#TWO DATES AND A FUNERAL | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

s1rawb3rry · 17 days ago

Text

the unscripted lines where the boyfriends lie

Synopsis: The city that never sleeps doesn’t quiet down for grief. Instead, it roared right through it: the restless noise of New York, the constant hum of cars, the rattling of subway trains, the sharp cry of sirens at midnight… Then, there was the quiet ache of returning to your childhood bedroom, only this time with the ghosts of “forever” and the wilted flowers from your late boyfriend’s funeral. While drowning, you’re desperately trying to convince your family — and yourself — that you’re okay.

And there he is. The last person you ever wanted to see, let alone share space with: your best friend’s older brother. Once a child star, currently a tarnished name hiding from the spotlight. When an accidental run-in leads to a viral photo, the lie begins — one of fake love, media pressure and careful smiles. All while grief and guilt simmers beneath the surface for both of you.

pairing: actor!enhypen jay x reader

Genres: actor AU, (childhood) enemies to lovers, best friend’s older brother, faking dating, slow SLOWWW burn, unsent emails

Warnings: grief and loss, mental health struggles, mentions of depression-like symptoms, relationship issues, therapy, y/n goes thru a lot ngl, causal alcohol consumption, jay is a sweet heart honestly, y/n is nicknamed a cry baby hehe, y/n has amazing parents, cheating (not between jay and y/n), v heavy on the angst but it has a lot of fluff i swear (50/50), contains smut (mdni), one scene and totally skippable, sub!jay bc that agenda needs some love, bratty!mean-ish!y/n, ice play hehe, begging (from jay), body worshipping

Word count: 19.7k

a/n: ahhh its hereee. i have been working on it since forever, i poured my heart in it. this was purely for me, but then i decided to share it with you. pls do take the warnings seriously, the last thing i want to do is to trigger someone. take care and enjoy <3

Taglist: @heestoleurgirl @stariekis @jaehoodies @morganaawriterr @luvashli@kireistrawberryjayla @annovaz @bambieheeseunglee @firstclassjaylee @flowerwinds @heekolazz @hoonslvr @cunty4hee @hazelira @sumsumtingz @bxcndd @sunnygirl-kait @amazzwon @hoonieyun @yeokii @stercul1a @ikeulove @kikidoul @k1ttyjwon @sumzysworld @deluluscenarios @sofiafromvenus @fancypeacepersona @donttellmymomlol20 @fruitchill @xylatox @riribelle @yoonjnngluvshooney @cloudzzcoffee @sunzyc (comment if you want me to add / remove you from the list <3)

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The flowers died on Monday.

My childhood room feels preserved, like a museum of someone I no longer am. There is still the same faded posters curling at the edges, a bookshelf sagging under the weight of my highschool yearbooks and forgotten trophies. But the room felt smaller now, as if grief had pressed in and squeezed all the oxygen out.

In fact, the air in the whole house was heavy with silence, like a pause between my sobs. Only the distant hum of the city broke through like the occasional blare of a taxi horn, the faint screech of the subway far below, the rhythm of footsteps and conversations echoing off brick walls. All of it muffled behind the curtains I hadn’t drawn in days. Outside, New York was still pulsing and alive in its relentless way. But in here? It was like time had folded in on itself, as if the city had moved on without me.

The funeral flowers sat dead on my desk, browning around the edges with their heads bowing down. Like a slow, quiet collapse. I have yet to throw them out. It’s been a month since the crash, two since we ended it. But I don’t think there’s a timeline for mourning someone who lied to you, then betrayed you.

My parents have been moving gently around me ever since I came back home. They seem afraid that they might shatter me if they speak too loud, too abruptly, too soon. My mom hovers like I’m made of glass, always one room away, always watching. She’ll peek her head in with a too-bright smile and a plate of cut-up fruit, “thought you might be hungry, baby. You barely touched your lunch.” My dad knocks before walking past my door, even if it’s just to grab something from the hallway closet. “Just me,” he’ll say softly, my eyes never quite meeting his.

I don’t blame them, I don’t recognize myself either. Besides, nobody’s words could really reach me because what really haunts me wasn’t just the loss — it was his lies. The way he said his promises of ‘forever’ so easily like he truly meant it. The way I used to idiotically believe them.

Nyla showed up two days after I moved back. I didn’t even hear the doorbell, just found her standing in the hallway holding a paper bag of cookies we used to get all the time. A dear friend like her doesn't need an invitation anyways. We hadn’t really talked since college started, but when she heard I was back in the city, she dropped everything and came without questions.

She visits almost every day now and just exists beside me — on the floor, on the bed, anywhere I’ve decided to fall apart that day. Sometimes she talks, but mostly she just stays. There are entire afternoons where we don’t say anything at all. I’d lie with my head in her lap, eyes closed, and she’ll run her fingers gently through my hair, over and over, until my chest starts to loosen.

Sometimes she'd glance at me when I wasn’t looking, that quiet worry flickering in her eyes, like she wanted to say something but didn’t know how. “Remember that time we built a blanket fort in your room?” she said softly.

I smiled faintly, nodding against her thigh. “Then we tried to watch that scary movie.”

“And you were so sure the monster was under the bed, you made me sleep at the foot of the fort.”

I chuckled quietly. “You still haven’t forgiven me for that.” A quiet minute passed. She brushed another section of my hair, careful and tender. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling the warmth of her touch. “Thank you for being here.”

“Always,” she whispered. “No matter what.” Her fingers continued to comb gently through my hair. It doesn’t fix much, but it makes the silence feel a little less sharp.

-𓍙-

It had been days since I’d stepped outside. Maybe a week — I stopped counting a while ago. But that morning, I was dragging my feet into the kitchen like usual, sleep was still clinging to my bones, just trying to get a glass of water. My mother stopped me mid-step and pressed a scarf into my hands and kissed the top of my head like she used to when I had fevers. “Just for a little while,” she said. “A walk might help.”

So I went reluctantly, but not far. Just a few blocks, turns and intersections I used to know like the back of my hand. The city was loud and busy, just like the way it always was — people brushing past, noises echoing down the avenue. It all made me feel like a ghost, like I was haunting my own hometown.

But then, halfway across the block, I stopped cold when I saw a car at the corner. It’s the same model, same deep navy blue when caught in the light just right. Even the back tail light was chipped in the same place. For a second, everything inside me went still. My feet locked to the pavement. My lungs forgot how to work. It's as if I could see the ghost I thought I'd buried with him.

I knew. I fucking knew it wasn’t him… logic screamed it at me. But my body didn’t get the memo. My heart lurched like it wanted to chase after him anyway, like grief had overruled reasons.

My stomach started turning in on itself, warning me about that sick, familiar ache opening up in my chest like a trapdoor. Tears welled up in my eyes in the middle of a crosswalk, breath shaky and uneven. After the car zoomed away, I took a deep breath, doing everything I could to keep walking like nothing had happened.

I ducked into the nearest café just to get away from it all. Just anywhere and not that sidewalk or that stupid car. I didn’t even look at the name above the door. The warm rush of espresso scent and quiet clatter of cups didn’t soothe me, but it gave me a place to land.

The cafe was somewhat empty, so I was pushed to order before I could scan the menu properly. My throat scratched as I said the first thing my eyes landed on, “one cappuccino please.” I said, my voice came out hoarse. I hadn’t spoken much today… or yesterday.

The barista asked for my name and then gave me a small nod, scribbling on a cup, “It’ll be a few.” I stepped to the side, shrinking into the corner near the pick-up counter to not make eye contact with anyone. My hands fiddled with the frayed edge of my coat sleeve.

A playlist hummed low overhead, some soft indie tracks with plucky guitar and lyrics I couldn’t quite catch. I stared blankly at the napkin dispenser, not really seeing it. It all blurred together, background noise under the heavy weight on my chest. A familiar ache settled in my ribs, the kind that prickled just beneath the surface, reminding me of things I was trying not to think about.

The barista called something out — I didn’t catch what. Just heard a name. On autopilot, I stepped forward and grabbed the cup. I took a sip as I walked to the nearest empty table.

It tasted sharp. Bitter.

I froze mid-step, frowning down at the cup. That's not my order… I was too in my head to notice my mistake. I turned the cup slightly, and there it was, scrawled in black Sharpie ‘Jay’.

I turned slowly, eyes searching for the owner of the cup. A man stood a few feet away, baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, fingers curled around another steaming coffee.

“This isn’t mine,” I said softly, holding up the bland americano, “I think I grabbed your order.” I explained. He glanced at the cup I was holding and then at the one in his hand, “I think I’ve got your cappuccino,” he said with a small smile.

As I was giving him his cup, I noticed it — a faint smudge of lipstick on the edge of his lid, the same shade I’d worn just that morning. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I blurted, cheeks flushing. My throat tightened, I wanted to blink away the tears gathering, but they stuck behind my eyelids. All the tears I’d been holding back all day spilled over again. Why can’t I control anything anymore?

He gave me a small, understanding smile. “Hey, it’s okay. I can just take off the lid, no worries.”

As our eyes met, I started to piece the puzzle together. The name lingered in my mind before it landed, I’d heard it before. And then, just as recognition dawned on his face, it clicked for me too. His eyes widened a little, “wait, Y/N?”

He wasn’t the kid I remembered — Nyla's smug, bossy older brother who always knew how to get under my skin. He’s much taller now, his shoulders are wider as well. The baseball cap couldn’t quite hide the way his jaw had hardened, how his smile now held a trace of weariness I hadn’t expected.

“Jay?” I whispered, my voice cracking.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he said, his voice gentle but familiar, eyes softening as he studied me. “Nyla told me you were back.”

“Yeah, yeah, I am.” I wiped at my cheeks, trying to stop the tears that just wouldn’t quit. “I’m sorry...”

He fumbled a bit, awkward but kind, pulling a crumpled napkin from his pocket and handing it to me. “Let’s get you seated down.” he said, guiding me with one hand while the other carried his coffee.

We sat down at a nearby table, the noise of the café fading into the background. It was strange sitting in front of him. Not quite strangers, but not quite close either. I never liked Jay growing up, always thought he was that smug brother of my best friend. Always teasing, always a little too confident, always barging in. But now, here he was, offering me a silent kind of comfort I hadn’t expected.

“I heard about the accident. I can’t imagine…” he said softly. “I’m really sorry about... everything.”

I nodded, staring down at the napkin in my lap and swallowing the lump in my throat, “thanks.” If it wasn't for the state I am in right now, I would've laughed. The familiarity of him, as annoying as he’d always been, felt so starkly different from the version I'm seeing right now.

“I mean,” I sniffled, “you used to call me a ‘crybaby’ every time I teared up.”

Jay let out a quiet laugh, “you would cry for, like, twenty straight minutes because of a cartoon fish.”

“He lost his dad, Jay.”

“I was ten. I didn’t understand animal nuances yet.”

I glanced up at him then — and for a second, the weight in my chest eased just enough for a smile. “You’re still a little shit,” I muttered.

Jay raised his cup with a crooked grin, “but maybe a slightly more tolerable one?” I rolled my eyes, “debatable.”

He took a sip, then set his coffee down, expression softening again. “Nyla told me you were taking time off. Gap year, right?”

“Yeah.” I picked at the edge of the napkin. “Everything was just… falling apart. I needed to step back.” Jay nodded slowly, like he understood more than he was letting on. “For what it’s worth, that’s brave.”

I gave a tired laugh. “I think it’s avoidance dressed up as self-care.”

“Still counts,” he said, and there was no teasing in his voice that time.

I cleared my throat, suddenly feeling the urge to shift the spotlight. “What about you?” I asked. “Shouldn’t you be in LA right now?”

Jay leaned back in his chair, gave a half-smile, half-wince. “Yeah. Until my breakup got messy,” he said, not sounding angry, just tired. “Personal stuff turned public overnight. Her team got ahead of the narrative — painted me as this horrible guy before I even knew what was happening.”

“It is… a circus,” he admitted. “My team’s still cleaning it up. Brand deals are stalling. The studios are quiet. Every time I step outside, someone’s waiting with a camera. It’s exhausting.”

I tilted my head. “So you’re hiding in New York?”

“More or less. Management sent me here, thinking laying low will make the drama go away faster. But really, I just needed to get away.”

I watched him for a moment. He still looked polished, had that quiet kind of confidence that settled into a room instead of announcing itself. And yet, even with the ball cap, he looked weathered, tired shadows under his eyes. “You’re burned out.” I said, not a question, more like a statement.

He nodded. “Completely.”

“You always loved it, though. Acting.”

Jay smiled faintly. “Exactly, I love acting, not the fame.”

“Yeah,” I said softly. “I get that.”

Before either of us could say anything else, my phone started vibrating against the table. I glanced down, ‘Mom <3 - incoming call…’ stared back at me. I whispered a quick apology to Jay before picking up, “hey mom.”

“Y/N, are you okay?” Her voice was light, but hovering right on the edge of frazzled. “You’ve been gone for a while. I was about to file a missing person’s report.”

“I’m okay… just ran into someone.”

There was a pause. “Who?”

“Jay,” I said, bracing myself. “Oh, Jay,” she said, all drawn out and knowing. “Let me talk to him.”

“What? No —”

“Y/N. Hand him the phone.”

I pulled the phone slightly away from my ear as Jay looked at me curiously. I gave him a tired half-smile and held the phone out toward him. “She wants to talk to you.”

He raised his brows before taking the phone, clearly amused, “Hi, Mrs. L/N. Yeah, it’s been a while... I missed you too. Yes, ma’am. No, I swear, she’s okay. Mm-hmm... Right. I will. I’ll walk her back myself. Cross my heart.” I watched him, stunned. Somehow, he still remembered how to talk to my mom like it was a reflex. A few more soft ‘mhmm’, and then he handed the phone back.

“She says I’m your emotional support celebrity now,” he said, smiling ear to ear. “Come on. I’ll walk you.” He stood up just as I did, slinging his jacket over one arm.

We stepped outside, into the crisp late-afternoon air. The wind tugged at my scarf and flushed my cheeks. The noise of the city was sharp after the muffled calm of the café. We didn’t talk much during the walk. Just a few short exchanges about street names and how the neighborhood had changed since we were kids.

When we reached the corner near my block, I slowed down and paused. “Wait,” I said, patting my coat pocket to find my phone, “I don’t have your number anymore. All the ones I had are... unavailable or something.”

“Shit, yeah,” he said, rubbing his temple. “My manager nuked everything a while ago. Total reset. Here —” He held out his hand and I passed him my phone. He typed something in quickly like muscle memory, then handed it back, mumbling about saving my number as well.

I glanced down at the new name contact he added, ‘little shit’. I snorted at it, “classy.”

He chuckled, shoving his phone into his pockets. “Take care, alright?” he said, giving a small wave paired with a small smile before turning in the opposite direction. I watched him go until the crowd swallowed him up.

I just smiled and walked the rest of the way home with the wind tangling my hair, the city still buzzing around me. His contact sat in my phone, tucked between old contacts and forgotten numbers. It was like a strange echo of childhood now spun into something quieter, gentler.

