Uncle Teddy grinning in front of a shrimp boat, a picture of the two brothers standing in matching fishing shirts and holding up a stringer of redfish.

“This one,” Willis said, pointing at a blurry shot of the horizon. “That’s where we used to go crabbing with your mama when she was little. You’d have loved it out there.”

“I remember the stories,” Riley said softly, brushing her finger over the edge of the photo.

“You look good, Papa.”

“I feel good,” he said, like it wasn’t a given. “They let me tend the tomatoes out back. I talk to ‘em like Gram used to. Helps ‘em grow.”

“I talked to my jasmine this morning,” she said, voice soft. “Told it to show off.”

Papa chuckled, a low, familiar sound.

“I bet they will,” he said.

He nudged her gently with his elbow. “And how’s my baby?”

She didn’t answer right away. The sunlight had shifted, warming the back of her neck. She kept her eyes on a picture of two boys fishing—one clearly Willis, maybe ten years old, holding a catfish longer than his arm.

Riley looked up from the photo, meeting her grandfather's expectant gaze.

"I'm good," she said, then after a pause, "Really good, actually."

Willis studied her face, his eyes sharp despite his age. "That have anything to do with the quarterback coming to my crawfish boil this weekend?"

Riley felt warmth rise to her cheeks. "Maybe."

"Only maybe?" Willis raised a bushy eyebrow, his mouth quirking up at one corner. "Girl, you're practically glowing. I haven't seen you look like this since you got your first record deal."

She laughed softly. "It's different, Papa."

"Course it's different. That was business. This is—" he gestured vaguely with one sugar-dusted hand, "—something else entirely."

Riley nodded, not bothering to deny it. "That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Lay it on me," he said, leaning back in his chair, eyes twinkling. "You need my blessing? Want me to have a man-to-man with this Burrow boy?"

"God, no," Riley said quickly. "The exact opposite, actually. I need you to promise not to..." she searched for the right word, "...overwhelm him."

"Me? Overwhelming? I'm offended, darlin'." But his smile grew wider, showing he was anything but.

"Papa, I'm serious. Joe is..." She paused, trying to articulate what made Joe different. "He's more reserved. He thinks before he speaks. Plans everything."

"Sounds boring," Willis said, but his eyes were kind.

"He's not boring," Riley insisted. "He's steady. Solid. But he's also private, and I just don't want him to feel ambushed by the full Willis Carter Experience within five minutes of meeting you."

Her grandfather raised his hands in surrender. "Fine, fine. No baby pictures. No stories about how you used to make me take you to jazz clubs when you were ten because you wanted to see the horn players up close."

"Exactly," Riley said. "And no interrogations about his family or his plans or—"

"What's the fun in that?" Willis interrupted, but he was smiling. "Alright, I'll behave. For the first hour, at least."

"Two hours."

"Hour and a half, and I reserve the right to tell the story about your first attempt at crawfish étouffée. That one's non-negotiable."

Riley groaned. "Papa, I was fourteen and nearly burned down the kitchen."

"And future generations deserve to know this information," he said solemnly, though his eyes danced with mischief. "It's historical record at this point."

She shook her head, but couldn't keep from smiling. "You're impossible."

"That's what your grandmother used to say." Willis's face softened with memory. "She'd have liked this one, I think."

"You haven't even met him yet."

"Don't need to," Willis said with the certainty of a man who trusted his instincts implicitly. "I can see it in your face. The way you light up when you talk about him. That tells me everything I need to know."

Riley felt something catch in her chest—that particular ache that always came when her grandfather showed just how deeply he saw her.

"He makes me happy, Papa," she said simply.

Willis nodded. "Good. That's what matters." He reached over and patted her hand. "The rest is just details."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, sunlight warming the table between them, the sounds of the garden a gentle backdrop to their conversation.

"So," Willis said finally. "Tell me something about him that I won't read in those sports magazines. Something real."

Riley thought for a moment, her fingers tracing the edge of the photo album. "He listens," she said. "Not the way most people do, where they're just waiting for their turn to talk. He actually hears what I'm saying."

