#Waterlogging Monitoring

[chriswu08]

Cellular 4G SMS Monitoring System RTU Used in Smart City Waterlogging Monitoring

Background

Flood disasters have a huge impact on people and may cause harm to people’s lives and property safety. Therefore, it is particularly important to build an urban waterlogging monitoring system.

There are some problems with the traditional solutions for dealing with flood accidents in the past：

1. There are many water level monitoring points and manual inspection is slow.

In the past, operation and maintenance personnel regularly went to waterlogging points along drainage pipes and inspected them one by one and recorded them on paper. Personnel regularly inspect flood-prone points such as drainage pipes one by one and use paper records. Data records may contain errors and are not real-time, making it impossible to accurately judge the operating status of facilities and conduct comprehensive assessments.

2. The transmission of early warning information is slow and prone to failure.

Early warning and forecasting mainly rely on broadcasting, but in some places flash flood broadcasting lacks a management and protection mechanism, and there are weak links in operation and maintenance. It is easy to malfunction and “lose the voice” at critical times, and there are hidden dangers in the transmission of early warning information.

3. Data sharing is difficult. The platform needs to collect data for prediction, but the data collected by collectors is not timely.

Program overview

Real-time monitoring of flow/velocity/water levels at key points such as drainage pipe networks, waterlogging points, rivers, and drainage outlets. Based on GPS positioning, the geographical information of each monitoring point and various types of monitored data are displayed in a visual way. Relevant personnel learned about the waterlogging situation in various key waterlogged road sections in the city in a short period of time

According to the set alarm rules, when the water level indicator exceeds the limit or other abnormal conditions or equipment fails, real-time alarm monitoring is performed through the supervision platform/text message/phone, etc., and the administrator is immediately notified, reducing the difficulty of manual inspection. Linked LED displays, broadcasts, warning lights, etc. can be used to release information in real time, and can be linked to on-site drainage equipment (such as water pumps) for timely drainage. The entire risk warning process has also been simplified, and the efficiency of solving waterlogging problems can also be improved. Effectively avoid and delay the occurrence of urban waterlogging.

Solution Advantage

4G SMS Monitoring System RTU S274 supports a variety of I/O, 485 access, can complete multi-parameter hybrid measurements, and the wireless communication module meets the data calling and sharing of various IoT cloud platforms such as Huawei Cloud and Alibaba Cloud to maximize the use of information. Supports multiple transmission protocols such as MODBUS RTU and MODBUS TCP. And it has diversified features, such as supporting transparent transmission, encrypted transmission, anti-dropout mechanism and other functions.

It is easy to install, small in size and low in cost. It integrates functions such as data collection, storage, control, communication and remote management, and can perform all-weather data collection and uploading. Adopting high-standard industrial-grade design, R&D, testing, and production, and passing strict testing in a professional testing environment, it can fully cope with the complex and harsh environment of urban flood sites, greatly reducing and simplifying system maintenance and after-sales work.

In addition, video surveillance images are uploaded in real time to provide strong data support for comprehensive management and control of monitoring points, disaster response command, and accident emergency response.

It supports connecting LED screens and other signboards to display water accumulation in real time, and supports traffic light control on road and bridge sections. When the water accumulation reaches the threshold, it can prevent passers-by from wading in the water in time, effectively preventing the safety of life and property, and is committed to helping build smart cities.

More information view: https://www.bliiot.com/remote-terminal-unit-p00353p1.html

[unusualwhatsits]

Grumpy

[mahalachives]

Part 4: The Thread That Would Not Break

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

Darkness claimed you completely as the last strands of the mating bond began to snap.

The pain was exquisite—each golden thread breaking with the force of a lightning strike through your chest.

Your consciousness floated in the liminal space between worlds, untethered and drifting.

Then, distantly, you felt it—a tug toward your old life.

The steady beep of hospital monitors, the antiseptic smell, the scratchy sheets against your skin. Your real body, waiting for you to return.

The sensation grew stronger, pulling you away from Prythian, away from magic and immortality and heartbreak.

Home.

You were going home.

But as your soul began to slide away, another pull—stronger, more insistent—wrapped around you.

The mating bond, refusing to be severed completely. It burned through the darkness, a golden lifeline refusing to let you go.

In its place. Murky water, illuminated with an eerie blue-green glow.

The Azure Pool.

You were floating beneath the surface, your body limp and unresponsive, hair drifting around your face like flame underwater. The cold pressed in from all sides, a crushing weight that seemed to compress your very soul.

Then. Strong arms pulling you upward, breaking the surface.

The shock of air against your wet skin. Being dragged to shore, your waterlogged body laid out on soft grass. The sensation was so vivid you could feel individual blades of grass pressing against your back, the rough texture of wet leather against your skin, the cool autumn air raising goosebumps along your arms.

Your perspective shifted, and suddenly you could see yourself—pale, lips blue, utterly still—and above you, Azriel.

The shadowsinger knelt over your body, his face a mask of desperate concentration.

No words escaped him, but his shadows betrayed his anguish, writhing in frantic patterns around him like living embodiments of grief.

They formed jagged, panicked shapes, reaching into your mouth, your nose, as if trying to pull the water out by force. Water dripped from his hair, his wings, his leathers—he'd dived in after you without hesitation.

He tilted your head back, pinched your nose, and sealed his mouth over yours, breathing air into your unresponsive lungs. The contrast was shocking—his lips warm despite the cold water, firm and insistent against yours.

His eyes never closed, fixed on your face with fierce intensity that belied his usual emotional control. He pulled back, pressed hard against your chest in rhythmic compressions, then returned to breathe for you again.

The raw emotion on his face—normally so controlled, so emotionless—was staggering.