By the time I got home, the sky was softening into dusk. I peeled off my scarf and slipped off my shoes. My mom stood by the stove, stirring something in a pot. The smell of garlic and onions blooming through the space. I shrugged off my coat and followed her in. The lights were warm, casting soft shadows against the tiled walls.

“Hi, baby,” she said, quieter this time, “I made a chicken lemon orzo that you used to like. Thought you might want something warm.” She had already set a plate at my usual spot. I didn’t say anything, just sank into the chair and picked up my spoon.

Across from me, she moved around the kitchen, humming a little under her breath as she stirred something on the stove. She didn’t comment on the fact that I cleaned the plate, making it my first full meal I’d eaten in days. But I'm sure she noticed.

-𓍙-

The soft but persistent buzz of my phone dragged me out of sleep before the sun even had a chance to climb. I groaned, half-buried beneath the covers and the army of teddy bears lay nestled in the sheets. One of my arms fumbling blindly across the nightstand until my fingers wrapped around my phone. I rolled over, still groggy, and blinked at the notification from Nyla that’s lighting up my lock screen.

“Dude. WHY are you on TMZ with Jay???” - "NyQuil", Delivered 1 min ago

My heart stuttered. I sat up too fast, the comforter tangling around my legs as I blinked at the screen. I opened Instagram still half-asleep, my thumb sluggish as it loaded.

There it was. The photo wasn’t even that sharp — one of those grainy, mid-zoom candids but it was unmistakably us. Both of us mid-laugh, his hand halfway to his coffee. Our heads tilted toward each other. We looked… intimate. Too intimate.

The caption was even worse, ‘Jay, the heartthrob ex-Disney star isn’t heartbroken for long after being spotted with a mystery girl — New Romance Already?’

The word ‘mystery girl’ stared at me like it knew something I didn’t. I kept scrolling, my thumb wouldn’t stop. More photos, all different angles. Some from the window, others from outside in different positions.

my phone lit up again, ‘little shit - incoming call…’ I froze for a second, my thumb hovering over the screen, unsure. But then I remembered his face from yesterday, that soft concern. I huffed then answered, “hey,” I said, voice still rough with sleep.

“Hey, you’re awake, good,” he replied, a little breathless like he’d been rehearsing it. “I’m outside.”

I frowned, “What?”

“Your place,” he clarified. “I didn’t want to text in case… I don’t know. You’re probably being spammed right now.”

I glanced down at the worn out T-shirt I was wearing and the fuzzy socks peeking out from under the blanket. “Jay, I’m literally in my pajamas.”

“That’s fine,” he said, a quiet laugh in his voice. “I’ve got tinted windows. You will stay mysterious.”

“How kind of you to protect my anonymity.” I said smiling, already getting up. I crossed paths with my mirror, my hair was a mess, my eyes were puffy.

“I try,” he said, and I could hear him grinning too. “Just come down, we need to talk...” I hesitated, the apartment was quiet around me. Then I sighed. “Okay. Give me a minute.”

Still in my pajamas — and my dignity hanging on by a thread — I grabbed a coat, shoved my feet into my sneakers to crept out the front door. The apartment was still, my parents still asleep behind their closed door. The hallway was dim as I made my way down the stairs.

Outside, his black car waited at the curb of our brownstone, sleek and dark with windows that really were tinted. I pulled open the door and slid into the passenger seat, giving him a look. “I saw the photos,” I said quietly once the door clicked shut.

“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes on the windshield. “So did my manager.” he said, both hands on the wheel, eyes flicking toward me for a beat. “They like it, wanting us to lean into it. The PR team thinks it’s good for me. That it softens the whole... disaster fire of my last relationship.”

I raised an eyebrow, groggy. “Come again?”

He let out a short, sheepish breath. “They think you’re a godsend, basically. They want to paint me as less of a dick and more of a guy who found something ‘real’ after everything.”

I blinked at him, stunned, the silence thickened for a beat. “So they want us to fake-date to fix your image.”

“I know how it sounds,” he said. “And I’m not trying to trap you into anything, I swear. It’s only temporary. We post a few things. Maybe one or two public appearances. No one gets hurt, and I look like less of an asshole.”

“Jay, i don't know…” I muttered, almost ready to shut it down entirely — until I thought of my parents. My mom’s voice in the kitchen, always a little too careful. Her soft smiles that never quite reached her eyes. My dad not knowing how to speak to me anymore. I hated that look in their eyes, like they were watching me drift away and had no way to stop it. They didn’t know what to do with my sadness.

But if they thought I was fine, if they thought I had something, someone — maybe they’d stop hovering. Maybe they’d breathe easier. Maybe I could, too. This can buy me some time…

“Fine,” I said eventually, voice low. “But under one condition.”

Jay straightened in his seat, surprised but hopeful. “Anything. Shoot.”

“You’re coming to dinner at my parents’ place,” I said. “As many times as they ask. Full performance. If we’re doing this, they gotta buy it too.”

He paused, then nodded, “okay. Deal.” He agreed. A crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “So... when’s the first command performance?”

“Tonight.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Tonight tonight?”

I sighed, rubbing my temples — still grumpy from the lack of sleep, the early hour, and the sheer absurdity of all of this. “Yes, Jay. Tonight tonight. We tell them at dinner. I will tell my parents you and Nyla are coming.”

Jay leaned back against the seat, laughing softly. “Alright. On it,” Jay said. “See you tonight… babe.”

I grimaced. “Ew, never do that again. Wait until we’re in front of them.”

He chuckled as I opened the door and stepped out. “Drive safe, little shit.”

The door shut with a soft click, and I stood on the curb for a moment, watching him pull away into the quiet street. The early morning light spilled across the pavement. Then a gust of wind curled around my ankles, slipping right through the thin fabric of my pajama pants, urging me to go back inside.

-*-

I told my parents that Nyla and Jay were coming over for dinner, and to my surprise, mom didn’t blink — just nodded and immediately started flipping through her endless stack of cookbooks. She hummed thoughtfully, still skimming. “Might try that spiced lamb recipe. Or maybe something with those little potatoes your dad likes.” She muttered to herself, “does Jay still like lamb? He seems like a lamb person.” It had been years since he’d stepped foot in our house, and yet she still remembered.

I found dad in the living room, half-asleep in his recliner, and gave him the same heads-up. “Jay?” he asked, blinking. I reminded him that yes, that Jay — Nyla’s older brother, the one who grew up two houses down. “Right, right, the tall one.” he nodded, like the name was slowly stitching itself back together in his brain.

I got ready — really got ready. I pulled on a soft sweater that was only for occasions, put some color on my cheeks, and spent a little extra time with the curling iron. If we were doing this, then I wasn’t about to show up looking like grief had chewed up and spat me out. I wanted to look like a version of myself again.

The doorbell rang just as my mom was lighting candles she definitely only brought out for company. I opened the door to find Jay and Nyla standing there with a fresh bouquet of tulips and dessert. Nyla was the first to pull me into a hug, squeezing a little too tightly before grinning at my parents behind me.

“Hi,” Jay said, stepping in and bending down to hug me too. He leaned in close, too close, the scent of his cologne filled my senses. His breath brushed the edge of my ear, “You’re gonna make it real hard to keep this fake.” he murmured.

I slapped his arm, “behave.” I warned under my breath, but my stomach still did a little flip when he just smiled.

Inside, Jay greeted my dad like he’d never left, with a firm handshake and an easy smile. My dad clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Still doing that acting thing?” with a dry edge like he was talking about an old hobby.

“Trying to,” Jay chuckled.

Dinner was warm, louder than I expected. A little chaotic in the way that made you feel alive again. Nyla teased Jay for getting seconds before anyone else had finished their first plate, and my mom beamed every time someone complimented her cooking. I smiled and laughed but underneath it all, my nerves were humming. I was jittery, bouncing my knee beneath the table so much my chair shook. A steady, unconscious rhythm I couldn’t stop. I kept trying to ground myself: the clink of silverware, the smell of lemon zest from the tart, the sound of my dad’s voice telling a story I already knew.

Jay’s warm hand, slipping quietly beneath the table, resting lightly on my leg. His thumb tracing small, slow circles. He didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at me, just kept chatting with my mom.

After a beat, my nerves quieted down. I put my hand over his, making him look at me. I stared long enough, signalling him it's time. His fingers curled through mine like he’d done it a thousand times before. I gave him one last sideways glance, and he nodded subtly. Go.

I cleared my throat. “So... there’s something we wanted to tell you.” The clinking of forks and knives stopped, all three heads turned toward us.

Jay squeezed my hand gently, then added, “Y/N and I are... seeing each other.”

Silence settled over the table. Just the kind that stretches for a moment, thick with realization. My mom’s eyes flicked to our joined hands, then to my face — scanning it like she didn’t quite believe what she was seeing.

Then, when she caught the small, nervous smile tugging at my mouth, hers broke open in full bloom. Her breath hitched. “Oh my god,” she whispered, before letting out a bubbling laugh, equal parts joy and surprise. Tears welled up instantly as she pushed her chair back and rushed around the table. She threw her arms around Jay so suddenly he flinched, nearly dropping his fork.

“I knew it,” she said through a grin, voice cracking at the edges. “I knew it! Since you were teenagers, I had a feeling. Didn’t I say it?” She turned to my dad, who was already rising to his feet with a slow, amused shake of his head.

Meanwhile, I turned toward Nyla, breath caught in my throat. Her face was unreadable at first, a tight-lipped mask that had me bracing for impact. But then her eyes softened and pulled a reluctant smile. “As long as you’re happy,” she said, voice quieter than usual as she pulled me into a hug. Then, low enough that only I could hear, “but if he messes with you, I will set him on fire.”

I snorted into her shoulder, the sound muffled by the soft fabric of her dress. “Noted,” I murmured, voice tinged with a laugh.

As dad was sitting back across the table, beer in hand, his tone casual but curious. “So,” he began, squinting slightly like he was piecing together a puzzle, “how did you two really get together?” The chatter fell away. Even Nyla paused with her fork mid-air, equally curious.

I felt Jay’s gaze before I looked up — and when I did, it was like a silent standoff. His brows lifted, I narrowed my eyes just slightly, gripping my fork like it might save me. We didn't really speak about this…

He caved first, thank god. “We’d been talking for a while, long distance.” Jay said easily, reaching for his water like he wasn’t lying through his teeth. “And then… I don’t know, it just sort of clicked. That coffee the other day made things official, I guess.”

I kept my eyes on my plate, focusing very intently on cutting my potatoes into the smallest pieces imaginable. My mom let out a delighted little gasp, dad nodded like it all made perfect sense now. Nyla, however, arched one very suspicious eyebrow but said nothing.

And just like that, the room was buzzing again — chairs pushed back, more wine poured with dessert, my mom already asking Jay if he remembered her cousin’s wedding in 2011. Nyla was halfway through teasing my dad about his questionable music taste, and someone turned on a playlist in the background. The house felt full, but in a way that made the walls seem softer, like they were finally breathing again.

Maybe that's all it took to have my parents be happy again.

-*-

It was way past midnight now, jackets were being shrugged back on. The goodbyes began, all the hugs and kisses from my mom and a firm clap on the shoulder from my dad. Nyla slung her bag over her shoulder, gave me a quick squeeze and a tired smile. “I’ll wait for you outside,” she said to Jay, already stepping onto the porch with a quiet ‘Night, everyone’.

Jay lingered by the front door with me, his hands shoved in his coat pockets, smiling with his cheeks flushed with warmth. It's probably from the wine. My parents were still standing nearby, not quite eavesdropping, but not subtle either.

Then — as if remembering his final line in a scene — Jay leaned in, slow and easy, and pressed a kiss to my cheek. It was just long enough to draw a reaction from my parents, to confirm that they are seeing this. But before I could roll my eyes, Jay dipped a little closer, letting his lips brush just near the shell of my ear again. His voice was low and smooth, meant only for me.

“Gotta keep the illusion alive, right?” he murmured. “We were Oscar-worthy, if you ask me.”

I tried to hold my expression steady, but the heat creeping into my face gave me away. I shoved him lightly. “Now, go.” I whispered.

He only grinned, stepping back down the front steps with a wave. “Take care, babe.” he called, too loud on purpose. I rolled my eyes and clicked the door shut behind him.

I padded into the kitchen, drawn by the soft clatter of dishes and the low hum of running water. My mom was already at the sink, hands moving through soap. I stood near her, rolling up my sleeves to help. She stepped beside me with the dish towel, humming happily under her breath. She passed me a plate to rinse, then bumped her shoulder against mine. “He’s so handsome in person,” she whispered, like it was a secret.

I snorted. “Mom, you’ve seen him before. Like… a dozen times.”

She waved her hand dismissively, smiling. “Yes, but not like this. Not as your boyfriend.”

I shook my head, half-amused, half-horrified. “Okay, ew.”

She chuckled, but then her voice softened, like the air between us had turned to glass. “It’s just… it’s really good to see you smile again, baby.”

I froze for a beat, heart thudding in that strange way it does when someone hits something a little too close. My hands stayed under the running water longer than they needed to, and I kept my eyes fixed on the sink so she wouldn’t see the sudden blur.

It sounds ridiculous, maybe even unfair, but sometimes it felt like the grieving version of me wasn’t enough for her. Like she needed proof I was healing, moving on, smiling. Like pain made her helpless, but pretending made her hopeful.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I did neither. I just nodded and whispered, “Yeah. Me too.”

-𓍙-

A couple of weeks later, I was still home. Still tucked inside the same walls, the same rooms that had started to feel less like shelter and more like something closer to a waiting room. My phone stayed face-down more often than not.

When Nyla didn’t come by, I tried to keep busy. I told myself I was being productive — scrolling through job boards like something might magically spark, updating my resume, making lists I didn’t follow, reorganizing drawers that didn’t need it. I was mostly surviving in small bursts. Grief didn’t ask for permission. It came in waves: quiet one moment, crashing the next. Some days I could breathe through it. Other days, it knocked me flat, and I let it.

I also started attending therapy — sessions that left me feeling like I’d rung my brain through a spin cycle, but somehow came out clearer. My mom had been the one to set up the first appointment, all careful smiles and ‘Just give it a try, baby’.

My therapist had the kind of voice that made you breathe slower without realizing it. She wore calming colors and always smelled faintly like peppermint tea. There was something steady about her, like she could sit in silence without rushing to fill it, like she knew how to hold space for messy feelings without flinching.

One afternoon, after I’d stumbled through a ramble about not knowing what to do anymore, she paused. Then gently put down her glasses, “Maybe try writing him a letter. Just… to clear space up there.”

I frowned at her. “A letter?”

“Try it. Doesn’t have to be beautiful, it just has to be honest.”

I gave her a quiet nod, but never actually did it. A part of me even found it stupid, so I avoided it. But one noon, while I was hunched over my laptop and refreshing over and over my email inbox waiting for a response back for a job offer, something shifted.

Without thinking too hard, I opened a blank email and started typing. Fuck, might as well try.