Willis nodded approvingly. "That's rare."

"And he's not impressed by any of it—the fame, the music, none of that matters to him. He sees me, not Riley Carter the singer."

"Smart man."

"He stayed on the phone with me last night," she continued, her voice softening. "I fell asleep, and he just... stayed. Kept talking so I wouldn't feel alone."

Willis's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Now that," he said, "is something worth holding onto."

Riley looked down at her hands, suddenly self-conscious about how much she was revealing. But this was Papa—the man who'd taught her to fish and make roux and stand up for herself. If she couldn't be honest with him, who could she be honest with?

"I think I'm falling in love with him," she said quietly.

The words hung in the air between them, more real now that she'd said them to Papa than when she'd confessed them to Egan or Laura.

Willis didn't look surprised. He just nodded slowly, his weathered face creasing into a gentle smile. "About time," he said.

"That's it? 'About time'?"

"What'd you expect me to say?" he asked, spreading his hands. "That it's too soon? That you should slow down? Baby, you've never slowed down a day in your life. Always jumping first, asking questions later."

"Not always," Riley protested weakly.

"Always," he countered with absolute certainty. "You get that from me. Your grandma used to say we were both born without brakes. The number of times I had to fish you out of trouble because you decided to follow your heart without a second thought..." He shook his head, though his eyes were fond.

Riley laughed despite herself. "You saying Joe's my brake system?"

"I'm saying everybody needs someone who balances them out," he said, suddenly serious. "Sounds like maybe you found yours. Someone steady to match your wildfire."

The words settled over her like a blessing. Riley reached across the table and squeezed her grandfather's hand. "Thanks, Papa."

"Don't thank me yet," he said, mischief returning to his expression. "I still reserve the right to tell that étouffée story if he asks where you learned to cook."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me, darlin'."

Riley shook her head, smiling despite herself. "One condition. You have to show him the photo of you with James Booker first. The one where you're wearing that ridiculous hat."

"That hat was the height of fashion in 1972!"

"It looks like something died on your head, Papa."

Willis laughed, a deep, rich sound that filled the garden pavilion. "Deal. My embarrassment for yours. That's fair."

He closed the photo album and set it aside, then reached for another beignet. "Now, tell me about this album you're working on. I hear things. People say it's your best yet."

Riley settled in, her heart lighter than it had been in days. This was home—her grandfather's laughter, the sweet scent of beignets, sunlight filtering through the lattice above them. And soon, Joe would be here too.

For the first time, the thought didn't scare her at all.

* * *

The restaurant was buzzing, the kind of local spot where the waiter didn’t write anything down and the ceiling fans were older than the building permits. Riley spotted them right away—Tomas nursing a Bloody Mary, Egan mid-story, Jen and Jeremy tucked into opposite corners of the weathered wooden table, all of them halfway through drinks and deeply in their rhythm.

“There she is,” Egan said, lifting her glass like a toast as Riley slid into the open seat. “Miss You’ve-Got-A-Glow.”

“I swear to God,” Riley said, reaching for a menu, “if one more person tells me I’m glowing, I’m going to light something on fire just to stay consistent.”

“Oh, she’s feisty,” Tomas said. “Definitely saw Papa this morning.”

Riley smirked. “I fed him beignets and he gave me emotional clarity. It’s a powerful combo.”

“And how is our dear Willis?” Jen asked. “Still charming? Still plotting your social downfall via embarrassing childhood stories?”

“Absolutely,” Riley said. “He’s pacing himself for Saturday. Said he’s saving the étouffée disaster story for just the right moment.”

“That man is a menace,” Jeremy said fondly. “I love him.”

There was a lull as a server stopped by to take Riley’s drink order. Once they were alone again, Tomas leaned forward, eyes sharp. “Alright then, big weekend. You ready?”

“I think so,” Riley said, then added, “He’s coming to the boil.”

Jen blinked. “The boil?”

Egan leaned back, a big smile on her face. “I told her last night that's not a casual introduction.”

“You sure he knows what he’s walking into?” Jeremy asked. “Because I remember our first boil with your family, and I’m still recovering.”