Gone was the cold, professional mask.

In its place was naked fear, desperate determination, and something else, something that made your non-existent heart twist painfully in your spectral chest.

Again he pressed his mouth to yours, breathing life into you.

Again the compressions, harder now, desperate.

His wings trembled with the effort, water still cascading from them in silver droplets that caught the strange light of the pool. His shadows were extensions of his fear, probing your airways, massaging your heart through your ribcage, working in tandem with his physical efforts to revive you.

And through it all, the mating bond—that golden thread you'd tried so hard to sever—pulsed weakly between your bodies.

With each compression, each breath, it glowed a little stronger, a beacon in the growing darkness. It was a living thing, fighting for its own survival as desperately as Azriel fought for yours.

You could feel it now—a tugging sensation deep in your soul, pulling you back toward your abandoned body.

Back toward him.

The connection was tangible, a golden lifeline stretching between the hospital and the Azure Pool, between your two separate existences.

Let go, a quiet voice whispered in your mind. Let go and return to your real life.

But the golden thread pulled harder, more insistently.

The pain in your chest intensified, no longer the dull ache of something severed but the sharp, immediate agony of something fighting to reconnect.

It was demanding a choice—stay or go, live or die, belong or remain forever adrift between worlds.

On the shore, Azriel paused his compressions, his face twisting with something beyond despair. His shoulders slumped, his hands falling away from your chest.

For the first time since you'd met him, his emotions were written plainly across his face—grief, denial, rage, and beneath it all, a terrible, aching loss that made your spectral heart break for him.

Come back, the bond seemed to whisper. Not his voice. Not yours. Something else entirely, ancient and powerful. Come back.

The hospital room flickered around you, growing fainter with each beat of your heart. The beeping of the monitors slowed, fading to distant echoes. Reality itself seemed to hang in the balance, waiting for your decision.

Stay or go, the voice whispered. Choose.

The golden thread pulsed once more, brighter than before, stretching between your chest and his. It was no longer just a connection—it was a choice, a path back to a life you'd abandoned, to a world where you might, against all odds, belong.

Choose.

Time seemed to stop as you considered. Your human life was safe, known, logical. Your family, your career, your future—all waiting for you back in that hospital bed.

But it felt distant now, insubstantial compared to the vivid reality of Azriel's grief, the cool press of grass against your back. The mating bond thrummed between you, more real than anything you'd ever experienced in your human life.

You reached for the thread—not to sever it this time, but to follow it home.

To him.

Pain exploded through your body, a burning rush that filled every nerve ending. It was as if every cell was simultaneously dying and being reborn, rearranged according to some new pattern that accommodated both worlds, both lives, both versions of yourself.

You gasped, choking, water flooding from your mouth as your lungs spasmed violently.

Your eyes flew open to find Azriel's face hovering above yours, his expression transforming from grief to shock to something else entirely.

Fury.

His hazel eyes, rimmed with red blazed with barely contained rage.

His jaw clenched so tightly you could see the muscles working beneath his skin. His shadows whipped around him in violent patterns, no longer reaching for you but forming sharp, dangerous shapes that reflected the storm of emotions he refused to voice.

You coughed again, more water expelling from your lungs in a painful rush that burned your throat and chest.

You tried to speak, to explain, to apologize. "Az—"

He cut you off, not with words but with a look so fierce it stole what little breath you'd regained. The temperature around you dropped several degrees, as if his anger had physically chilled the air.

Without a sound, he gathered you into his arms and stood, wings unfurling to their full, impressive span.

You had just enough time to register that his entire body was trembling—with relief or rage, you couldn't tell—before he launched into the sky, carrying you away from the pool that had almost claimed your life. The wind whipped past your face, cold and bracing after the warmth of his arms.

The golden thread between you pulsed stronger now, solid and real—a connection you could no longer deny or escape. It hummed with a strange harmony, as if finally satisfied that its two halves were once again united.

The world fell away beneath you, trees and land shrinking rapidly as Azriel carried you higher and higher. The wind rushed past, stealing what little breath you'd regained. You instinctively curled closer to his chest, seeking warmth against the biting cold of high altitude.

He flew in silence, his arms like iron bands around your shivering form. His heartbeat was steady against your ear, a metronome counting the seconds of this unexpected reprieve. You didn't dare speak, afraid that any word might break whatever fragile thing had compelled him to save you.

As the miles fell away beneath his powerful wings, your thoughts swirled in confusion.

Why had he come for you? How had he known where to find you? And most importantly—why did he care whether you lived or died when he had made it so abundantly clear that he wanted nothing to do with you?

The mating bond offered no answers, only a steady pulse of shared life between you.

When the Autumn Court came into view, its forests ablaze with eternal fall, Azriel began to descend. The castle rose from the horizon, amber windows glowing like cat's eyes in the fading light. Servants moved through the gardens, their copper-colored uniforms distinctive even from this height.

Azriel's descent was rapid but controlled, bringing you down with practiced precision at the edge of the formal gardens. The moment his feet touched earth, a cry went up from the nearest guards.

"The Lady has returned!" "Call the healers!" "An Illyrian warrior!"

Weapons were drawn, arrows nocked, and fire bloomed in Autumn Fae palms. The scent of aggression spiked in the air, sharp and metallic.

Azriel ignored them all, striding forward with you still cradled against his chest. His wings remained half-spread, a threatening display that made the guards hesitate despite their numbers. His shadows writhed around him, reaching like tentacles into the spaces between guards, testing for threats.

"Stand down," he commanded, his voice pitched low but carrying with undeniable authority. "Your Lady needs assistance."