To: (no recipients) Subject: (no subject) I don’t really know why I’m writing this. You’re not going to read it. It’s been months, but sometimes it still feels like I’m waiting for you to call. Like you’d explain it all away, say it wasn’t what it looked like. You broke me in two separate ways: once when you lied, and again when you left. I wish I could scream at you. I wish I didn’t still miss you in the same breath as I hate you.

The cursor blinked at the end of the sentence. I didn’t send it, just saved it in my drafts folder. It wasn't a letter, exactly. But it would do.

I shut my laptop and slid it to the side, then turned onto my side, phone in hand. My thumb began to scroll mindlessly, the blue light casting a dull glow over my face in the otherwise dim room. It had become a habit, background noise for the quiet. Tap, scroll, double tap, scroll, until I paused.

Jay posted again for the second time this week.

It’s a blurry mirror pic in a café, our reflection barely visible, his arm around me, face turned slightly away. The one before was less ambiguous: Jay in his hoodie, and me walking ahead of him through a street, our hands barely visible but unmistakably linked. No tag, no name, no face.

I stared at the screen, unsure how I felt. It wasn’t that I hated the photos — honestly, they were romantic. We made sure of that. We planned each shot together, turning the city into our own clandestine photo studio, all while trying to stay under cover. We spent the whole day darting down side streets, changing tops in his car, then darting back out to chase the perfect light. Jay even had asked before he posted them. “You don’t have to say yes,” he’d said, his voice gentle. “I’ll take it down in a second if it’s too much.”

I had said yes, it was my end of the deal after all. But seeing the number of likes, comments, shares — in the hundred thousands — made it all seem surreal.

Then, a message dropped from the top.

“Wanna go out tmr and help me lie to the internet again?” - "little shit", Delivered 3 min ago

“Apparently the photos we took aren't enough for my manager.” - "little shit", Delivered 1 min ago

“what more do they want?” - "me", Delivered 2 min ago

“They want us to step out together, but make it look effortless. Natural.” - "little shit", Delivered 1 mins ago

“Just trust me. I’ll pick you up around 4pm. I’ll take care of the rest.” - "little shit", Delivered 1 sec ago

“Fine. Only if you’re coming for dinner afterwards.” - "me", Delivered 1 min ago

He didn’t miss a beat.

“Deal.” - "little shit", Delivered 1 sec ago

-*-

The moment I got his text that he was outside, I slipped into my coat and grabbed my purse from where it rested near the door. As I padded down the stairs, I paused briefly by the window, noticing the way the clouds were starting to hang heavy in the sky, casting a soft, grey hue over everything. I slid the heavy wooden door aside and stepped out into the brisk air, tugging my collar up against the bite of the breeze. A different car, though also tinned, was already there at the curb, its engine idling quietly.

As I slid into the passenger seat and clicked the seatbelt into place, I mumbled a quick ‘hey’ in his direction. The rich leather beneath me was smooth, faintly infused with a mixture of pine and something a little spicy — his cologne, I guessed — a scent I hadn’t yet gotten used to, but found unexpectedly comforting.

Jay didn’t say much at first. His hands rested casually on the wheel as he shifted the car into drive and we began to ease away from the curb. After a moment, he glanced over, his profile glimmering faintly in the glow of a nearby storefront. “Manager picked the spot. Some café downtown.”

I nodded, tugging my coat tighter against me, as if it might ease the nervous energy swirling in my stomach, “alright.” I murmured. He kept his gaze on the road, but I could feel his awareness slowly turning toward me. “You seem tense.”

I let out a nervous scoff, not quite a laugh, trying to sound casual. “What makes you think that?”

“You're tearing your fingers apart, for one.” he said, eyes still on the road, briefly turning the wheel to the left. I forced myself to ease my grip, placing my hands flat in my lap instead. “I’m just worried I’m going to mess something up.”

He turned his head just a fraction, his voice was sincere, a calm thread weaving through the growing nervousness. “I’ll be right there with you the whole time.” His hand briefly left the wheel and came to rest on my knee — a warm pressure that made my pulse ease just a bit.

We slipped into the flow of morning rush hour. The city slowly came alive outside the window: storefronts opening their doors, people hurrying down the sidewalks, buses rumbling past. All while we fell into a comfortable silence. The only sound was the gentle purr of the engine and the rhythmic clicking of the turn signal as we made our way forward.

We eventually turned down a side street and came to a stop in front of a somewhat busy bakery-café. The kind with a charming storefront, a riot of potted plants and a spotless glass facade. Large windows glimmered warmly against the chilly afternoon. The kind of place that guarantees plenty of eyes, plenty of buzz — exactly what his management wanted.

We exchanged a brief glance. We knew the game by now, how to put up that picture-perfect appearance for the world. “Ready?” he asked quietly, a softness creeping into his normally cool voice.

I just nodded as he hopped out first and walked around to my side to hold the door for me. I placed my hand on his arm as I stepped down, letting him guide me up the small step into the café’s bustling interior. The moment we fell into step together, I felt the rush of activity, the rich scent of freshly brewed coffee, buttery pastries glimmering under glass. I could feel the eyes turning in our direction, not in a judgmental way, but with pure, fleeting curiosity.

He led me toward a corner table by the window, handing me a heavy cardstock menu. I turned it over slowly. The names of the dishes were a sophisticated puzzle, ingredients I couldn’t even pronounce, flavor combinations I hadn’t yet tasted. Where even am I?

I let out a nervous laugh, glancing up at him from across the small café table. Our knees were nearly touching, close enough to feel his warmth through the thick denim of his black jeans. “I have no clue what to get…” I whispered, reluctantly turning the page in search of something I recognized or something I was brave enough to try.

He smiled then leaned forward, resting his forearms casually on the table, eyebrows furrowing in concentration as he studied the options alongside me. I could make out the rich, woody notes of his cologne in the small space between us. His finger paused, then tapped a spot on the menu. “Go for this one. It’s a honey latte.”

After a minute, he turned to the server and placed both our orders in a clear, decisive voice. The kind that meant he knew exactly what he wanted. The server nodded and slipped away, I was left noting the way his knuckles rested against the wooden surface, strong yet relaxed — a quiet confidence that made me feel… cared for?

Fucking focus, you’re being watched.

I stirred my overpriced latte slowly, letting the creamy design get ruined with the spoon that's clicking softly against the cup’s rim; as I listened to him ramble on about the pastries he fell in love with while filming some movie in France — his voice a comfortable soundtrack against the bustling café. “Did you know there’s a hotel in France that lets you sponsor a croissant?” he said casually, pausing to take a sip of his espresso. “I’m thinking we should sponsor a chocolate one together.”

I pressed my lips together, trying not to smile. “Yeah, dumbass, those ones are called pain au chocolat.”

He paused mid-swallow, eyebrows furrowing in disbelief. “Wait, that’s what they’re called?”

“That’s, like… the literal name.”

He let out a short rich laugh and I couldn’t help but break into a laugh alongside him. The kind of chuckle that starts quietly and then spills out, freeing me.

Just then, the server appeared at our table with a small plate in his hands. On it rested a delicate dessert — a rich chocolate mousse drizzled with glossy chocolate and adorned with strawberries. “On the house, a little thank you for choosing us today,” they said with a genuine smile before stepping back into the flow of the café.

“Score, free dessert from an expensive café,” I whispered under my breath, barely able to keep from giggling.

He glanced toward the window, where a small cluster of paparazzi was already gathering, their camera lenses catching the light like tiny, hungry gremlins. Mischievous flashes in his eyes, “wait… I have an idea,” he said, voice low but full of playful confidence.

Leaning in just a little across the table, he scooped up a spoonful of the mousse. Without a word, he lifted it to my lips, creating a picture-perfect moment — the kind of romantic snapshot his manager would love to see plastered all over the tabloids. We’re posing without posing. I fought to keep a straight face, the ridiculousness of it all bubbling up, but the warmth in the gesture melted some of my nerves.

The mousse was velvety and deep, making me let out a soft ‘Mmm’ savoring the flavor, giving him a quick smile, eyes sparkling. “Yeah?” he challenged, leaning forward to take a bite from the same spoon, his own expression softening as the taste hit him. His eyes widened just a bit, “Oh shit…”

Jay’s phone buzzed softly against the table, breaking the quiet bubble around us. He glanced down, fingers briefly scrolling through the message. I watched him, savoring the last bites of the mousse, the rich sweetness lingering on my tongue. He didn’t rush me, letting me enjoy the moment while his attention shifted to the screen.

After a beat, he looked up, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Got a message from my manager,” he said. “ ‘The paparazzi photos are everywhere now. You did well. You can leave now.’ ” he read it out for me.

I just nodded, my fingers tightening around the strap of my purse. We stood up together, Jay reached for the bill, still calm, but I could sense the shift in the air, a subtle tension creeping in.

The moment we stepped outside, it hit us all at once. The paparazzi were waiting — like vultures circling a fresh story. Cameras flashed wildly, shouting voices ricocheting off the walls, turning the quiet afternoon into a chaotic storm.

“Jay, how serious is she?”

I froze, heart pounding, caught in the middle of it all. The bright flashes felt like they were burning right through me, and the noise swallowed everything else.

“Jay! Is this your rebound?”

It was like being a fish trapped inside a fishbowl. Voices overlapped, a dozen different questions and jeers, some sharp, some desperate for attention.

“Do you want to say anything to your fans about this?”

Without missing a beat, Jay took control as if he’s been through this drill more times than he cared to count. His arm slid smoothly around the small of my back, the grip steady and reassuring. He leaned in close, his voice dropping low. “Don’t look at them. Just walk with me.”

He guided me forward, weaving through the swarm of houting voices and relentless camera flashes with practiced ease, moving as if the whole chaotic scene was just another routine. And maybe it was — for him.

Finally, we reached the curb where his car waited. its dark, tinted windows suddenly felt like a small blessing. Once inside, the door clicked shut behind us, instantly muffling the noise outside. The sudden quiet was almost dizzying. My shoulders remained tight, coiled with leftover adrenaline. I kept my mouth shut, the words lodged somewhere too tangled to say.

Jay glanced sideways at me, focused on the road ahead but still searching mine for a sign. His voice was hesitant. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, the weight of the moment pressing into his tone.

I barely managed to mumble ‘It’s okay’ though my voice felt fragile, as if trying to convince myself more than him.

-*-

That evening, our dining room hummed with life — laughter bubbling up, voices overlapping in easy conversation, the comforting clink of plates and glasses weaving through the air. Around the table, my parents’ warmth was undeniable, their smiles were genuine. But as I sat there, an invisible thread inside me began to unravel.

The chatter softened, melting into a distant murmur, like a radio playing faintly in another room. Words drifted past, slipping through the cracks of my attention without ever fully landing. Faces morphed into unreachable, indistinct shapes. The steady rhythm of their world kept beating, relentless and… indifferent. Like life was moving forward regardless if I’m grieving or not.

Normalcy felt cruel at that moment. For a flicker, I felt a sharp pulse of anger. Mad at the world, mad at myself for feeling disconnected, mad that things hadn’t stopped just for me. But the anger was tangled up with guilt. What right did I have to feel this way? What exactly was I mad about?

My mom returned to the table, balancing a beautifully plated cake, her smile warm and effortless. “Can you grab some napkins, baby?” she asked softly, resting a gentle hand on my shoulder. The touch pulled me back to the moment

I nodded and turned toward the cabinet, the low murmur of conversation trailing behind me. But as I walked away, my eyes caught a glimpse of Nyla subtly cornering Jay in the quiet hallway. Their voices were hushed, but the sharp edge beneath their words cut through the calm like a knife.

“I don’t know what this is…” Nyla’s voice was firm, skepticism woven through each syllable. “But don’t give her another lie to believe in.”

Jay didn’t argue. His silence spoke volumes. He simply nodded once, slow and deliberate, like a man accepting a hard truth. “I know,” he said softly, after a brief pause, “I won’t.”

I really hadn’t meant to overhear. I forced my gaze to stay on the cabinet, ignoring the charged silence that suddenly thickened the air around them. Every word slipped in my mind. Am I that fragile and weak in front of them?

-𓍙-

I balanced the paper bags against my hip as I turned the key in the lock. When the metal clicked, I nudged the door inward with my shoulder. Mom had insisted I get out for a bit — a chance for some fresh air, again — slipping me a sticky note filled with a list of things we needed. “Mom, I’m home. Got your stuff.”

“Thank you, baby.” Her voice was distracted as she began to unload the bags and put everything in its place.

I slipped down the hallway toward my room, eager for my safe haven. The moment I crossed the door frame, something felt… different. Something was missing. The spot by the window, where the funeral flowers had been slowly wilting in their glass vases, was completely empty. The vases were gone, the water drained, the last few dried petals tossed away.

Where the fuck were they?

“Mom… where are the flowers?” I said, keeping my voice even, or at least I tried. The words trembled just a bit as they slipped out, panic rising quietly in my chest.

She paused, a dish towel in her hand, mid-wipe of the dining table’s surface. “What flowers, baby?”

“The ones I came home with.”

"Ah…" She turned back casually. "They had a lot of bugs. I threw them out."

“Oh,” I pressed my fingertips to the bridge of my nose, “that… makes sense.” I forced out then took a shaky breath. Keep it together.

However, it was stronger than me. When it fully hit me, I turned away, not trusting myself to keep it together much longer. My pulse was already racing, each breath a little shallower, a little tighter in my chest — the familiar start of a panic attack creeping up.

Mom said nothing as I slipped past her, murmuring something about forgetting an item on the grocery list, a weak excuse I hoped she wouldn’t question. I stepped outside, letting the chilly air rush against my face, as if it might ease the pressure building within me.

It felt as if the last piece I had left of him had been quietly erased — gone without a trace. As if my mom had decided that it was time to clear it away, that I should be ‘moving on’ by now, that being in a relationship would just make the mourning stop.

I turned down another side street, letting my feet carry me without direction. Just keep going forward. The world glimmered under a haze of gold from nearby storefronts and headlights, bouncing off puddles in shimmering rings. I hadn’t noticed it was pouring.

I honestly couldn’t tell how much time had passed. Minutes? Hours? it all blended together in a cold, numbing haze. I stayed there, hunched on the bench as the rain fell harshly, soaking through my clothes, down to my skin — until I was chilled to the bone.

The world around me seemed distant, a watercolor painting smeared by the water. The colors blurring, edges fading, as if I was slowly fading alongside it. Everything felt heavy — my limbs, my mind, even my own pulse.

Then, all at once, it felt as if the rain had been turned off. I blinked up, confused as drops still dripped from my lashes, only to find Jay. His grip on his umbrella was steady above me, creating a small tent from the downpour. He let a shaky breath escape, a mixture of relief and worry. “I was worried sick about you.”

Silence fell as I tried to process the fact that he’d come looking for me. Before I could say anything, he slipped out of his jacket — the rich, heavy fabric still holding his own heat — and draped it carefully over my shoulders.

He paused, then said quietly, “C’mon… let’s get you somewhere warm.”