“He doesn’t know,” Riley said. “Not really. But he wants to.”

“And this’ll be the first time he’s meeting any of them?” Tomas asked, sounding it out like he needed to hear it twice.

Riley nodded. “Yeah.”

“That’s huge.”

“I know,” she said more quietly. “I didn’t plan for it to happen like this, but… it feels right.”

“You want us hovering nearby?” Egan teased. “Incognito support group? Code names? Backup plan if Cousin Laney tries to convert him to her homemade moonshine religion?”

Riley laughed. “No, I think I want it to just be family. As in, y’all stay far away.”

“Rude,” Jen said, lifting her glass.

“But fair,” Jeremy added.

“You’ll tell us everything after,” Tomas said.

“Of course,” Riley said, smiling. “If he survives.”

Tomas sat back in his chair, arms folded. “You know he’s gonna be fine, right?”

Riley arched an eyebrow. “Fine how?”

“Fine as in your family already thinks he walks on water. He could show up late, mispronounce étouffée, and still get a standing ovation just for being the boy from LSU.”

“Exactly,” Jeremy said. “The man’s basically a folk hero. Your aunties are gonna be feral.”

“They are not,” Riley said, trying—and failing—not to laugh.

“Oh no, they will be,” Egan said. “You know how many women in your family sat in that living room in purple and gold, screaming at the TV like it was church?”

“I hate this,” Riley muttered, hiding behind her tea.

“You love it,” Jen said. “You just hate that we’re right.”

“Okay, sure. The football thing helps,” Riley admitted. “But he’s quiet. Not shy, just… intentional. And y’all know my family. It’s a lot.”

“You’re a lot,” Jeremy said with a wink.

“Exactly. So imagine that but forty more of me, and half of them are drunk.”

“Oh, he’s toast,” Tomas said.

“I’m serious,” Riley said. “I just want him to feel like he can be himself. Not some version of what they expect.”

Egan tilted her head. “So let him.”

Riley looked at her.

“Let him be himself,” Egan said again. “Not football-Joe, not your-boyfriend-Joe. Just… Joe. If he’s who you say he is, he’ll handle it.”

“He will,” Riley said quietly, almost to herself.

Jen reached over and squeezed her wrist. “And if not, we’ll stage a rescue and blame it on a football emergency.”

“No rescues,” Riley said, grinning now. “He wants to be there.”

“Then he’ll be fine,” Tomas said. “Honestly, I’m more worried about you. You’ve never let someone this far in before.”

Riley’s smile dimmed, just slightly.

“Not like this,” she said. “But it feels… different. Like it’s not about proving anything. I just want him there.”

“Then that’s the whole thing,” Jeremy said. “That’s the sign.”They sat with that for a moment, sunlight sliding across the table as a server dropped off the check.

“You telling Papa how serious this is?” Jen asked as they stood.

Riley nodded. “He already knows. He said Gram would’ve liked him.”

Egan smiled, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Then I guess that’s that.”

* * *

Joe checked his watch. He had about forty minutes before he needed to be at the facility for a meeting with Coach Taylor. Just enough time to pick up his grandfather's watch from Ashford's downtown.

The repair had taken longer than expected—something about a custom part that needed to be ordered—but the timing worked out perfectly. He'd have it back before heading to New Orleans on Friday.

The afternoon was bright but not too warm, Cincinnati showing off its best spring weather. Joe kept his head down anyway, ball cap pulled low, sunglasses on. Not that he minded being recognized, but sometimes a ten-minute errand could turn into an hour of selfies and small talk. Today, he just didn't have the time.

The bell chimed softly as he pushed open the door to Ashford Jewelers. The shop was small but elegant—dark wood cabinets, discreet lighting, the subtle smell of leather and polish. It had been in the same family for generations, the kind of place that still kept handwritten records in leather-bound books.

"Mr. Burrow," the older man behind the counter greeted him with a subtle nod. No fuss, no fanfare. Just the quiet acknowledgment that came from mutual respect. It was one of the reasons Joe kept coming back here. That, and the fact that they'd never once leaked a word about his purchases.