Something in his tone—or perhaps the sight of you, pale and shivering in his arms—made the guards lower their weapons fractionally. They parted reluctantly, creating a path toward a stone platform in the center of the garden.

As Azriel carried you forward, servants began to appear—drawn by the commotion or perhaps alerted by the guards. Among them was Briar, her copper-brown hair escaping its pins as she ran toward you.

"My lady!" she cried, her face draining of color as she took in your soaked clothing and blue-tinged lips. "What happened? Are you—"

She froze as Azriel's shadows curled toward her, a silent warning. The shadowsinger laid you gently on the stone platform, his movements careful despite the rigid set of his shoulders.

"Blankets," he ordered, not looking away from you. "Dry clothes. Healer."

The servants scattered immediately, rushing to obey despite the unprecedented situation of taking orders from a Night Court warrior in the heart of Autumn territory. Only Briar remained, hovering anxiously at the edge of the platform.

"She needs a healer," she said, her voice trembling slightly but firm.

Azriel's only acknowledgment was a slight incline of his head, but it was enough. Briar turned and ran toward the castle, calling for healers as she went.

As the garden emptied of all but a few distant guards, Azriel finally straightened to his full height. His wings folded behind him with deliberate precision, each movement controlled and measured. His face remained expressionless as he stared down at you, water still dripping from his leathers onto the stone beside your head.

He turned to leave without a word, his back a rigid line of barely contained emotion.

"Wait," you croaked, the word painful in your raw throat.

He paused, his body tensing further, but didn't turn.

"Please," you whispered.

Slowly, agonizingly, he turned back to face you.

The sight of him stole what little breath you'd managed to recover. His face was a study in controlled fury—jaw clenched, eyes blazing with golden fire, shadows writhing around him in agitated patterns.

But beneath the anger, barely visible but unmistakable, was fear.

He had been afraid.

"What," he asked, each word precise and deadly calm, "were you doing in that lake?"

Your heart stuttered in your chest.

The mating bond flared between you, carrying emotions too complex to name. The truth lodged in your throat, but you swallowed it back. He wouldn't understand—or worse, he would think you mad. Either way, it would give him more reason to reject you.

Instead, tears welled in your eyes, spilling over to track down your already wet cheeks. The sight of them made Azriel's shadows still briefly before surging forward, as if they had a will of their own.

"Why do you care?" you asked, your voice cracking painfully. "You made it perfectly clear you want nothing to do with me."

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes.

The temperature around you plummeted as his shadows expanded, filling the space with their cold presence.

"Is that what this was?" he demanded, taking a step closer to the platform. "Some kind of desperate bid for attention?"

The accusation in his voice ignited something in your chest—a spark of anger that quickly blazed into fury. Despite the pain, you pushed yourself up to sitting, glaring at him through tear-filled eyes.

"You think I tried to kill myself because of you?" Your voice rose, cracking on the last word. "Your arrogance truly knows no bounds, shadowsinger."

The pink bunnies appeared without warning, materializing from thin air around your clenched fists. They were different this time—not the playful creatures from before, but twisted, angry things with flames for eyes and sharp, gleaming teeth. They hopped agitatedly around you, leaving scorch marks on the stone.

Azriel's eyes widened fractionally, his shadows pulling back as if surprised by this display of power.

"Then explain," he pressed, his voice dangerously soft. "Why would the Lady of the Autumn Court be drowning herself in a magical lake?"

"I don't answer to you," you hissed, the words tearing from your throat. One of the flame bunnies leapt toward him, dissipating against the wall of shadows he instinctively raised. "I don't answer to anyone in this godforsaken place!"

More bunnies materialized, bouncing frantically around you as your control slipped. Small fires bloomed where they landed, smoking holes in the immaculate garden.

"Everyone hates me for things I never did!" you continued, your voice breaking. "For actions I never took! For a person I've never been!"

Azriel went completely still, even his shadows freezing in place. "What do you mean?"

"You wouldn't understand," you rasped, tears flowing freely now. "No one does."

One of the flame bunnies hopped onto your lap, nuzzling against your stomach. Despite everything, the sight was so absurd that a hiccuping sob-laugh escaped you.

"Why should you care if I died?" you whispered, stroking the fiery creature with trembling fingers. "It would solve your problem, wouldn't it? No more unwanted mate. No more reminder of... whatever it is about me that you hate so much."

The quiet that followed was absolute.

Even the flame bunnies stilled, sensing the gravity of the moment. Azriel remained motionless, his face unreadable, his shadows pulled tight around him.

When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully neutral. "You truly believe that's what I want?"

"What else am I supposed to think?" you asked bitterly. "You've made your disgust perfectly clear."

Something shifted in his expression then—not softening, exactly, but changing. His shadows stirred restlessly, reaching toward you before he pulled them back.

"You crossed territories, winnowed to an Illyrian war camp, and confronted a warrior centuries older than you... to say goodbye before trying to drown yourself." His voice was flat, but his eyes burned with unreadable emotion.

"The bond wouldn't let me go without saying goodbye," you whispered. "It hurt too much."

Azriel took a single step closer, his movements predatory and precise.

"And did it occur to you," he asked, his voice deceptively soft, "that there might be a reason for that?"

Before you could answer, servants reappeared with blankets and a steaming mug.

They hesitated at the sight of your flaming bunnies, but Briar pushed forward bravely, draping a thick blanket around your shoulders and pressing the mug into your hands.

"Drink, my lady," she urged, casting nervous glances at Azriel. "The healers are coming."

You sipped obediently, the hot tea burning your raw throat but spreading welcome warmth through your chest. The flame bunnies began to fade, one by one, as your emotions stabilized.

Azriel watched this all in silence, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts.