“Don’t take me home.” The words fell from my lips, desperate. I held his gaze, those brown eyes seemed to see straight through me. After a moment, he nodded, “I won’t.” he said, a vow I felt more than I heard.

Together, we slipped into his car. The thunderous rain began to ease, fading into a gentle patter against the rooftop of his car as we drove away — the world outside is a blur of glistening city lights, bouncing off rain-soaked streets. I drew my knees up, pressed close to warmth, letting the silence wrap me up.

-*-

He turned the key in the lock and clicked the door open, pausing briefly to let me step inside first. The moment I entered, I felt a rush of warmth and the scent of his cologne enclose around me immediately. He flipped on a small side lamp near the door, casting a soft glow across the apartment.

“I keep this place separate from everything else,” he said, tugging off his damp shoes. “So the paparazzi can’t find out where my family lives… or reach them.”

I let my gaze wander around his space. It was undeniably a place he called his own — spotless but lived-in, a little sparse, with a few taped up cardboard boxes stacked quietly in the corners, as if he hadn’t quite gotten around to unpacking them yet. The furniture was minimal, the color palette calm and neutral.

He led me further in, guiding me toward his sofa. I hesitated, I was soaked, dripping rainwater everywhere. but he nodded, murmuring a ‘It’s fine., really’.

“I’m going to get the shower ready for you, before you catch a cold.” he said, before holding out his phone toward me, the screen already unlocked. “Call your mom… let her know you’re safe. She’s probably worried.” His voice was gentle — not a command, but an understanding, a way to ease a growing knot I hadn’t even noticed I was holding.

I nodded reluctantly, taking the phone from his hand. He turned and disappeared down the hallway, his silhouette briefly backlit by the glow from the restroom.

The phone barely rang before my mom picked up. “Jay? Did you find her?” There was a softness in her voice and a nervous energy I recognized.

“Mom, it’s me,” I said, trying to steady my words. “I’m okay. I’m at Jay’s place.”

She exhaled a breath I could almost hear over the line. “Thank God. I was so worried… I called Jay earlier, asked if you were with him, and he said no...”

As I listened, I caught Jay passing by, carrying a stack of clean towels, he looked so composed. “But as soon as I said it's been a couple hours you haven't been home, he told me he was going to find you.” Mom continued, her voice a mix of relief and lingering concern.

I swallowed, feeling the weight of that unspoken trust settle in me. Jay had been out there, searching for me in the pouring rain — for who knows how long — without ever mentioning a word to me.

“I’m okay, Mom. Just… needed some air. Jay’s been helping.” I cleared my throat, trying to sound reassuring.

“Alright,” she said finally. “Just call me if you need anything, okay?”

“I will,” I promised softly, letting the words ease some of the weight that had been sitting heavy on my chest. We exchanged our goodbyes and let the call disconnected.

I hopped into the steamy shower — though quickly, just enough to chase away the lingering chilly feeling. When I turned off the faucet and stepped back out into the misty restroom, I found a neatly folded stack of clean clothes waiting for me — they’re his, for sure, a couple sizes too large.

I padded quietly down the hallway, tugging at the cuffs of his sweater. The hardwood floors whispered under my feet, a softness that seemed to ease me forward. I turned a corner and paused in the doorway. I found him sitting out on his balcony with a glass of wine resting in his hand, the rich garnet liquid beaming a ruby color in the glow of the city’s neon. His silhouette was a lone shape against the riot of lights outside — a man separate, even in a world so full.

I slid open the balcony door, making a rush of cool night air slip in. He turned at the sound with a small, mischievous smile tugging at his lips. “You know… those look a whole lot better on you than they ever did on me.”

I let out a soft giggle and crossed the small distance between us, sinking down into the seat beside him. “Thank you… for everything,” I said, letting the words hang. “And I’m sorry… for everything as well.”

He nodded quietly, “don’t mention it.” he murmured as he filled a second glass, handing it to me. The wine was a rich garnet against crystal. I turned it slowly in my grip, letting its warmth seep into my fingertips. He kept his gaze forward, toward the city’s chaos.

“Remember that time you cried in the broom closet because Nyla and you fought?” he said softly, “and I stood outside, trying to get you to come out?”

I scoffed, the nostalgic memories tugging at me. “I think I stayed in there for… hours.”

He turned his glass slowly in his hands, eyebrows lifting in amusement as he added, “the more i think about it the more ‘cry baby’ feels very appropriate for you.”

I nudged his shoulder playfully, in that weird comfort of familiarity, “Haha,” I said, my voice dry. He tilted his head back and let out a full, easy laugh. “You’ve always hated me, anyways.”

“That’s not true.” I turned toward him, reluctantly meeting his eyes. “Not hate. Just… irritation. Childish irritation.”

He pressed his glass to his lips, smiling. “I’ll take that.”

I fell into silence, letting the moment settle — the city glowed through the balcony railings, a mosaic of golds, blues, reds. I turned slightly, letting my gaze linger on him. There was a soft, raw vulnerability that made my heart ache. His shoulders are weighed down and his jaw is set. It's as if he’s holding himself together and refusing to break down.

“What’s on your mind?” I whispered.

He kept blinking somewhere in the distance, trying to think. “I…” he began, wrestling with the words. “I feel so fucking lonely.” He confessed, whispering back to me, dropping his shoulders in defeat. As if it's that simple, but it wasn’t really that simple.

He pressed his lips together, then let them ease. “But I’m afraid to let someone close again.” His knuckles tightened faintly on his wine glass. “I’m afraid I’ll be used again.”

I let his words sink in for me, “It’s about her, isn’t it?” I asked quietly. His grip slowly relaxed, “yeah.”

“What really happened between you two?”

He stopped to choose his next words carefully. “She… turned everything we had into a commodity, basically.” His jaw tightened as he remembered. “She leaked photos. Then started spreading lies about… about us. Our sex life. Our relationship. It changed my image in front of everyone.” He then exhaled through his nose. “All the controversy, I think that’s exactly what she wanted. All the new eyes on her, it's a way into Hollywood.”

“That’s a lot to carry, especially now with your management.” I said, sympathizing. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”

“You're not the one who should be apologizing.” He sneered. He tilts his glass over his lips, draining the last sip before slowly turns to face me, his expression softer. “And what really happened between you two?”

I took a deep breath. “I… found him cheating.” I confessed, sharing my own truth as well. He kept his eyes on me, patient. “That’s when I cut everyone off. I was… embarrassed, so I kept it to myself.” I added quietly.

“And then… he died a month later.” I faltered, “I felt even more ashamed… ashamed that I was grieving someone who chose someone else. I felt… stupid for crying over him. Grief’s weird like that, It doesn’t care if someone deserved to be missed or not.” I turned to watch a drop of rain trail down the glass of the balcony railing. “Some days, I think I’m not really grieving him… but the life I thought I was going to have with him. The future I believed was mine.”

I pressed my fingertips to the base of the glass, “I think all the shame, the guilt of putting my parents through this mess, that's what made me say yes to this fake dating in the first place.”

He fell mute, allowing the city’s pulse to rise, before whispering, “I’m sorry.”

I let out a chuckle. “You're not the one who should be apologizing.”

He huffed a laugh at the irony that both of us were stranded in the wreckage of culpability, humiliation and torment. My eyes fell to my almost empty glass, “besides my therapist, you’re the only person I’ve told about the cheating.”

He nodded as an affirmation. “I’ll keep it between us,” he said quietly. “I won’t tell a soul. I promise.”

The silence that followed felt dense and weighty, so profound that every thump of my own heart seemed to echo loudly in the stillness. He's the first to cut through it, “what were you supposed to be doing this year?”

I pressed my knees to my chest and exhaled. “Grad school in Chicago. We… were supposed to move in together. We found this little apartment...” I said, thinking about that small, cute place made me smile. “I deferred the week after the funeral.”

He nodded understandingly, humming as a response. “What about you? When do you think you will go back to L.A.?” I asked.

He smirked faintly. “Only when I want to make things even messier.” His voice was light, but I recognized the honest fibre underneath. “I’m not really in a rush to go back… the movie’s filming is not starting till next summer anyway.”

I offered a soft hum as a reply just like he did, “I will be first in line to see it.” I said, tilting my glass towards him like a cheers. He laughed and said a ‘thank you’ under his breath as he refilled his glass before settling back down.

From where I sat, I was able to study him — the strong curve of his jaw, where his sideburns sat, the way his lashes rested against his cheeks. It was the same face I’d known since childhood, but now it carried a strength that only time could carve. The boy I once teased and the boy once teased me was gone, replaced by an admirable grown man.

I let myself slowly lean in, resting my forehead against his shoulder. I drew up my knees even closer to my chest, tugging his sweater farther down over me. He shifted just a bit just until his warmth pressed against me.

Time seemed to slow, a moment stretched into another. He whispered, barely audible, “What is this mess we’re in?” I laughed as I turned just a little, without lifting my head. “You tell me.”

I must have drifted off while resting against him. One moment I was staring out the window, feeling the rhythm of the car and his heartbeat beside me, and the next… everything felt weightless.

I remember how gentle he was with me as he slipped his arms underneath, lifting me with a careful grace, a reverence I hadn’t expected. I kept my eyes closed — not fully asleep, not fully conscious — just trusting him to carry me. I felt the shift of light as we passed through the hallway, then the softness of the mattress that's welcoming me. The tug of a heavy blanket placed over me with kind hands.

“Rest that pretty head,” he murmured, gently brushing my hair away from my face.

I wanted to ask him to stay, to not leave me alone. But the words stayed locked in my throat, stubborn. My lips remained sealed as the door clicked softly shut behind him. And for the first time in weeks, I surrender completely to sleep.

-𓍙-

Therapy isn’t magic. It’s slow, frustratingly slow. The sessions blend together, a couple of weeks turning into a small stretch of time. It's a process that feels more like navigating a labyrinth without a map. Some days, I show up and say nothing. I sit there in silence, letting my fingertips follow the seams of the couch cushion, feeling the texture.

Other days, the words come in a rush of either fury or sorrow. They come out as confessions I hadn’t meant to make, like a vulnerable string I hadn’t noticed was frayed. I would talk about him — sometimes about very mundane things he did, other times about fucked up things he did. It would be about little habits I hadn’t noticed until I said them aloud, but also about his choices that still gnawed away at me. It was as if by turning them over in my mind, piece by piece, I was slowly untangling the knot he left in me.

It was all a process of putting the pieces back together. If he doesn't want to tell me the truth, I will find it.

My therapist says that I'm making some kind of progress, naming the ghosts instead of letting them haunt me. Some days I feel that disarray in my own skin. This heartbreak feels a bit like someone opened me up, reorganized everything, and then forgot to put me back together.

Regardless, I keep showing up. I let the stillness and words alike do their healing work. In a very sluggish manner, to be fair, until I can learn how to carry it without letting it consume me.

-*-

I looked out through the small kitchen windowpane. The rain came down hard, turning the world outside into a watercolor of silver, navy and grey. Droplets raced down the glass in wild rivulets, blurring the city’s edges. There was no way Jay could leave now, not without practically swimming his way back to his car.

We fell into a comfortable rhythm of clearing the dishes from the dining table by him stacking them neatly and me rinsing them in the sink. Up until my mom put her foot down, “the roads are awful. You’re not driving in this mess.”

Before he could protest, she was already moving toward the linen cabinet in the hallway. Her fingers sifted through the fabric until she pulled out a pair of my dad’s old pajamas, soft but well-worn. He tried to argue, stuttering something about not wanting to bother us, that he could just drive slowly. But she overruled him in about three seconds flat, pressing the neatly folded set into his hands, eyes steady leaving no room for arguing.

Afterwards, long after everyone else had retreated to their rooms, I slipped out of the closet dressed in my own pajamas. The storm’s roar seeped through the windows, alive and restless. I found Jay standing by the window in my room, a dark silhouette carved against the angry sky, watching the rain rage on.

He was supposed to share this bed with me. It's a formality, a part of the fake dating we’d agreed upon. But now, the reality made my stomach knot. I wondered if he felt the same nervous rush as I did, or if he saw it as something less, something purely convenient.

I pressed my fingertips against my arm, to calm the nervous energy blooming just beneath my skin. He didn’t turn when I approached the bed or when I pulled the covers back. His voice was low. “I’ll sneak out once it stops.”

I just nodded, letting that be my answer. As he settled in on his side of the mattress, I reached over and turned off my side lamp, dimming the room from its amber glow. The thunder outside rumbled quietly in the distance, the rain steady against the window.

When we shared my old queen-sized bed, the mattress felt smaller than I remembered, crowded by the weight of both of us. We lay there, barely an inch between our knees, the space tight enough to make every breath, every subtle movement feel magnified.

I was acutely aware of his warmth, his low exhales, the rise and fall of his chest — all of it was a reminder that I was not alone. I haven't laid in bed with someone else in so long… the panic forced me to stay still.

Some time passed, as I lay there staring at my furniture. Sleep remained elusive, not a wink of sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, memories tugged me back toward wakefulness. Finally, with a small breath, I turned over beneath the covers, letting myself face him in the dimly glowing room.

“Jay?” I whispered into the dark room.

“Mhm?” he responded, not opening his eyes as he lay flat on his back, one arm resting across his forehead.

“You know, you used to call me ‘Cry Baby’… but remember when I used to call you ‘Star Boy’?” I asked, playfulness creeping into my voice.

He let out a dramatic groan, but a smile was unmistakable on his lips. “goodness, no… don’t remind me.”

I chuckled, “you went so red in the face every single time I said it.” I paused to let myself smile at the memory. “It was honestly kind of cute.”

He sighs before turning to face me as well. “I hoped you’d forgotten that by now.”

As I laughed, he couldn't help but chuckle in return. As I felt my eyelids grow heavy, the world slowly blurring at the edges, I whispered into the softness between us, “Can you… stay the night?” I finally was able to ask him.

For a moment, silence hung in the air. Then his voice came. “Yeah… I’ll stay.”

At those words, something in me unfurled peacefully. I let my eyes close, trusting that I was not alone, that when I opened them in the morning, he’d still be there.

-*-

My eyes fluttered open as the storm had faded into a soft, far away swirl. The only sound now that I can hear is Jay’s breathing, slow and even beside me. He really stayed even after the storm passed. At some point in the night, my head had come to rest against his chest, his arm draped casually — yet protectively — around my shoulders. I didn't even feel a rush of timidity or embarrassment from being this close, from letting myself linger in his warmth.

Instead, I noticed something I hadn’t before — a faint scar near his jawline, a small mark I hadn’t recognized until now. I wondered if it was from that bike accident he had as a kid, the one where Nyla and I cleaned him up and tended his scrapes while he fought back tears, insisting he was ‘too tough’ to cry in front of us. It was strange how different he looked in sleep. He looked softer. Yet, a faint crease lingered between his brows, as if some worries were woven into him, even at rest.

Without notice, a strange ache stirred in my chest. Not because of Jay, but it was that same old ache. It was that familiar ache I kept trying to bury.