"Mr. Ashford. Just here to pick up my grandfather's piece."

"Of course. I have it ready for you." He disappeared into the back room.

Joe waited, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the display cases out of habit more than interest. Watches, cufflinks, tie clips—all carefully arranged under glass. Then his gaze shifted to the women's section.

A bracelet caught his eye.

Not the flashy diamonds or statement pieces that dominated most of the case. This was tucked in a corner, distinct from the others—a slender gold band, textured to resemble snakeskin, with a delicate clasp that reminded him of a serpent's head.

It wasn't something he would have normally noticed. But it reminded him immediately of Riley—elegant but with an edge, the golden scales catching light in a way that seemed alive. He could picture it on her wrist as she played guitar, the gold warm against her skin.

"That's a unique piece," Mr. Ashford said, returning with a small leather box. He'd caught Joe staring. "Python design. Eighteen karat gold. We just received it last week."

Joe nodded. "Can I see it?"

If Mr. Ashford was surprised, he didn't show it. He set the watch box on the counter and unlocked the display case, carefully removing the bracelet.

Joe found himself studying it longer than he intended. The craftsmanship was exceptional—each scale meticulously detailed, the whole piece flowing like water when it moved.

"It's from a French designer," Mr. Ashford explained. "Very limited edition. The texture is quite remarkable."

Joe held it in his palm, feeling its weight. It wasn't heavy, but it had substance. The scales caught the light from every angle, creating a subtle shimmer that reminded him of the way stage lights played across Riley's skin when she performed.

He hadn't planned on buying Riley anything. They hadn't discussed gifts, and he was careful not to push the relationship faster than either of them was ready for. But something about this piece felt right—like it had been waiting here for him to find.

It wasn't showy or presumptuous. It wouldn't overwhelm her or make her feel obligated. It was just... her.

"How much?" he asked.

Mr. Ashford quoted a price that would have made most people flinch. Joe just nodded.

"I'll get this too," he said, handing the bracelet back.

He didn’t know if she’d wear it every day. But he knew, without question, she’d understand exactly what it meant.

Mr. Ashford nodded, carefully returning the piece to its velvet cushion while he processed the purchase. He boxed both items with practiced precision—the watch in its leather case, the bracelet in a slim black velvet box.

“You picked well,” Mr. Ashford said, setting the watch and the bracelet in front of him.

Joe nodded, tucking both boxes into his jacket pocket.

As he pushed back through the door into the Cincinnati sunshine, Joe felt a lightness in his chest. The impulsive purchase wasn't like him—he approached most decisions methodically, weighing options, considering consequences. But with Riley, sometimes instinct just took over.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. A calendar reminder for his meeting. Joe quickened his pace slightly, but his thoughts remained with the bracelet—with the way the gold scales would catch the light as she moved.

As he slipped the boxes into his jacket pocket, his phone buzzed with a text from Riley:

Riley: You at your meeting yet?

Joe glanced at the time, thumb already moving.

Joe: Almost. Walking over now.

Riley: Just checking. Not trying to interrupt your grind or whatever.

Joe: You’re not. Can I call you after?

Riley: Yeah. I’ll be home.

He tucked the phone back in his pocket. The velvet box was warm now from being close to him, nestled beside the watch he came to pick up.

He’d call her after.

* * *

Riley moved through her house with the phone pressed between her ear and shoulder, pulling fresh sheets onto the bed with quick, practiced movements.

"Tell me again what time you land?" she asked, tucking a corner under the mattress.

"Noon," Joe replied. She could hear the soft rustle of clothing on his end. "You sure you don't mind picking me up?"

"Of course not," she said, smoothing the sheets with her palm. "Though I won't be holding any embarrassing sign with your name on it."

Joe chuckled, the sound low and warm. "Appreciate the restraint."

"The house is excited you're coming back," Riley said, glancing around. "The jasmine's practically taken over the entire front porch for spring. I can't wait for you to see it."

"Last time I was there, I remember how everything smelled," Joe said. "Different from anywhere else I've been. Like something alive."