His shadows, however, stretched toward you again, as if testing the truth of your words through touch.

When the healers arrived, bustling with efficiency and concern, Azriel stepped back. His wings shifted behind him, preparing for flight.

"This isn't finished," he said quietly, his words meant for you alone. "We will speak again."

It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't acceptance. But it was something—a promise, however reluctant, that this wasn't the end.

The mating bond hummed between you, no longer fighting but settling, a golden thread connecting two souls across an impossible divide.

As Azriel launched himself skyward, his powerful wings carrying him swiftly away, you felt something unfamiliar bloom in your chest.

Hope.

Small, fragile, but undeniably there—like the first green shoot after a forest fire.

Whatever came next, you were still here. Still alive. Still bound to this world, this court, this shadowsinger who had pulled you from the depths despite everything.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

Sunlight filtered through amber-stained glass, painting warm patterns across your bed as you stared at the ceiling of your chamber.

The healers had done their work efficiently—lungs cleared, temperature restored, physical damage repaired. But they couldn't heal the confusion swirling in your mind like the shadows that had enveloped you at the lake.

You'd failed. Again.

The mating bond had tethered you to this world with unrelenting tenacity, refusing to let you escape back to your real life.

And Azriel—cold, furious Azriel—had physically dragged you from the waters that might have been your passage home.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," you muttered, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. "I should never have gone to say goodbye."

Your flame magic responded to your agitation, small pink rabbits materializing on your bedspread. One hopped onto your chest, its fiery weight oddly comforting as it nuzzled against your collarbone.

"Next time," you told the rabbit seriously, "I'll avoid magical lakes. Maybe a cliff? Or poison—something fast-acting that can't be treated." You frowned, considering your options. "Perhaps if I got far enough away from Prythian entirely... somewhere across the sea where no one could find me in time."

The rabbit tilted its flaming head, ears twitching as if confused by your morbid planning session.

"Don't look at me like that," you scolded. "You're literally made of fire. You have no survival instinct whatsoever."

The rabbit responded by multiplying, and suddenly six small flame bunnies were bouncing on your bed, leaving charred paw prints on the silk sheets.

"Great," you sighed. "More evidence of my deteriorating mental state."

You brushed halfheartedly at a smoking spot on your pillowcase.

The rumors had already spread throughout the castle—the Lady of Autumn, found half-drowned by a Night Court shadowsinger. The whispers followed you even here, in your private chambers.

"She tried to kill herself because of the mating bond rejection... the shame was too much... she's even more unstable than before..."

If only they knew the truth—that you weren't trying to die, just trying to get home.

That this body, this court, this entire world wasn't yours to begin with.

A knock at your door interrupted your thoughts.

Briar entered without waiting for a response, her face pinched with worry. She took one look at the flame rabbits desecrating your bedding and her eyes widened.

"My lady, perhaps it would be best to... disperse your little friends before your audience?"

"Audience?" you repeated, sitting up so quickly that two rabbits tumbled off the bed with indignant squeaks. "What audience?"

Briar's hands twisted nervously in her apron. "Lord Beron has commanded your presence immediately. In the Great Hall."

Your stomach dropped faster than a flame bunny falling off a bed. "Lord Beron? My... father? He's back from the Dawn Court already?"

"The High Lord returned the moment he heard about the... incident." Briar's voice dropped to a whisper. "Lord Eris is with him. And your brothers."

"All of them?" you asked, your voice climbing an octave higher. "How many brothers do I have again?"

Briar gave you a strange look. "Five, my lady. Though... Lord Lucien is at the Spring Court."

"Right. Of course. Five brothers. Totally knew that." You ran a hand through your hair, trying to calm your racing heart. "And they're all... angry?"

"I wouldn't presume to know the High Lord's emotions," Briar replied diplomatically, though her expression said otherwise.

You groaned, flopping back onto your pillows. "He's furious, isn't he?"

"The word 'incandescent' was used by one of the guards," Briar admitted. "Along with 'apocalyptic' and 'preparing the torture chambers.'"

"Torture chambers?!" you squeaked.

"That may have been an exaggeration," Briar conceded, though she didn't sound entirely convinced. "But Lord Beron is... displeased. The involvement of the Night Court in Autumn Court matters has always been a sensitive issue."

"It wasn't Azriel's fault," you protested automatically. "He was just... being a decent person."

Even as you said it, you wondered why the shadowsinger had saved you. After his cold dismissal, his formal rejection of the bond—why had he followed you? How had he known where you'd gone?

"My lady," Briar interrupted your racing thoughts, "Lord Beron is waiting. It would be... unwise to delay."

"Right." You took a deep breath, banishing the flame rabbits with a flick of your wrist. Most of them disappeared in puffs of smoke. One particularly stubborn bunny remained, glaring at you reproachfully from the foot of your bed.

"Oh, for—fine, you can stay," you told it, "But no setting anything important on fire."

The bunny made a smug little hop.

Briar watched this exchange with a mixture of concern and bemusement. "Perhaps it would be best if your... friend... remained here?"

"Probably," you agreed, scooping up the creature and depositing it on your pillow. "Be good," you instructed. "No arson."

The bunny yawned, tiny flames flickering between its teeth.

With a deep, steadying breath, you followed Briar from your chambers toward what would surely be the most awkward family meeting in the history of dysfunctional immortal families.

The Great Hall of the Autumn Court was aptly named—a vast, imposing space with vaulted ceilings that seemed to capture sunlight and transmute it into liquid gold.

Fall leaves perpetually drifted from the ceiling, disappearing before they reached the ground. The effect was both beautiful and disorienting—an eternal autumn suspended in time.