I turned slightly and reached for my phone on my nightstand, the glow lighting up the dim room. It's only 3 a.m. Why am I even up? My fingers went to my email account, straight to the drafts folder. There sat the old unsend email for him, catching dust. I inhaled deeply and started a new email. Doesn’t have to be beautiful, it just has to be honest.

To: (no recipients) Subject: (no subject) Everyone keeps asking if I’ve ‘found closure’. As if it’s a drawer that's neatly closed, waiting for me. But it’s not. Even when you're dead I'm too tired to explain myself to you. Your death froze betrayal in time. Anyways, hope hell is warm enough for you.

It started as borrowed words from therapy, words that had been circling in my mind. But somewhere along the way, it morphed into something less measured. They might be a little harsh and a little messy, but fuck it — they’re the truest reflection of what I’m feeling in this moment. I tucked that email alongside the other unsent one before locking the screen and slipping my phone underneath my pillow.

As I nestled beside Jay, he stirred faintly in his sleep, unconsciously drawing me a little closer. He became my sanctuary. I’m still so afraid to let anyone close, afraid that opening up means I’m putting myself back in the path that has the kind of hurt I’m still healing from. Though I let him, I let his presence ease me back into rest. I think it’s because my mind and body are so weary from constantly putting up a fight, from bracing for the worst.

𓍙

Time slipped by without me really noticing with our deal remaining in place. Yet, somewhere along the way… something shifted. We fell into an ease I hadn’t expected. I found myself looking forward to seeing him, looking forward to dinners with him, looking forward to when we step out and put on a performance for the paparazzi. The space we occupied side by side was growing less intimidating.

Currently, we’re in a hotel suite high above Manhattan, the city bustling far below us. Today is media junket day for Jay’s new film — the one he’s been cast in, the role that feels destined to be his big break. The room is a rush of activity: journalists setting up their equipment, publicists darting back and forth, and assistants smoothing every last detail.

His team insisted he show up with me by his side, to continue the role of the ‘supportive girlfriend’ for the interview. His management made their expectations for me clear: sit there, be pretty, smile, and nod — say as little as possible, let Jay take the lead.

Meanwhile, Jay seemed quietly relieved I was there. His shoulders would relax ever so slightly whenever his eyes met mine during the chaos of getting glammed, I would mouth to him ‘it will be okay’. He seemed on edge all day long.

We settled into the plush velvet chairs placed side by side, directly across from a perky interviewer already poised with her microphone. The bright lights glared down from their rigs, turning the space into something that felt less like a hotel suite and more like a stage — a set designed for every expression, every word to be captured by the cameras.

After a few questions about the film, the interviewer shifted gears, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “So, the fans are absolutely obsessed with you two. Your relationship has everyone talking.”

I was kind of surprised, honestly, I barely registered the comment at first. Over the past month, I had been deliberately distancing myself from social media, scrolling past headlines and posts without really looking, shielding myself from the flood of opinions and judgments that felt both invasive and overwhelming.

Jay gave a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was something a little tight, a little forced about it. “Yeah, she’s one of the most incredible people I know.”

The interviewer leaned in with a warm grin. “How long have you two known each other?”

“Forever, kind of. She’s my sister’s best friend.” Jay’s answer came easily, almost automatic. The interviewer’s face softened as she said, “aw, full circle moment!”

But Jay barely heard her, his mind seemed elsewhere. His jaw clenched ever so slightly, betraying the calm he tried to project.

“Cut!” The director’s sharp voice cut through the room, stopping the interviewer from asking another question. “Hold up, something’s off — the lighting's all wrong.” He rubbed his temples, clearly frustrated. “We’re pausing for now. Take five.”

Jay and I exchanged a glance and nodded silently, the cameras slowly winding down as crew members began passing around the equipment with practiced efficiency. The air felt thick, buzzing like static.

As soon as the cameras stopped rolling, his publicist leaned in to us, voice low but eager, “that last answer was solid. Let’s keep leaning into that nostalgic romance angle. Maybe we can do a little shoot where she—”

Jay’s eyes snapped open, as if mentioning me was his final straw. “She is not a fucking action figure you can just pose.” he spat out, his tone cold but restrained, each word clipped. The publicist blinked, clearly not used to seeing him this upset.

I placed a calming hand on his arm, “Jay, it's okay… I don't mind.” I whispered to him, trying to ease the tension.

His publicist pressed their lips together, offended, as their eyebrows furrowing in disbelief. “Cool off. I'm trying to help.”

If eyes could shoot out venom, Jay's eyes would have already done so. His jaw tightened as he rose, the legs of his chair scraping sharply against the floor. Without a word, he turned on his heel and strode toward the hallway outside the hotel room. I fell into steps just a few paces behind, not hesitating to leave the filming crew behind.

He stood by the window at the end of the hallway, staring out into the city with his fingers raked through his hair in pure agitation. He let out a shaky breath once I was closer to him. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I said, gently reaching for his hand.

We fell into silence together, our gazes dropping down to the bustling scene below. A small crowd of fans had started to gather on the sidewalk, eager just for a glimpse of him. A few paparazzi lingered a little farther back, their camera lenses glinting, poised to capture whatever might unfold.

He turned his head slightly, then whispered, “wanna leave?” A mischievous spark glimmered in his eyes with a smile.

I blinked in confusion. “What? Right now?” He didn’t stop to explain himself, instead, he tugged a baseball cap down over his now messy hair and then slipped his sunglasses up onto my face, tilting them just a bit. The world immediately grew a few shades darker.

“Yeah, come on. I know a way out.” He said. The moment he saw me smile — wild and impulsive — he reached forward and laced his fingers through mine. His grip was firm, a rush of warmth and jitteriness energy that made my pulse accelerate.

He turned back down the corridor and began weaving through hallways, past a storage room with its half-open metal gate, a service entrance that glowed faintly under a solitary emergency light, until we slipped out a side door into a small, sheltered alleyway outside.

He tugged me forward gently, steering us into the streets that are in the opposite direction of the paparazzi. “As much as I love your idea of running away,” I said, trying to keep my voice light, a playful edge threading through the nerves fluttering inside me, “me doing that interview with you is kind of… a key part of our deal.”

His grip on my hand tightened as we matched pace, walking side by side. “Right now, I don’t care about the deal,” he murmured, pulling his cap lower over his face like a shield. “I just want to be with you — out here, away from all the cameras.” His eyes fixed on the path ahead.

I matched his stride as a gentle warmth rose to my cheeks. “Okay,” I breathed softly, “what do you want to do?”

He glanced back at me, that familiar troublesome gleam lighting up his face — the same boyish spark he’d carried since we were kids. “I want to play tourist.”

“Tourist?” I echoed, laughter bubbling up at the idea. “In our own city?”

He chuckled, nodding with a grin. “Come on, humor me.”

While walking beside him with the city’s heartbeat surged around us, I realized how natural this felt now — as if we had been doing this forever, regardless if there were cameras or not. We turned a corner, letting ourselves be carried by the rush of the city — the hum of honking horns blended with the chatter of hurried pedestrians weaving through the sidewalks, their laughter and conversations mixing into an urban symphony.

Then, suddenly, a tempting aroma of street food drifted through the air, it was the unmistakable scent of our pizzeria. “Oh my god, I completely forgot about this place,” I said, glancing up at Jay’s face just in time to see his own expression brighten in recognition, the smell tugged at long-forgotten memories..

We pressed against the wooden door and slipped inside, and a rush of warmth enveloped us. The old pizzeria hadn’t changed a bit — the red-checkered tablecloths, the well-worn counter, the snapshots of smiling regulars adorning the walls. It was like a time capsule preserving a moment we hadn’t yet grown out of.

Behind the counter, the owner looked up, his face breaking into a wide smile. “Ah, my two favorite troublemakers. I’ve been waiting for you to show up again.”

Jay chuckled, nodding toward me, “all that’s missing is Nyla.” The owner laughed as he nodded, turning his attention to me. “Your mom would flip if she knew you were still sneaking in here after all these years.”

I shrugged, giggling. “That’s kinda the point, isn’t it? Your pizza’s worth it.”

He slid two paper plates across the counter, each with generously big slices. “On the house today. Consider it a reward for your continued bad behavior.”

“Oh, you’re an angel on earth.” Jay sighed with pure happiness. As we picked up our slices, a chorus of camera shutters clicked from somewhere down the block. “Paparazzi!” I whispered, tugging at Jay’s sleeve.

As his eyes widened in alarm, he gripped onto my hand with a quick ‘goodbye’ to the owner before turning us to the bustling sidewalk.

We darted forward, weaving through the growing crowd, our shoulders bumping against strangers as we slipped through the chaos.

“It’s Jay! Over there!”

Our nervous laughter fell from our lips, a rush of adrenaline adding a wild, giddy feeling to every step. The paparazzi pressed forward behind us as a swarm of camera flashes and raised voices, each one competing for that elusive shot of Jay.

“Jay! Look this way! Jay, over here!”

The flock continued to rise, punctuated by the aggressive clicking of shutter mechanisms.

“Smile for us, Jay! Just a quick picture!”

I kept my grip tight on his hand while he raised a hand to hail a cab. Just as the yellow taxi glided up to the curb, we slipped inside together, shutting the door close behind us.

“I think we lost them.” Jay said, falling back against the seat, exhaling a shaky breath as the cab drove forward.

I turned toward him, a smile tugging at my lips as I nod to the driver. “Where to, tourist?”

When he said he wanted to play the role of a tourist, he wasn't kidding. We hopped across crosswalks, darting from corner to corner. We slipped into a comic-book store in the East Village, laughing over the collectible figurines, and tasted all the snacks in different delis. We hopped into another cab just for the ride, then hopped back out to take photos by a rooftop garden.

As the clock edged closer to midnight, he insisted on taking a cab with me all the way to my parents’ brownstone — like letting me go alone just wasn’t an option.

“Oh yeah?” I teased, giggling as he hopped out first and turned back, offering me his hand with that reassuring glow.

He tightened his grip just enough as I stepped down onto the pavement. “Yes! You were terrifying.”

I raised an eyebrow, a playful smile curling at my lips. “Terrifying? When I was... what, eleven?”

The cab drove away, leaving us standing close under the soft amber of the porch light. We were still laughing, caught in that warm, quiet bubble where everything and everyone else — the city, the noise, the world — felt miles away, irrelevant. The gentle light cast delicate shadows across the stoop, a silent invitation to linger just a second longer.

For a moment, the small space between us fell into silence. He cupped my face, his thumb tracing delicate circles over my cheek. “I’ve been a coward about this for way too long.” he said, his voice dropped to a hushed whisper with honesty.

My heart skipped a beat, suddenly vulnerable and exposed beneath his words. “For how long?” I whispered back. His thumb drifted to my lips, brushing over them softly, as if memorizing their shape.

A nervous, almost shy laugh escaped him, but his eyes stayed locked on mine. “Since we were kids...”

I gave a small, teasing smile. “Mmm, maybe I was scary as a kid.”

His grin softened, leaning down slowly, every inch electric. He was electrictic. The kiss deepened — urgent, tender, and completely consuming. His warm hands pulled me closer, while my fingers tangled in his hair, holding on like I never wanted to let go.

When we reluctantly drew apart, he paused for a minute, resting his forehead against mine. “I'm going to get murdered by my manager tomorrow.” he smiled, eyes closed as if he's trying to savor the moment, savor me.

I let out a breathless laugh, trying to mask how weak my knees feel beneath me. “Worth it?”

He chuckles, and without missing a beat, he pressed a brief peck on my lips. “Ask me again the next time I see you.”

-𓍙-

Two months slipped by in a whirlwind of dinners, interviews, and moments either hidden beneath flashing cameras or hidden behind closed doors. What had started as a carefully choreographed arrangement where two people were playing a part… slowly began to unravel all the walls we had built. Every touch began to feel less and less manufactured, less rehearsed.

He would message me, or even call, when he was supposed to be in meetings or sitting through yet another interview. I’d be stretched out in bed, pillows propped up behind me, the glow of my phone casting a warm pool of light across the mattress.

“Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know… working?” I asked one night, giggling as I pressed the phone tighter against my ear.

He let out a dramatic sigh on the other end, and I could picture him tilting his head back, closing his eyes in feigned agony. “Work can wait. You’re way more interesting.”

“Mhm,” I hummed back to him, “sounds like excuses to me.”

“Maybe.” His voice dipped, growing softer. “I just can’t help myself.” He confessed. God, he sounded so desperate in that moment — so eager to please — it was honestly kind of adorable.

I felt that flutter in my chest, the same one I used to get when I was a teenager crushing hard on someone. It had been so long since I’d felt that way, like my insides buzzing with a mix of excitement and nerves.

We fell into routines that felt effortless. After those glamorous, exhausting events, instead of parting ways, we’d grab wine and food from a corner spot and hide away in his place.

We fell into routines that felt effortless. After those glamorous, exhausting events, instead of turning our separate ways, we’d grab a bottle of wine from the corner spot down the block and escape back to Jay’s place. There, with the city’s humming quietly outside his windows, we’d kick off our shoes and sink into the pillows on his sofa.

Tonight was one of those nights, but the air hung humid enough to cling to skin and weigh down every breath and movement. As soon as we stepped in, Jay peeled off his suit jacket, letting it slide down his arms and drop over the back of a nearby armchair. His crisp white shirt followed, a few upper buttons slowly undone until a sliver of his collarbone appeared.

I fell back against the sofa with a heavy exhale, tugging at the hem of my short dress in a useless attempt to cool down. The fabric clung to my thighs.

He turned back toward me, a glass in his hand. The cubes of ice clinked quietly against the rim as he crossed the room to bring it to me. I pressed it to my lips — freezing drops of water a much-needed contrast to the warmth that filled me.

The questions he answered today while I was sitting beside him kept replaying in my mind — especially the ones about his ex-girlfriend. It made me curious in a way…

“Jay?” I said quietly.

“Yes, love?”

“Was she your first girlfriend?” I asked, taking a sip of the water.

He nodded. “Yeah,” he responded, eyebrows furrowing in confusion about the sudden question.

So this makes me his second girlfriend ever… “Wait, so you've never been with another woman besides her?” I pressed, turning the ice in my glass before putting one on my tongue.

I swirled one of the ice cubes in my mouth, watching him trying to form an answer. “What? Like — not exactly —” He faltered under my gaze, coloring red faintly. He was flustered, as if I'm accusing him that's he's inexperienced.

Not that I'm very experienced either, he just looked too irresistible not to pick on. His perfect, neat hair was a mess now, a few locks falling forward, adding to his disarray. God, he looked so delicious. I inched forward, closing the distance between us, a mischievous spark rushed through me.

With the ice still resting in my mouth, I went closer to him and pressed a freezing kiss to the side of his neck. He jumped briefly at the cold sensation, then fell back against the cushions. “Don’t tease…” he whispered — a warning that fell powerless against his own growing temptation.

I paused just long enough to appreciate the tremble in his voice before slowly kissing his neck again, “I just can’t resist.” I whispered against his skin. Honestly, it was fun pressing his button.