"It's a full-on ambush," she replied, smiling at the memory of showing him her home for the first time. "Though I'm pretty sure you can handle a little overgrown garden."

"Besides comfy clothes," he said. She heard a zipper close on his end. "Anything else I should pack?"

"Nah, just stuff to be comfortable in."

Riley paused, surveying the room. "I'm trying to decide if I should clean more or if that'll just make you uncomfortable. Like you'll know I cleaned for you."

"I already know you're cleaning for me," he said. "I can hear you moving around."

Riley stopped mid-motion, a second pillow suspended in her hands. "That obvious, huh?"

"It's not a bad thing," Joe said. "I like that you care enough to do it."

She set the pillow down and moved to the window, drawing back the curtains to let in the evening light. "My approach is very strategic. Clean enough that you're impressed, but messy enough that you know I'm still me."

"Sounds perfect." A brief pause. "Should I bring anything for your family?"

Riley leaned against the windowsill, watching the shadows lengthen across her garden. "Just you," she said, softer now. "Just show up. The rest will figure itself out."

"That's it?" There was something careful in his voice.

"That's it," she confirmed. "Papa's not big on gifts. He just wants to size you up in person."

She moved back to the bed, sitting on the edge and drawing her knees up. "You nervous?"

The question hung between them—simple, direct.

"About meeting your family? A little," he admitted after a moment. "Not in a bad way."

"Papa's already planning his best stories," she warned. "I've negotiated him down to only moderate embarrassment."

"Looking forward to it," Joe said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "I like learning pieces of you I don't know yet."

Riley's throat tightened unexpectedly. "Yeah, well," she said, trying to keep her voice light, "just remember that when he starts showing childhood photos."

Another pause, this one comfortable. She could picture him moving methodically around his bedroom, carefully selecting what to pack, everything organized and deliberate.

"You know," Joe said, his voice dropping lower, "I was thinking about that first night in New Orleans. At the hotel."

Riley settled back against her headboard. "What about it?"

"I didn't want it to end," he said simply. "Had this moment where I was sitting there, watching you talk about the city, thinking about asking you to stay. But I got stuck in my head about it."

"You never said anything."

"Didn't have to," he said. "You very awkwardly asked me to come home with you instead."

Riley laughed, surprised. "I wasn't awkward!"

"You were," Joe said, amusement threading through his voice. "Started talking fast, wouldn't look at me. Then just blurted it out."

"God," she groaned, covering her face even though he couldn't see her. "It was that bad?"

"It was perfect," he said quietly. "Made it real."

The confession lingered between them, somehow both casual and significant in the way only Joe could manage.

"Sixteen hours," she said after a moment.

"Yeah, not long now," he replied.

Neither of them spoke for a few beats. Just the low hum of the line, the subtle nearness of the other’s breath.

“Alright,” Riley said quietly, shifting onto her side. “You should sleep.”

“So should you.”

“I’m trying.”

He didn’t say anything for a second, then, “See you soon.”

She smiled, small and real. “Yeah. Night, Joe.”

“Night.”

She waited until the line went quiet before setting her phone down beside her. The screen went dark, but the stillness didn’t feel empty. Just full of everything that was coming.

* * *

Riley woke early, even before the sunlight had finished climbing the shutters. The house was quiet in that specific, charged way it got before something changed—still, but waiting.

She moved slowly. Poured coffee, barefoot on the cool tile. Let the jasmine-sweet air drift through the kitchen windows. Her phone sat on the counter, untouched, but she felt it the way you feel another person in a room.

Sixteen hours had become eight. Then six.

By the time she’d showered and thrown her hair up, the house felt different—like it already knew who was coming.

She set fresh towels in the bathroom. Tucked an extra charger into the outlet beside her bed. These were not dramatic gestures. Just small, quiet ways of saying this space is yours too.

Her phone buzzed as she was buttoning up a shirt.

Joe: Boarding now.

Riley smiled. Tapped out a quick reply.

Riley: I’ll be there when you land.

She tucked the phone into her back pocket, the smile lingering longer than she meant it to.

Then she went to find her shoes — and something to do, anything to fill the hours until it was time to pick him up.

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