At the far end of the hall, upon a dais of polished wood, sat Lord Beron on his throne of living flame. The fire never seemed to burn him, though it cast his already severe features into harsh relief, highlighting the cold cruelty in his eyes.

Beside him stood Eris, immaculate as always, his auburn hair gleaming like burnished copper in the firelight. His expression was carefully neutral, though you caught a flicker of... something... in his eyes as you approached.

Three other males flanked the throne—your "brothers," apparently. They shared Eris's coloring to varying degrees, though none possessed his lethal grace or cunning intelligence. Their expressions ranged from bored disinterest to poorly concealed amusement at your predicament.

You approached the dais on legs that felt increasingly unstable. The walk seemed interminable, each step echoing ominously against the marble floor.

The court had gathered to witness your humiliation—dozens of Autumn Fae lining the walls, their whispers a susurration like wind through dry leaves.

"So," Lord Beron said when you finally reached the foot of the dais. His voice was deceptively soft, but fire flickered at his fingertips—a warning of the rage barely contained beneath his calm facade. "My only daughter seeks to drown herself rather than bear the shame of rejection from a Night Court bastard."

Your cheeks burned. "It wasn't like that," you began, then stopped. How could you possibly explain the truth?

"Then enlighten us," Beron continued, leaning forward slightly, his throne's flames rising in response to his agitation. "What exactly 'was it like'?"

Words failed you.

Every explanation sounded like madness, even in your own head. I'm actually a human nursing student possessing your daughter's body and I was trying to drown myself to get back to my world hardly seemed like something that would improve this situation.

"The bond," you said finally, the partial truth easier than outright lies. "It... hurt. I wasn't thinking clearly."

One of your brothers—the one with the cruelest smirk—laughed softly. "Poor sister, so devastated by that shadow-loving mongrel's rejection that she tried to end herself. How pathetically romantic."

You bristled, pink sparks dancing at your fingertips. "You don't understand what it feels like."

"Neither do you," Eris cut in smoothly, drawing all eyes to him. "The bond formed mere days ago. The pain of rejection, while significant, would hardly drive someone with your particular... temperament... to suicide."

You tensed at the calculated precision of his words. Eris was too observant, too clever by far. He knew something wasn't right.

"Unless," he continued, his amber eyes never leaving yours, "there are other factors at play?"

A tense silence fell over the hall.

"What factors could possibly drive a High Fae of the Autumn Court to such desperation?" Beron asked, his gaze burning into you. "What weakness have you discovered in yourself, daughter, that would bring such shame upon our house?"

You straightened your spine, meeting his gaze despite the fear that threatened to choke you.

"No weakness, Father. Only clarity." The words came unbidden, but as you spoke them, you realized their truth. "I've lived... differently... these past days. Seen things from a new perspective. The person I was before—"

"Is the person you are," Beron interrupted coldly. "Whatever temporary madness has overtaken you, I suggest you master it quickly."

"And if I can't?" you challenged, surprising yourself with your boldness.

Beron's eyes narrowed. "Then perhaps the Autumn Court requires a different Lady."

The threat hung in the air, clear and deadly. You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the precarious nature of your position. If Beron discovered the truth—that his daughter's body now housed a foreign soul—what would he do?

"The mating bond complicates matters," Eris observed, his voice neutral. "Death would not resolve the issue. It would only create a diplomatic incident with the Night Court."

"The Night Court," Beron spat, flames briefly engulfing his throne. "That shadowsinger dared to enter our territory without permission. To touch what belongs to the Autumn Court."

"He saved my life," you pointed out, then immediately regretted it as Beron's gaze sharpened on you.

"A life you were attempting to end," he countered. "Perhaps you should thank me instead for not letting him keep what he retrieved."

Your brothers snickered, the sound grating against your already frayed nerves.

"What I don't understand," said the youngest-looking brother, his tone falsely casual, "is why the shadowsinger bothered at all. If he rejected the bond, why save her?"

It was a good question—one that had plagued you since you'd awakened in your chambers.

Hope fluttered traitorously in your chest before you ruthlessly squashed it. No, Azriel had made his feelings perfectly clear. Whatever had driven him to save you, it wasn't acceptance of the bond.

"Regardless," Beron said dismissively, "the matter is settled. You will remain in the castle under guard until I determine you are no longer a danger to yourself or the reputation of this court. You will not attempt to contact the Night Court or its representatives. You will not leave your chambers without an escort. And you will cease this... undignified emotional display immediately."

As if in direct defiance of his orders, a small pink flame bunny chose that exact moment to materialize on your shoulder. It squeaked indignantly at Beron, tiny fiery ears laid flat against its head.

A collective gasp swept through the hall.

One of your brothers cursed. Eris looked briefly skyward, as if praying for patience. And Beron... Beron's expression was one of such appalled disbelief that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing hysterically.

"What," Beron said with deadly precision, "is that?"

"A rabbit," you replied, your voice impressively steady. "Made of fire. Pink fire, specifically."

"I can see that," Beron hissed. "Why is it on your shoulder?"

You considered several responses, discarding each as too flippant or too honest. Finally, you settled on, "It seems to like me?"

"Destroy that... abomination... immediately," Beron commanded, fire flaring at his fingertips.

The bunny, apparently sensing the threat, multiplied. Suddenly, three pink flame rabbits sat on your shoulders and head, all glaring defiantly at the High Lord of the Autumn Court.

A sound suspiciously like a suppressed snort came from the direction of Eris, though his face remained carefully blank when you glanced his way.

"I don't think they like being called abominations," you observed mildly, as one of the bunnies started grooming its flaming ears with particular vigor, as if preparing for battle.