Gently, I drew the ice from my lips and let its chilled surface trail up his arm. “What are you doing?” he whispered, his breath shaky, close against my own.

I smiled, curling my fingers on his waist band, “I was counting down the minutes to get you alone.”

That was completely true — all through the event, while I nodded and smiled and made small talk, I couldn’t keep my mind from straying back to him. The way his suit sat perfectly over his shoulders, the softness in his gaze when our eyes met across the room. Every moment made it that much harder to wait.

I shifted to straddling him, until I was sitting directly across his lap. It was like a rush of warmth meeting warmth. He kissed me with an urgency I haven't seen before. I felt his knuckles brush against my inner thighs as he fumbled with his zipper, tugging it down just a little, the metal clinking. While the hem of my dress began to gather up around my hips, the fabric creeped higher and higher until it bunched softly at my waist.

I palmed his bulge from beneath his boxer, throbbing and needy. “Please, hurry.” he whispered with equally needy eyes, his temple sweating.

“Easy, boy.” I giggled as I slowly started lowering myself down until his entire cock slid inside, granting me a groan from him. "ngh… shit," I gasp at the stretch, his hands resting on my thighs as I roll my hips along his cock.

His eyes fluttered shut, letting out a pretty whine when I started moving up and down, my hips meeting his pelvic as if it was made just for him. I was relishing the way he struggled to form words, to make his desires known.

“Come on, star boy, what do you want?” I teased, knowing he can't form many words, let alone sentences. The way his normally composed demeanor fell away under my touch, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but pure, uninhibited need.

As my movement continued, he looked completely pussy-drunk, a mess just for me. “Hmm? Words, baby. I need words from you." I encouraged quietly, guiding his face back to mine while resting my other hand flat against his rapidly beating heart. His grip tightened on my thighs.

“Fuck— you, i want you.” he finally choked out, sounding so vulnerable. His hands roam upwards, touching me as if I'm everything he asked God for.

“Good, good,” I praised, pushing some of his hair out of his face. “Cum for me, baby, cum.” I urged. I could tell he's so close, I could read him as a book. The pace of my hips quickened, Jay's thrusts following close after.

His hips stutter with his release after feeling that tightening around his length. With his own fluid mixed with mine, my body fell forward, face buried in his neck while coming down from my own high. He takes a few slow breaths before kissing my shoulder.

“You're mean,” he chuckled, rubbing circles into my back. I turned my head just enough to press a soft kiss to his collarbone. “Mean?” I whispered. “Who, me?”

He let out a soft laugh, giving my ass a playful tap. Then he slid his arms underneath me, lifting me up effortlessly against him. I held on tighter, locking my arms around him as he carried me toward the shower.

-𓍙-

The first time he knocked, I didn’t move. Not even a breath.

I just laid there, curled under my sheets, watching the shadows on the wall shift with the hours. My phone had long since died, no battery left, somewhere in the mess on my floor. However, the notification still blinded my brain. That one fucking headline with so many comments under it, all paired by DMs I couldn’t unread.

‘Jay’s Girlfriend’s Dead Ex Cheated On Her — Source Says She Knew!’

The words burned like fresh ink behind my eyelids. They knew. They all knew, now.

About the accident, about him cheating. They thought I’d planned it, like I’d lured him into some twisted karma. That I let him die with that secret like it was something I’d authored.

The only person I had ever told the truth to was Jay. So when the knock came again — I didn’t even flinch. “Baby,” his voice was muffled through the wood of my door. “Please open the door.”

I stared at the crack between the door and the floor, I could see his shadow. “I swear it wasn’t me.” he pleaded, shaking the door handle. My throat clenched with my jaw. I could hear it in his voice — the confusion, the panic — but I couldn’t let myself believe him. Not when the betrayal felt like a bruise I hadn’t even started pressing on.

Just when I believe someone, they lie to me. I feel like I'm back at step one.

He came every day since the publication of that article. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes late at night — always with flowers. I’d hear the knock at the front door, followed by my mom’s clueless murmuring, then he’d try at my bedroom door.

“I don’t care if you scream at me,” he said on the fourth day. “Just let me see your face. Please.”

I didn’t, I never did. I stayed cocooned in my silence, wearing the same clothes in the same shame and rage. It was easier that way anyways, anger made a good blanket when grief got too sharp.

There was no pressure or interrogations with my parents — just a patient presence. When I left my room, rarely as it is, I’d always find Jay’s flowers waiting for me at the doorstep of my room, they started to pile up. I never dared to open the letters that came with them.

My parents would leave a lamp turned on in the hallway so I didn’t have to walk through the dark. Their love wasn’t loud, but it was showing up, again and again.

One night, maybe an hour after Jay gave up and left, I finally drifted out into the living room. I didn’t even know why, I wasn’t really looking for anything. I just found my dad sitting on the couch, his glasses were slightly askew, pretending to read on his book.

When his eyes met mine, he didn’t say anything but I saw the worry in them. Just gave me a small nod and gently patted the spot beside him, like he’d been saving it all along.

I didn’t hesitate. My body sank down, folding into the couch as I tucked myself beside him and let my head rest in his lap. His hand came to rest on my shoulder — a steady weight, familiar. The kind of touch that reminded you of being little again, when the world felt too big and your parents made it smaller just by being near.

For a while, we didn’t speak. Just the sound of his soft breathing and the occasional creak of the apartment. Then he asked, soft and even, “Why didn’t you tell us?”

I swallowed, my throat dry from not speaking in days. “I didn’t want to add to your worry.” My voice cracked before the words made it out. “I figured... if I acted okay, maybe I’d start to feel okay.”

By the seventh day, my world had shrunk down to the sound of him pacing the hallway, sometimes whispering my name, other times just sitting against the door. I could feel his presence like a stormcloud on the other side — heavy, persistent, full of noise he wouldn’t let fall.

Then, on the eighth day, it wasn’t Jay’s voice I heard, it was Nyla’s instead. “It’s me, babe,” she said gently, her knuckles tapping. “Its just me. Can I come in?”

I stayed still on the bed, staring at the crack in the ceiling where the paint had started to peel. Something in me almost reached for the knob, but I couldn’t do it. Not even for her.

“He’s outside,” she added after a long pause. From her voice she sounded exhausted and worried, I could only imagine how she looked. “He’s not eating, not sleeping. He looks awful.” I closed my eyes, an ache ripped through my heart.

“You know he wouldn’t do that to you. You know that.” My lips stayed sealed as my hands gripped the sheets like they could keep me from slipping further into guilt.

It wasn’t fair, what I was doing to her wasn't fair. Deep down, I knew Nyla had nothing to do with any of this. And still, a part of me wanted to push her away too. Like if I didn’t let anyone in, none of it could hurt me more than it already had.

She waited for exactly seven minutes, my eyes never leaving the clock near my bed, counting. Then I heard the soft sigh of her retreat, footsteps padded with disappointment as she left me behind. The guilt hit me as I heard her voice crack as she spoke with my mom.

Later on that eighth night, once the house had gone still and the muffled sound of my parents’ voices faded into quiet, I finally moved. I pushed the blanket off my legs and sat up slowly, my muscles ached from the stillness.

My laptop sat untouched on my desk, a thin layer of dust smudged across the surface. I hadn’t opened it in so long. The screen flickered awake like it was just as surprised to see me. I sat there for a long time, facing a blank email draft, fingers hovering over the keys, unsure of what I wanted to say anymore. My hands shook a little as I typed.

To: (no recipients) Subject: (no subject) You hurt me when you were alive and when you are dead. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t know if I hate you more for leaving me, or for what you did before you left or what you did after you left. I wish I could scream at you. You never said sorry. Not once. And now you never will.

I closed the laptop with a soft click and leaned back in my chair, the quiet humming back to fill the space I’d carved open. My eyes drifted to the ceiling again, but I wasn’t really looking at anything. Just letting the stillness soak in. The words I’d written still echoed faintly

Somewhere beyond the walls of my room, beyond the cold of my chest, I knew Jay was still out there somewhere — waiting.

-*-

The office was quiet, filled with that soft kind of tranquility that makes you feel like you have to whisper, even when no one’s told you to. I glanced at the windows, where the late morning light spilled in, brushing against the edge of the bookshelf. I sat curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked under me, picking absentmindedly at the edge of my tissue.

I didn’t even want to come here, but my mom had made the appointment after the fourth day I hadn’t left my room. Across from me, my therapist waited patiently, letting the quiet settle until I was ready. I squeezed the tissue tighter.

“I feel like everyone just lies to me,” I finally said, the words falling out more like a sigh than a statement.

She Just nodded once, “Did you hear him out?”

I blinked, caught off guard by how quickly she got to the core of it. I swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable with how obvious the answer was.

“No,” I admitted.

“And why do you think that is?”

I let the silence stretch again, eyes dropping to the floor. “Because I am scared,” I whispered. “Because if it was him, then that would make it worse. That he said he’d protect my promise, and then didn’t. I don’t want to hear the wrong answer.”

She leaned forward slightly, her voice steady. “And what if it wasn’t him?”

The question sat in the air like a challenge — or maybe like a lifeline of hope. “I don’t know,” I said after a while. “If it wasn’t him… then I shut him out for nothing. I hurt him, for nothing.” My voice cracked around the last part.

The therapist didn’t say anything for a moment, she just nodded again. “Sometimes we protect ourselves by assuming the worst. It feels safer, more predictable.”

“Maybe it’s time to ask the question,” she added gently. “Even if the answer might hurt. You’ve already been hurting. Don’t you want to know what’s true?”

And I did. God, I did. I just wasn’t sure if I still deserved the truth.

-*-

When I got home, the apartment felt heavier than it had earlier that morning. Like it somehow knew the truth that I was finally ready to face after I’d been running from it. I dropped my purse by the door and sank onto the couch, in front of my laptop where it sat on the coffee table.

I lingered for a moment, heart somewhere in my throat. And then, finally, I reached out and let it open.

The screen blinked awake again. After a couple clicks, I found those tabs that I opened exactly where I’d left them — the articles, tweets, videos. The ones refused to look at again, but now I clicked through them again, letting the headlines scream at me all over again.

‘Jay’s Girlfriend’s Dead Ex Cheated On Her — Source Says She Knew!’

a new one for me: ‘Was It All A Setup? Internet Reacts To Shocking New Details About Y/N’s Past’

And another: ‘Insider Spills: Y/N’s Relationship Timeline Doesn’t Add Up’

Most of them didn’t list a source, just ‘an anonymous insider’ or ‘a close acquaintance’. Just empty words… pussies. I felt the frustration grow as I found nothing.

I almost closed it all again, feeling stupid for even trying. Until one article, messier than the others, less polished, clearly rushed in its eagerness to be first — listed an actual name.

My heart stopped. I stared at it, thinking I imagined it. But no, there it was, plain as day.

A name I hadn’t seen in months, but one I’d never forgotten. The same name I saw pop up on my boyfriend’s phone the night everything started to unravel. The name I hadn’t wanted to believe was real back then. The girl who answered when I called, smug and breathless. The one who laughed when I said his name.

Suddenly it all clicked into place.

She was the one who told them. She sold the story — for a bit of attention, for a bit of money, for a bit of fame, for a bit of something — now that people care about who I am dating.

I leaned back slowly, the weight of it all pressing into my chest. It wasn’t Jay. It was never him.

I covered my face with both hands, trying to will back the tears that burned at the edges of my eyes. I’d pushed him away. I’d hurt him — doubted him — when he kept his word to me all along.

The cab ride felt endless. I couldn’t sit still, legs bouncing, fingers gripping the edge of my coat like it was the only thing tethering me to the seat. The city passed by in a blur, lights streaking through the windows like memories I didn’t want to keep replaying. By the time we pulled up in front of his apartment complex, my heart was ready to shoot out my chest.

I paid the driver with shaky hands and stepped out. The street was quiet, just the faint hum of traffic in the distance. My boots echoed softly in the stairwell as I climbed to his floor.

The hallway to his apartment felt longer than I remembered. Every step forward was like peeling off another layer of the anger I had wrapped around myself like old skin. My fingers curled into fists, then relaxed again. My heart thudded in that slow, aching way, like it was trying to wake up from being numb.

I hesitated for a moment outside his door. My hand hovered over the wood. Part of me wanted to turn around and call a cab again — go home, crawl under the covers, pretend I hadn’t cracked myself open just by coming here.

I knocked.

I am the one open to knock on his door now.

And when it opened, he looked... different, in a way that wrapped around my heart and squeezed. His shirt hung off him, too loose like he hadn’t noticed it didn’t fit right. His hair was messy, the result of too many restless nights. And his eyes were tired, ringed with shadows like sleep hadn’t touched him in days.

But the moment our eyes met, like tension unraveling all at once, a string that was pulled too tight finally snapping free. I saw it, his whole face melted in relief.

One step from him is all it took and I was in his arms.

He caught me, his hands wrapped around me like he couldn’t believe I came back, like he didn’t trust the world not to take me again. I buried my face into the curve of his shoulder, gripping his shirt, breathing him in — the faint, comforting scent of his soap mixed with his cologne.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, my voice already breaking as I clung to him.

He didn’t answer right away, just kissed me. My forehead, my cheeks, my lips. Each one desperate, forgiving. His hands trembled just a little. “I thought I lost you,” he breathed against my skin.

“I didn’t even give you a chance to explain —” I said, the words thick with guilt.

“Shhh,” he cooed, pulling back just enough to look at me again. His hands gently cupping my face, thumbs brushing beneath my eye like he was checking for sadness in them.

“You’re here now,” he said simply. “That’s enough for me.”

-𓍙-

Two weeks after Jay’s team shut down on the leak — firing off cease-and-desist letters, building walls of legalese tall enough to suffocate the tabloids — things started to settle. The headlines that once screamed my name like a crime scene began to fade from front pages to sidebars.

The chaos didn’t disappear entirely, not overnight. But the noise dulled into background white noise. Enough that I could finally walk out the front door without feeling like I was stepping into a battlefield.

In fact, Jay made sure of it. If he wasn’t glued to my side, he made damn sure I didn’t leave home without at least three security guards. “Non-negotiable,” he’d said once, pressing a kiss to my temple before leaving me with a guard who looked more like a presidential escort. I wanted to argue, saying it was too much. But I could see his face was edged with protectiveness and guilt. Maybe love, too. So I didn’t fight him.

Still, I hadn’t said a word publicly. No carefully crafted post, no interview or side-of-the-mouth denial. I knew people were waiting, watching every paparazzi photo for signs of a breakdown or a statement hidden in an outfit or something stupid. But I gave them nothing.

They don’t deserve my grief. They’re not entitled to the softness I’ve barely learned how to hold for myself. Paraphrased by my therapist.

Let them speculate. Let them move on. I already am. Maybe Not gracefully, maybe. But forward is still forward — one cautious step at a time.

-*-

It was late.

The kind of late where your place falls into a deep peace which the city that never sleeps wouldn't know. Jay had finally coaxed me into bed, whispering gentle things against my temple, brushing his fingers through my hair until my breathing evened out. I didn’t even remember falling asleep, just the warmth of him and the lightness of his sheets.