"Enough!" Beron roared, rising from his throne in a surge of power that sent flames dancing across the dais. "You will remember your place, daughter, or I will remind you of it in ways you will not enjoy."

The bunnies, displaying more wisdom than their creator, promptly disappeared in puffs of smoke.

All except one—the original, stubborn bunny—which darted into your hair to hide.

"Yes, Father," you said, lowering your eyes in a show of submission that you didn't feel. "I understand."

"I doubt that," Beron replied coldly. "But you will. Guards, escort my daughter to her chambers. She is not to leave without my express permission."

As the guards stepped forward to flank you, you risked one last glance at Eris.

What you did know was that you were now a prisoner in this court, in this body, in this life. The mating bond had anchored you to this world against your will, and now Beron had ensured you couldn't try again to escape it.

As you were escorted from the hall, the tiny flame bunny peeked out from your hair, its warm weight a strange comfort against your scalp.

"Well," you whispered to it as the doors closed behind you, "that could have gone worse."

The bunny sneezed, sending a small shower of sparks cascading over your shoulders.

"Okay, fine," you amended. "It was a complete disaster. But look on the bright side—at least we're not dead."

The bunny gave you a look that suggested it remained unconvinced of the advantages of your continued existence in this world.

"Yeah," you sighed as the guards marched you toward your gilded prison. "I'm not so sure either.”

Three days passed in luxurious imprisonment.

Your chambers, while beautiful, had become a gilded cage—every exit guarded, every window watched. The servants who brought your meals were different each time, preventing you from forming alliances.

Even Briar had been reassigned, replaced by an older female with iron-gray hair and a perpetual frown who refused to engage in conversation.

Your only companion was the stubborn pink flame bunny, who had taken up permanent residence on your pillow.

You'd named him Ember, for lack of a better option, and found yourself talking to him with increasing frequency as isolation wore on your nerves.

"What do you think, Ember?" you asked, pacing the length of your chamber for the hundredth time that morning. "Is drowning still the best option, or should I consider something more creative? Self-immolation would be ironic, given the whole fire magic thing."

Ember squeaked disapprovingly, his tiny flame ears flattening against his head.

"Fine, no self-immolation," you conceded. "Though it might give Beron a heart attack, which would be a bonus."

A knock at your door interrupted your morbid planning session.

You expected the sour-faced servant with your midday meal, but instead found Eris leaning against the doorframe, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Plotting patricide, sister? How delightfully traditional of you."

"Eris," you greeted cautiously. "To what do I owe the displeasure?"

He clutched his chest in mock offense. "You wound me. And here I thought we were developing such a lovely sibling rapport."

Ember, sensing a potential threat, hopped onto your shoulder and puffed himself up to approximately twice his tiny size, looking like an angry cotton ball made of fire.

"Is that..." Eris squinted at the flame bunny. "Is that thing wearing a little crown?"

You glanced at Ember, who indeed had fashioned himself a miniature crown of pink flames. "He's going through a monarchy phase. I think he's planning a coup."

"Against whom, exactly?"

"Me, presumably. Though Beron should watch his back. Ember has ambitions."

Eris blinked, then let out a startled laugh. "You know, if you'd shown this sense of humor centuries ago, family dinners would have been considerably more entertaining."

"I'll be sure to bring my comedy routine to the next one," you said dryly. "Assuming I'm ever allowed out of this room again."

Eris sauntered into your chamber, inspecting your living conditions with casual interest. "That depends entirely on Father's mood, which has been spectacularly foul lately. The Night Court isn't helping matters."

Your heart skipped. "The Night Court?"

"Mmm," Eris confirmed, picking up a delicate figurine from your dresser and examining it with excessive attention. "They've been rather... insistent... about certain matters."

"What matters?" you asked, trying to sound merely curious rather than desperately interested.

Eris replaced the figurine, turning to face you with a gleam in his amber eyes. "You, primarily. Or more specifically, access to you."

The mating bond thrummed beneath your breastbone, responding to even this oblique reference to Azriel. "What do you mean, access?"

"The shadowsinger has been particularly vocal," Eris said, watching your reaction closely. "Demanding an audience, threatening various creative consequences should his request be denied. He's quite inventive with his threats, I must say. Something about anatomically improbable locations for certain body parts."

You felt heat bloom in your cheeks. "And what did Beron say to these... requests?"

"He suggested the shadowsinger perform several physically impossible acts involving his own wings before bursting into literal flames." Eris grinned. "The diplomatic correspondence has been most entertaining. I've been keeping copies for posterity."

"You're enjoying this," you accused.

"Immensely," he admitted without a hint of shame. "It's been centuries since anyone challenged Father so directly. I find it refreshing."

"So he denied the request?"

"With such colorful language that three scribes resigned on the spot." Eris stretched languidly, completely at ease. "The poor messengers had to be escorted from the premises under guard to prevent spontaneous combustion."

Your shoulders slumped slightly. "So that's it? Request denied, end of story?"

"Did you expect something else?" Eris raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps a daring rescue? The shadowsinger swooping in through your window to carry you away in his strong, scarred arms?"

"Of course not," you huffed, though the image sent an unwelcome thrill through you. "I just thought..."

"That I might help?" Eris finished, his expression shifting to something more calculating. "Arrange some clandestine meeting? Risk Father's wrath for the sake of your star-crossed romance?"

"No," you lied.

"Good," Eris said cheerfully. "Because I wouldn't. He may be a tyrant, but he's a predictable one. The shadowsinger, with his shadows and secrets, is an unknown variable I'm not inclined to trust."

Ember chose that moment to hop onto Eris's shoulder and sneeze, sending a shower of tiny pink sparks cascading over his immaculate jacket.

"By the Cauldron!" Eris yelped, brushing frantically at the sparks. "Call off your flaming vermin!"

Ember looked utterly pleased with himself as he returned to your shoulder, making a sound suspiciously like a snicker.

"Sorry," you said, not sounding sorry at all. "He does that when he senses dishonesty."

"Dishonesty?" Eris scoffed, still checking his jacket for scorch marks. "I'm being perfectly transparent for once in my immortal life."

"So you're not here to gloat? To let me know precisely what I'm missing because I'm trapped in this room while Azriel attempts to communicate with me?"

"Well, I wouldn't say gloat," Eris demurred. "Perhaps 'revel in your misfortune' would be more accurate."

"Get out," you said without heat.

"Gladly," he replied, backing toward the door. "Your pet is a menace."

Ember puffed up his flaming chest with pride.

You stared at the door for a long moment, disappointment settling heavily in your chest.

You'd harbored a secret hope that Eris might help, might see some advantage in facilitating a meeting between you and Azriel.

But it seemed even he had his limits when it came to defying Beron.

Ember nuzzled against your cheek, offering wordless comfort. You scratched him gently behind one flaming ear, grateful for his presence despite his occasional pyromania.

"It's fine," you told him, though your voice lacked conviction. "It's not like I expected anything else."

But you had.

Despite everything—the rejection, the coldness, the fury—some part of you had hoped. Had believed that Azriel might try to reach you, might want to explain, might offer... something.

Understanding, perhaps. Or at the very least, closure.

You moved to the window, gazing out at the autumn forests that stretched beyond the castle walls. The trees were impossibly vibrant, their leaves never falling despite the perpetual autumn. You pressed your palm against the glass, feeling the cool barrier between you and freedom.

The mating bond had been restless these past days, tugging and pulsing in your chest as if trying to communicate.

You'd tried to ignore it, to pretend it wasn't there, but in quiet moments like this, its presence was undeniable.

As night fell, casting long shadows across your chambers, the pain began again. It always hurt more at night, as if darkness somehow strengthened the bond's pull. A deep, hollow ache that radiated from your chest outward, like a phantom limb crying out for reconnection.

You curled on your bed, arms wrapped around yourself as if you could physically hold the pain at bay.

This wasn't the sharp, immediate agony of rejection—that had faded after the first day. This was something more insidious, a persistent reminder of what was missing, what had been denied.

Tears slipped silently down your cheeks as you stared into the darkness. You weren't even sure who or what you were crying for—yourself, trapped in a body and a world not your own? The bond, straining across distance and denial? Azriel, who had saved your life only to disappear?

"I want to go home," you whispered into the darkness, the words catching on a sob. "I just want to go home."

But even as you said it, you weren't entirely sure where "home" was anymore. The hospital room with its beeping monitors and antiseptic smell felt increasingly distant, like a half-remembered dream.

This body, this world, this life—as strange and unwelcome as they had been—were becoming familiar in ways that terrified you.

And then there was the bond.

The golden thread that connected you to Azriel, that had pulled you back from death, that ached now with a pain both foreign and intimate. It was part of you now, whether you wanted it or not.

Ember curled against your neck, his warmth a small comfort against the tears that continued to fall. You stroked his tiny form absently, finding solace in the simple connection.

"What am I going to do, Ember?" you asked, your voice barely audible. "I can't stay here, like this, forever. But I can't seem to leave either."

The flame bunny had no answers, only wordless comfort as the night deepened around you and the mating bond continued its relentless pull toward someone who had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with you.

Exhausted by grief and pain, you eventually drifted into uneasy sleep, tears still damp on your cheeks and the golden thread of the bond still pulsing, reaching, connecting you to a shadowsinger who remained as distant and unreachable as the stars themselves.

In your dreams, shadows danced at the edges of your vision, reaching for you with tentative, tender touches before retreating into darkness. And beneath it all, a voice—deep and resonant—whispered words you couldn't quite catch, couldn't quite understand.

Family dinner in the Autumn Court was a lavish, tense affair.

Servants moved silently around the massive mahogany table, placing dishes of succulent game and autumn vegetables before the royal family. The air smelled of cinnamon and smoke, undercut with the acrid scent of tension.

Beron sat at the head of the table, his flame crown burning higher than usual. Eris occupied his right hand, while your three other brothers filled the remaining seats. You sat at the far end, as distant from Beron as the table allowed—a deliberate placement that emphasized your current standing.

Ember had been firmly instructed to remain in your chambers, though you could feel his indignant warmth through your mental connection. He was definitely sulking about missing the meal.

"The Dawn Court negotiations progress favorably," Eris was saying, his voice precisely modulated to hide any actual opinion on the matter. "Lady Nuan has agreed to consider our proposal regarding the eastern trade routes."

Beron merely grunted, tearing into a pheasant with more force than necessary. His mood, never pleasant, had deteriorated further since your "incident" at the lake.

"Perhaps our sister could assist with negotiations," your youngest brother suggested, malice gleaming in his eyes. "I hear drowning makes one uniquely qualified for diplomatic matters."

Eris shot him a warning glance, but the damage was done.

"Indeed," Beron said coldly. "Perhaps my daughter would care to explain how her recent behavior has affected our standing with other courts? The Night Court, in particular, seems unusually interested in our affairs of late."

The mating bond flared at the mention of the Night Court, sending warmth through your chest despite your anxiety.

"I hardly think my personal matters are relevant to court politics," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.

Beron's flames intensified. "Everything about you is relevant to court politics. You are the Lady of Autumn. Your... indiscretions... reflect on us all."