But something stirred me.

I woke to the absence of him beside me. The space next to me was cold, the sheets already flattened like he’d been gone a while. A faint light spilled in from the hallway, and I sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

Then I heard him, his voice low but urgent, whispering then rising. “When I say no, it means no. Are you even listening?”

I crept toward the light, bare feet quiet against the hardwood. I could see him in the kitchen — phone pressed to his ear, hair messy like he’d raked his hand through it too many times. His back was to me, one hand braced against the counter, shoulders tight with frustration.

“I don’t care,” he snapped under his breath. “You don’t get to profit off her anymore. I’m serious, drop it.”

He paused, breathing hard. “I mean it. If this keeps going, we’re done.”

I stood there frozen, something heavy swelling in my chest. It wasn’t just the way he defended me, it was the fury behind it. The care he had for me, that he’d burn bridges just to keep the world from touching me.

“Is everything okay?” I finally asked once the phone call ended, my voice barely above a whisper.

He flinched at the sound, just a twitch, before turning around to face me. When his eyes found mine, his jaw unclenched, the sharp lines of his face softened, and his posture loosened like a knot finally coming undone.

“Did I wake you, love?” he said gently, voice was like velvet.

I shook my head, stepping toward him. “Just miss you,” I murmured as I wrapped my arms around him, my cheek pressing to his chest. His arms immediately came around me in return, grounding. He tucked me against him like I belonged there.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just breathed into my hair. I glanced over his shoulder, past the soft glow of the stove light, and saw the flowers he had gotten me two days ago — peonies and cream-colored roses in a wide glass vase, still slightly fresh, still trying to hold on.

“Come back to bed with me,” I whispered. He didn’t hesitate, just a soft kiss pressed to the top of my head and took my hand. He squeezed it once, gently, like he was making sure I was still really there.

-*-

That morning, sunlight stretched across the hardwood floors, delicate bands, like even the sun itself was treading softly. The curtains fluttered gently with the breeze, casting shifting shadows along the bed where Jay still slept beside me. His arm was slung carelessly over the side, fingers twitching slightly in a dream. His breathing was steady, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that felt safe.

I watched him for a moment — not out of worry, but out of gratitude.

I slipped out of bed quietly, easing my weight off the mattress. The floor was cool under my feet. I padded through the apartment, past the hallway lined with jackets, the shoes we kept tripping over, and into the hushed kitchen, which felt like a different world from last night.

I moved slowly. I filled the kettle, listening to the water run, then reached into the fridge for milk and a carton of eggs, going through the motions I’d adopted like second nature since I started sleeping here.

The kettle clicked as it began to heat, but my attention was already drifting elsewhere… to the laptop on the kitchen island. Still tucked away in the corner, right where I had left it. My hand moved before I could think too much about it. I opened it.

Not to scroll, or to click through headlines or notifications, but rather to open the folder I’d been avoiding for weeks: my email drafts.

They stared back at me, all the unsent emails I had written to him. My ex, my liar. They were raw, unedited. Each one was a different timestamp. Some were just one bitter sentence, typed in a rage I didn’t know what to do with. Others were pages long of me spiraling, when sleep was impossible and silence was too loud. They bled through each other to make a mess of mourning and anger.

I re-read a few. Not all thought, I didn’t have the strength for all. I didn’t delete them either, I couldn’t, something about the weight of them didn’t allow me to.

But they didn’t cling to my chest like they used to anymore. My fingers moved over the trackpad, slowly opening a new, blank draft. The cursor blinked at me, expectant, patient. Like it already knew this was long overdue.

To: (no recipients) Subject: (no subject) I’m not okay yet, but I will be. So I’ll do the one thing you never did, I’ll choose the truth. I’m not writing to say I forgive you. I’m writing to say I’m letting you go. Consider this my last email. Sincerely, Fuck you.

I stared at the words for what felt like forever. With a breath that came deeper than I expected, I closed the laptop slowly. was laying something to rest. Gone.

I closed the laptop slowly, the finality of it washing over me like a quiet wave, gone.

My gaze drifted then, settling on the corner of the island where the vase sat. the peonies and roses Jay had brought me three days ago now. Dull of life just last night, now wilting. The petals drooped, a few scattered.

But I didn’t feel sad at the sight, because I knew he’d bring more. I wouldn’t even have to ask.

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itneverendshere · 8 months ago

Text

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - FIVE

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mention of pregnancy; abortion; lack of self-care

You’ve had to make a lot of unfortunate decisions in your life.

Choosing a place for your entire family to rest for eternity, picking the caskets, the headstones—it felt like deciding which curtains to buy for the house, except you were burying your entire close family.

After the crash, your parents were gone instantly, just like that—no goodbyes, no warning, just there one moment and gone the next.

But your sister survived. Three days. You thought maybe that was a sign, she’d live despite everything, and you wouldn’t be left alone.

Two weeks later, the doctors told you it was time, but you couldn’t accept it. You held her hand, begging her to stay, telling her every promise you could think of if she opened her eyes.

When the monitors finally went flat, you couldn’t feel anything but desperation. Rafe had to pull you out of there, his arms locked around you while you kicked and screamed, sobbing and begging your sister not to go, not to leave you here.

You fought him with everything you had left, clawing, crying, pleading for just one more second. You were screaming so loud you didn’t even recognize your voice. Everything good had been ripped away from your hands, there was nothing left of the world you’d known.

After that, you remember sitting in some stuffy funeral home office, skimming through catalogs and hardly seeing the pages through your tears. The caskets all looked the same, the types of wood made no difference to you, fabric linings, all of it felt so wrong.

None of it was a choice you should have to make.

It was unthinkable to be contemplating about gravestones. How could you sum up your family in limited words or dates, let alone choose a font for it?

You just picked something neutral and blank, something that didn’t require thought or emotion because, by then, you had nothing left to give.

Now you were trapped again, caught between a rock and a hard place.

Your first thought had been telling Topper, your only real family left, but he was as much Rafe’s as he was yours, and when it came down to it, he was still his best friend. Loyal to him since they were five, and jesus knows how he’d react if he found out about this. He’d most likely freak the fuck out and tell Rafe everything, thinking he was doing the right thing, or worse, letting it slip to Ruthie.

Ruthie—no chance you’d involve her. She’d just see this as another fucked up piece of gossip she could hold over your head, another way to judge or control you. She was “friend” only in the loosest sense of the word.

Kelce was the last person you’d consider turning to for something this serious. He has always been there, but you never got close. He was too much of an instigator, always pushing Rafe to do reckless things he’d regret later, peer pressuring him in ways that made you wonder if he even knew what loyalty meant. He had this weird loyalty to Ruthie, defending her comments as if she was some misunderstood angel when really, she was just… mean.

So that left Sarah.

It felt weird, thinking of her as the person you’d call on for something so serious, she was the only one who felt… safe. She wouldn’t judge, wouldn’t pry, she’d seen what the worst kind of family conflict could do, and she’d keep this private, just for you.

It’s then you recognized how small your world was. How few people were truly yours.

You were pretty sure no one in this town would fully understand, they’d just offer their "advice," as if they knew you, seen what you’d been through.

The truth was, they didn’t know shit. They hadn't seen you holding your sister’s hand, begging her to stay alive. They didn’t know what it was like to bury everything that made you feel like a person, like you belonged somewhere, and have to get up the next day like nothing happened.

Nine days, you would be halfway across the country, and you needed someone. You pictured saying it out loud: “I’m pregnant", just those two words, to someone’s face, you had no idea what to say next.

Maybe you’d tell them that it wasn’t about wanting it gone out of spite or shame, but because you couldn’t bring a child into a world where you felt this alone.

Earlier that morning, you’d stared down at your phone, thumb itching to click on Sarah’s name, like just pressing "call" could fix everything. You despised how needy it made you feel—reaching out, when you’d prided yourself on surviving alone.

You didn’t have much time to ponder about it, because you were stuck at the beach cleanup.

Just like every other summer, another "social responsibility" event that your late father’s foundation insisted you smile through. Even back then, when they were alive, your summers were a carousel of charity galas, fundraisers, endless hours of small talk, and impeccably arranged seating charts.

The board members of the foundation probably thought it would “ground” you—remind you of your privilege, of your “responsibility” to give back. As if a couple of hours and a few bags of garbage would somehow balance the scales. They never seemed to understand how much of it was all for show, this shallow idea that if you looked the part, no one would care to learn more.

But, still, you’d show up. You always did. Smile, make just enough small talk to appease the right people.

Today, it was just you, a few kids and teens dotted along the beach with oversized trash bags. It wasn’t even noon, but the sun felt like it was scorching you alive. It was laughable, really, standing under this blistering sun with a cheap trash bag and an endless stretch of sand to clean.

Kie, who was so genuinely invested in this whole “save the planet” thing it was almost enviable was there too with JJ, who was running around her as usual, wearing his ‘I’m just here for the ride’ expression but enjoying himself. The love between them made you miss having someone who cared in ways that weren’t just calculated moves.

She waved at you from the shoreline, her eyes moving to the trash bag you were barely half-filling.

You weren’t friends, but if Sarah liked her, you did too.

You offered a faint smile back, tired, because between all the shit you’d been thinking about, you'd forgotten to eat, to drink anything, and every time you leaned down to grab another crumpled plastic bottle or a bit of seaweed-laden garbage, you felt like your legs were about to give out on you.

Every now and then, she would throw a quick, appraising glance your way, like she was expecting you to miraculously become invested in the beach’s ecosystem.

You didn’t have it in you to pretend this was enjoyable today. The “effortless” philanthropy your family loved was a lifestyle you’d never bought into. It didn’t matter how many smiling photos of you had ended up on some charity’s social media—you knew you’d rather be anywhere else.

You had to take a break every few minutes, leaning against a pier post, trying to get yourself together as a few of the younger kids gave you wary glances. You could have left—probably should have.

You managed a tight-lipped smile, giving a thumbs-up that said, Just doing great over here, guys!

You were in a long t-shirt, which hung over your bikini and shorts, the fabric slightly oversized, to help hide what was still a small change in your body. Paranoia was your new best friend, always worrying that someone would notice something different, even if you didn’t have a noticeable bump yet.

Bending down to grab another plastic bottle, you felt a stab of nausea hit you hard, rolling up from your stomach, thick and sour, but you ignored it. Not here. Not now.

You straightened up too fast, and your vision blurred slightly, that familiar sense of vertigo hitting you. You took a shallow breath, ignoring the burn at the back of your throat, your hands shaking slightly as you adjusted the bag slung over your shoulder.

One girl looked up at you with these wide eyes kids like to pull, “Are you okay?”

You smiled, brushing it off as if you weren’t about two seconds away from collapsing. “Of course. Just... need a second.”

The kids were watching you again, with that look of curiosity. You couldn’t look them in the eye. It wasn’t their fault. They just didn’t understand that sometimes the grown-ups didn’t know what they were doing either.

Just a few more bags of trash and you’d be able to get back to your car, maybe grab some water from the cooler in the trunk, sit down, and think about it.

This used to be easy, you got a weird kind of enjoyment from these cleanups, running around with your sister, making it a competition to see who could pick up the most trash, laughing until your stomachs hurt over stupid jokes about jellyfish and sunscreen. Back then, this was just one of a thousand little family traditions, one of those things that felt effortless.

Now, sweat dripped down the back of your neck, making your skin prickle uncomfortably.

You’d long given up wiping it away, knowing that it would only come back thicker and hotter the next second. Every instinct told you to run off to the parking lot, and sit in the car with the AC blasting until your body remembered it didn’t hate you.

Leaning down for one last bottle wedged in the sand, your legs wobbled and gave way beneath you. Just like that, your vision was spotty, as if someone had turned down the brightness on the entire beach, and you pitched forward.

Just as you felt yourself going down, a hand caught your arm, pulling you back up.

"Whoa, whoa, you okay?" A teenage boy, maybe sixteen, gripped your arm firmly, keeping you upright.

How much longer could they realistically expect you to go on, plastering on that sweet, dutiful smile? How much “grounding” could one person take?

You blinked, trying to clear the haze in your eyes, "I’m fine. Just a little lightheaded, really, it’s fine,” you insisted, but then a shadow loomed beside you.

Your vision was so foggy that it took seconds for you to register it.

You looked up slowly, feeling a familiar drop in your stomach as you realized who it was.

The last time you’d been this close to him, the two of you had been screaming insults across the room, Lily having to physically step in. She’d forced him to leave before you two killed each other. It was a miracle you hadn’t punched him then and there.

“You should sit down.”

It felt like a sidekick to your chest.

The sound of his voice was grinding on your nerves, and just like that you were stuck back in your dream, a real memory, leaning against him, his hand playing with a strand of your hair as he laughed at something you’d said, the two of you carefree under a golden sunset.

Except this was real.

Rafe was shirtless, with his board tucked under one arm, surf wax staining his fingers, and the sun glinting off his damp skin, like he was God’s gift to the Outer Banks. His buzzed hair was dark and wet, droplets trailing down his temples and catching along his jawline. His cheeks were flushed, a little red from the heat.

You looked away, somewhere over his shoulder, anywhere but at him, refusing to let him see you in this fragile state.

“Go away. I’m fine.”

But he didn’t move.

He’d been summoned from your absolute worst memories, catching you at your lowest when you least wanted his help. Typical.

“No,” he refused firmly, with that stupid, stubborn look that made you want to throw something at his head. “I’ve seen you almost fall three times now.”

“Maybe if you stopped looking at me like a creep, you wouldn’t have to see me ‘almost fall.”

“I wasn’t—"

You grounded your teeth, “Just go back to surfing.”

Rafe let out a dry laugh, shaking his head as if you were the one acting crazy. “Yeah, 'cause you look perfectly stable right now.”

He'd always been a master of the passive-aggressive half-sneer, the art of making you feel like everyone else was imposing on his day, no matter the situation.

“Don’t act like you care.” you snapped, voice carrying over the sand, earning a few glances from nearby kids.

He ran a hand over his face, looking around as if he didn’t want to be there any more than you did, mouth pressed into a tight line. You wanted to scream that this was his fault too, that every choice he’d made led to you standing here alone, exhausted, and terrified.

“Water would help, y’know”, his tone just shy of patronizing “You can’t go around dehydrating yourself just to make a point.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Your fingers twitched with the urge to send him stumbling to the other side of the beach, you knew that any sudden movement would make you light-headed again, and the last thing you wanted was to give him more proof of your weakness.

The kid—still standing there, eyes wide and darting between you both—looked like he was watching a reality TV show when Kiara appeared at your side.

“Let’s not do this here,” she begged under her breath, handing you a bottle of water she’d brought over, a kindness you didn’t want but couldn’t reject. “Just sit down for a second, please?”

JJ followed, always with that air of easygoing nonchalance, but his eyes were serious as he glanced from you to Rafe.

“She’s right. Just take a second, yeah?” He looked over at Rafe, “Maybe you should leave,” he said pointedly.

“Maybe you should mind your fuckin’ business Maybank.”

“Look, uh,” the kid stammered, knowing he could get caught in the crossfire. “I’ll… I’ll go see if anyone needs help further down the beach…”

You waved him off, your focus still locked on Rafe as the kid all but bolted away, you didn’t want anyone to think they had to “rescue” you.

You tried to take a step back, but the little strength you had in you disappeared as you felt your knees wobble.

"Jesus," you heard him groan, and then his hands were on your arms, board on the sand, holding you as you stumbled. "I told you to sit down."

You shook his hands off, "Don’t tell me what to do.”

It was hard to believe the two of you had once burned hotter than any bonfire, two people who got under each other’s skin, in love, and in hate.

He let out an exasperated sigh while you took a sip from the water Kiara handed you, ignoring how your hands were still shaking around the bottle.

She spoke again, trying to be the voice of reason, "We’re here to help the community, remember?"

JJ smirked, "Yeah, think the sea turtles are rooting for y’all to work out your issues somewhere else.”

You ignored his joke, keeping your eyes on Rafe, your pride and stubbornness refusing to let him win, “I’m fine.”

“Yeah?”

He looked you over, his gaze fixed to your warm cheeks and the dewy sheen across your temple, “You look real fine, don’t you?” He didn’t even try to cloak his sarcasm.

God, he could be so exasperating.

He couldn’t understand. How could he even think he could look at you now and know anything about who you were? Standing there, with that stupid board and that look, like he couldn’t imagine anything bothering him as much as this seemed to be bothering you.

As if he hadn’t already ruined you in so many ways that felt impossible to get over.

“Don’t you have something better to do?”

“Oh, believe me, I do,” he drawled, his eyes trailing from the waves back to you.

You were tired of this game, of fighting him every time he showed up only to leave you feeling even emptier than before.

Your fists clenched, and you opened your mouth to hurl something back, but the dizziness hit you again. Before you could compose yourself, Rafe’s arm wrapped around your waist, strong and frustratingly secure, holding you upright with an ease that made your skin crawl.

He had seen you at your weakest, had been there at the hospital after the accident, keeping you together when you were certain you’d break.

Yet, here you were, in a sick way, back in his arms, all broken apart.

“That’s it. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“I hate to say it, but he’s right,” JJ chimed in, hand shielding his eyes from the sun.

The world alone had all kinds of alarms going off in your brain. You fought back instinctively, your hands pushing at his chest, freeing your arm.

“I told you, I’m fine.”

He let go, but he didn’t back away.

Instead, he narrowed his eyes, “You think I don’t know what fine looks like? I was there.”

He was there. And you didn’t want to be reminded of it, not in front of other people.

He meant the exhaustion and hunger pains you’d welcomed after your family was gone, embraced even, because it meant you wouldn’t have to feel anything else.

You’d wanted to disappear, and he’d been there—dragging you back, forcing you to drink water and swallow bites of food, even when you pushed him away. He’d seen you at your absolute lowest, where you didn’t care if you made it through the day.

The thought of the hospital, tests, questions, you fought it, but your vision was already blurring.

You couldn’t let him find out about the baby.

Your breathing felt tighter, each shallow breath only making the spinning worse, you could sense your body giving in to the exhaustion

“Shit,” you heard him curse, sounding distant now like he was farther away.

You felt yourself sway as if the ground was opening beneath you, there was a ringing in your ears that made his voice sound muffled but you still felt his arms catching you again, holding you upright before you fell.

Waking up in a moving vehicle was like emerging from a nightmare, except somehow, this was worse, because you were no longer at the beach.

You blinked hard, desperate to wipe the fogginess in your eyes and when it did go away, you realized who was behind the wheel.

Rafe.

Your heart pounded—your desperation to keep the baby a secret, how you almost passed out at the beach, and the fact that now he was most likely driving you to the hospital.

“What the hell are you doing?” you practically screamed, your voice hoarse from the lack of water.

He didn’t spare you a glance, “You passed out, genius. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

Your whole body went rigid. “Are you insane?”

“Me?” He scoffed, as he kept his focus on the road. “You practically ate sand back there. You’re not fine.”

“Turn the car around. I’ll call my driver and be fine.” You huffed like he was too dumb to understand. “I don’t need your help.”

He let out a dry laugh, still not looking at you.

“Yeah. You’re out of your mind if you think I’m letting you out of this car right now.”

“Rafe, I’m not kidding,” you warned, louder this time. “Stop. The. Car.”

He gave you a sideways glance, his grip on the wheel tightening.

“Not happening.”

Your heart hammered as you realized he wasn’t going to back down, you were driven by sheer desperation.

“Fine, then I’ll do it myself." you muttered, reaching for the door handle.

Anything to get out of this suffocating car before he dragged you all the way to the ER and they found out you were pregnant—with his baby, no less.

His eyes widened, finally snapping from the road to your hand on the handle.

“Are you crazy? Get your hand off that, I’m fuckin' serious.”

You yanked at it anyway, twisting the handle and pulling with spiteful defiance, and Rafe’s expression went from annoyed to full-on rage. He swerved the car to the side of the road, tires skidding as he slammed the brakes and practically threw the car into park.

Before he could even stop fully, you flung the door open and stumbled out, sandals sinking into the gravel as you stalked away.

You didn’t get more than a few feet, he was already bolting after you.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you muttered, digging your nails into your palms.

How the hell had it come to this? You were stuck here, pregnant with his child, and he played the reluctant hero like you needed him swooping in to save you.

Rafe reached you in two strides, his fingers were digging into his forehead, pointing at it with exasperation imprinted into every corner of his face.

“Are you out of your fuckin' mind?” He sounded like he was talking to some unruly child.

And the worst part? You could see that frustration in his eyes, the same look he used to give you when he’d reached his limit with you.

You wondered if he ever got to that point with Sofia.

What would he do if she was the one almost fainting? Would he still look like she was some colossal burden, or would he soften, maybe even smile as he fussed over her, acting like he wanted to help?

You hated yourself for caring at all.

Sofia—the one who looked like she'd been ripped off from some perfect postcard, all wide-eyed sweetness and gentle smiles. She probably never challenged him, snapped back, or made him want to pull his hair out.

There was no way he’d look at her like she was a mess, someone he just had to “deal with.” He likely saw her as easy, perfect,��all soft and sweet words, everything you weren’t.

This wasn’t who you wanted to be, and yet here you were, stumbling around half-dead and pregnant with his child.

“I’m sorry, am I bothering you?” You spat the words, watching his jaw clench tighter.

He exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes.

“Unbelievable. Only you could take me trying to help and turn it into this.”

You were done. You were done with the memories, with the torment of seeing him be something better for someone else.

“Help?” You laughed bitterly, the anger engulfing you so hard it felt as if it choking you. “You think this is help? That I need you, of all people?”

He took a step back, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I'm trying to help."

You hated how calm he was, how rational he sounded.

It was maddening when all you wanted was for him to get angry, to let that icy surface crack, to give you even a glimpse of something real, something that wasn’t just irritation or sarcasm.

You wanted proof that he still was affected by you, that this was the same guy who used to be everything, who’d promised you everything.

But you swallowed it down, straightening up, because there was no way in hell, you’d let him see even a hint of weakness.

“Trust me,” you shot back, “I’ll be just fine without you.”

He raised an eyebrow, a bitter smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “Get in the car.”

“No,” you said, firm and unyielding, every inch of you screaming that you wouldn’t let him decide anything for you ever again.

“Fine. Have it your way.”

In one swift move, he reached out, his hands gripping your arms with enough pressure to pull you forward, lifting you clean off your feet. Your breath caught in a furious gasp as he practically dragged you back to the car, his fingers warm against your skin, like you were just a mild convenience.

“Put me down!”

You struggled against his hold, jabbing at his chest with what little strength you could muster, but he didn’t even flinch, didn’t so much as hesitate.

“Rafe, I swear—”

He opened the passenger door with one hand, keeping a firm grip on you with the other, before finally setting you down—not gently—onto the seat. Without meaning to, tears began falling as you struggled against his hands. You could feel them wetting your cheeks, your voice was breaking, jumping to distress as you tried to twist out of his hold, feeling so small under his unrelenting strength.

He almost knelt in front of you, reaching for the seat belt with one hand, while his other remained firmly on your shoulder, holding you still. You felt trapped, impresioned as you tried to turn in every direction, hands weakly pushing him back, but he caught them effortlessly.

“Stop!” you meekly choked out, failing to shove him, the words coming out shameful.

You could feel your heart breaking all over again.

You hated that he was seeing you like this, how he dared to act like you needed him—it made your skin crawl. You hated that he could do this, like he had any right like you’d ever wanted him involved in this part of your life, let alone now.

This was a version of you only Rafe could bring out.

You glared up at him, practically shaking with rage as Rafe ignored your protests like you were nothing more than a child throwing a fit.

“Get your hands off me.”

His jaw tightened, ignoring the flailing punches and slaps grazing him, and you couldn’t stop the sob that escaped, loud and ugly.

“I’m not letting you kill yourself out of spite.”

Your chest hurt like you’d been run over a hundred times—it felt suffocating. “I hate you.”

For the first time, you thought he might actually leave you here.

His fingers stopped as if your words had made an impact, his lips pressed into a thin line. Your vision blurred as he leaned in, his touch hovering as if to wipe away the tear running down your cheek, but he didn’t, instead, he closed his hand into a fist and drew back, his face just inches from yours.

A faint, humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he clicked the seatbelt into place. He made a low humming noise, that thing he did when he was getting ready to make someone feel two inches tall.

"Yeah? Get in line."

Without another word, he pulled back, slamming the door shut, and walking around to the driver’s side.

You wiped at your cheeks, furious that he’d seen you like this, that he had the power to break you down. It was humiliating, sitting here in his car, every part of your body screaming to escape.

He got in, started the engine, neither of you spoke.

Rafe drove fast, every rev of the engine matching the churning in your stomach perfectly. You sat there, trembling, the dread building with every mile that passed. You gripped the seatbelt so hard it felt like your entire body might go numb, and stared straight ahead, breathing shallow, trying to ignore the sting in your eyes.

You bit back another wave of nausea. Weakness.

You’d already shown him too much.

You didn’t need a lecture from some doctor on how you “should’ve taken better care of yourself", let alone with Rafe there, watching, scrutinizing, acting like this was his business when he’d made it clear long ago that it wasn’t. He was in your space in the worst way, reopening all the wounds.

You were seething. He had no right to do this.

The thought made you want to drop dead—doctor would walk in, casually drop the news about the baby, and you'd be left watching his reaction in real time.

You looked at the entrance to the ER. The vision of anyone running tests, of some well-meaning nurse, coming in and spilling everything about the baby in front of him—no way. You wouldn’t let that happen.

He wasted no time getting out, moving around to your side, while you sat rigidly, staring straight ahead. His hand was already on the door, yanking it open, looking down at you like he was ready to drag you inside if he had to.

You weren’t moving. You knew the second you stepped inside, it would be over.

“C’mon,” Rafe pressed, his hand outstretched, hovering there like he thought he could compel you to listen. “Stop being so stubborn.”

You crossed your arms over your stomach, refusing to meet his eyes.

“I’m not going in.”

Rafe let out a sigh, nearing his limit, and knelt down to your level.

“Look, you passed out. I’m not leaving until you get checked out.”

“You’re gonna be here for a while then.”

“Would you stop?” His voice softened for the first time, as if he was trying to reach some part of you that he thought still cared. “You look like you haven’t slept in days, like you haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t out of a vending machine. I know you don’t want my help, but can you just stop for a second and—”

“And what?” you interrupted.

“And think! If you don’t get in there, I’ll drag you in myself.”

Your heart raced, “You wouldn’t dare.”

Rafe stepped closer; his jaw set in determination. “Try me.”

“You’re not coming in."

He blinked like the idea hadn’t even occurred to him. “What?”

Maybe he was seeing the protection you’d built up around yourself since he left, how there was no longer any crack left open for him to slip through.

“I don’t need you. I don’t want you in there.”

“Fine.” His tone was clipped, restrained. “But I’ll be right here.”

You slammed the door shut behind you, not letting him your legs still shaking. You’d rather collapse face-first into the concrete than give him the satisfaction of listening to him.

“Yeah, you do that,” you replied, turning and walking toward the entrance, refusing to look back.

Stepping inside, you felt a slight tremor run through you—part relief, part panic. The lights were too bright, almost white. Your heart wobbled, replaying how he’d been such a fucking asshole to you.

You’d forgotten how mean he could be, how easily he could go from angry to something so frigid it made you want to cry yourself to sleep.

“Hi there,” The receptionist greeted, her eyes moving over you with a professional once-over, “What brings you in today?”

You forced a small smile, knowing she wouldn’t buy it.

“Just…got a little dehydrated, that’s all.”

“Okay…let’s just get some basic information.” She clicked into her computer, her fingers poised over the keyboard. “Name?”

You cleared your throat, rattling off your full name, she nodded, typing it in.

“Have you experienced any other symptoms besides dizziness?”

“Nothing serious,” you replied, dismissively. “It’s just the heat, like I said. I just need some water and I’ll be good as new.”

This had to be a fucking nightmare you got sucked in, you could sense your blood pressure spike.

She tapped her screen and glanced back at you.

“Alright, Miss Thornton, it looks like we’ll just need a few quick details here to get you all checked in. Can I start with your insurance provider?”

A chuckle almost slipped out of you. Insurance—God, you were fine with insurance. What you weren’t okay with was everything else. You answered, “Blue Cross.”

She asked for your birthdate, which you gave on autopilot, hoping she’d skip any weird or invasive questions. “Any allergies?”

You shook your head. Please, just let this be over.

“It’s really not a big deal,” You blurted out, giving her a thin smile and forcing calm into your voice. “I just need the IV. You know, standard stuff.”

“Of course, dear. We’ll get things started, it will include routine tests, like bloodwork, just to be safe.”

Bloodwork. Perfect. You were doing everything you could to keep from falling into that spiraling panic mode.

Please, just get me in, get me out, and don’t find anything.

“Just head down to Room 12.”

All you could think was that you wanted this to be over—before the whole town, or worse, he, found out. It made you want to scream. He was the last person who should be outside.

This was his fault. You’d never be here if he hadn’t shown up.

The next hour passed in seconds—questions, forms, an IV drip.

They’d done blood work, too, but you’d sighed in relief when they’d told you the results wouldn’t be ready immediately. As far as they knew, you’d just overdone it, and now, as you lay on a cot in a room that reeked of sick people, all they’d prescribed was rest, hydration, and food.

When the nurse asked if anyone could pick you up, the thought of calling someone, asking them to see you like this, made you delirious. You didn’t need anyone; you were perfectly fine on your own.

But you also didn’t want Rafe and his delusional ass to barge through the doors.

The nurse moved around you awkwardly, eyes still expectant, as if you were just a button away from a reliable “someone” to come running.

You looked at her, controlling the compulsion to yell. Little people ever bothered to check on you, to show up for more than just the drama or gossip.

Out of them, only one face bounced around in your head.

“Yeah, I got someone.”

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