"Indiscretions?" You couldn't help the indignation that crept into your voice. "Is that what we're calling near-death experiences now?"

"Watch your tone," Beron warned, fire dancing between his fingers.

You should have heeded the warning. Should have lowered your eyes and apologized.

But the days of imprisonment, the pain of the bond, the constant dismissal of your feelings—all of it bubbled up inside you like magma seeking release.

"My tone is the least of your concerns," you said, setting down your fork with deliberate precision. "Perhaps you should worry more about why your daughter tried to drown herself rather than how it looks politically."

The table went silent. Even the servants froze, horror evident in their carefully averted gazes.

"What did you say to me?" Beron's voice was deadly quiet.

"You heard me." The words tumbled out, unstoppable now. "You don't care that I was drowning. You only care how it reflects on you—that a Night Court warrior had to save me because my own family couldn't be bothered to notice I was missing."

Pink flames flickered at your fingertips, responding to your emotions. One of your brothers edged his chair away from the table.

Beron rose slowly, his power filling the room like a physical pressure. The candles flared, casting grotesque shadows across his face.

"You forget yourself, daughter," he said, flames now engulfing his hand as he stepped around the table toward you. "Perhaps you need a reminder of who and what you are."

You should have been afraid.

The rational part of your brain screamed danger. But something else—something stubborn and defiant—refused to cower.

"I know exactly what I am," you replied, rising to meet him. "And it isn't this."

Beron's hand raised, flames licking higher, ready to strike—

The dining hall doors exploded inward with enough force to rattle the silverware.

Cold night air rushed in, extinguishing candles and dimming the fire in the hearths. Shadows poured across the threshold, swift and purposeful.

And then they were there—Rhysand, High Lord of Night, flanked by his general and his shadowsinger. Power rolled before them like a midnight tide, dark and ancient and unstoppable.

"Apologies for the dramatic entrance," Rhysand said smoothly, though his violet eyes were hard as gems. "Your guards seemed reluctant to announce us."

But your attention wasn't on Rhysand. It was fixed entirely on Azriel.

The shadowsinger stood slightly to Rhysand's left, his wings tucked neatly against his back, his face an expressionless mask. But his shadows—his shadows told a different story. They writhed and reached, coiling toward Beron's still-raised hand with unmistakable threat.

"Lower your hand, Lord Beron," Azriel said, his voice quiet but carrying easily through the silent hall. The temperature plummeted with each word. "Now."

The command was delivered with such deadly calm that even Beron hesitated. Fire still danced around his fingers, but his arm lowered slightly.

"How dare you enter my court unannounced," Beron hissed, his rage momentarily redirected. "This intrusion—"

"Is nothing compared to what would happen if you touched her," Azriel interrupted, his shadows stretching across the floor between you and Beron.

They formed a barrier—insubstantial yet somehow more solid than stone.

The mating bond sang between you, responding to his defense with a rush of warmth that left you momentarily breathless.

Azriel's gaze finally shifted to you, his eyes assessing, cataloging—checking for injury, you realized with a start.

And for now, that was enough.

Author’s Note:

Thank you for diving into this emotional rollercoaster with me! This chapter nearly broke me-Azriel’s rage, our girl’s grief, and the chaos of flaming bunnies… I hope it left your heart aching (in the best way). As always, thank you for reading. 💛 More drama, healing, and accidental arson to come.

Taglist: @circe143 @lunarxcity @willowpains @messageforthesmallestman @lreadsstuff @evye47 @lovely-susie @moonfawnx @tele86 @moonlitlavenders @darkbloodsly @ees-chaotic-brain @smol-grandpa @auraofathena @lottiiee413 @minaaminaa8 @claudiab22 @moonbeamruins @shewolf1549 @crimsonandwhiteprincess @a-band-aid-for-your-heart @kathren1sky-blog @alimarie1105 @masbt1218 @topaz125 @falszywe @randomdumsblog @sophia-grace2025 @okaytrashpanda @thegoddessofnothingness @unarxcity @moonfawnx @svearehnn @suhke3 @galaxystern08 @willowpains @ivy-34 @hellsenthero @nayaniasworld @raccoonworld @bobbywobbby @evergreenlark @greenmandm @bobbywobbby @shinyghosteclipse @catloverandreader @the-onlyy-angie

[seospicybin]

DOUBLE FEATURE

CHAPTER THREE

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

DOUBLE FEATURE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: After a strange accident on movie set, you and a stunt actor, Minho, wake up in each other’s bodies. The two of you are forced to live one another’s lives while searching for answers. But the longer both of you are stuck, the more both of you begin to see each other differently. (15,9k words)

Author's note: It's here! Hope you enjoy this one too and pls let me know what you think of it ♡

The set hums under harsh lights and the buzz of equipment being dragged across concrete. It's past midnight, but the night shoot shows no sign of slowing down. Crew members move like ghosts through pools of white and amber light, adjusting rigs, calling out cues, and checking monitors. The sky above is a blank, starless black, and everything feels suspended in that strange, electric hush that only happens after dark on set—where time stretches and blurs and the whole world feels like it only exists inside camera frames.

You tighten the Velcro on your wrist wraps and glance down again at the folded paper in your hands—the list of stunt sequences scheduled for the film. It’s slightly wrinkled now from how many times you’ve looked at it, studied it, memorized it. But your eyes keep getting stuck on the same line, the one halfway down the page, where Minho had circled something in red ink like it was a warning sign:

Scene 57 – Tank drop + underwater hold

It makes sense now. After yesterday’s therapy session with Dr. Severine—after hearing what really happened a year ago—you can't unread the memory. The truck. The river. The silence that followed. You’d only known the surface of the story, a passing headline that didn’t belong to you. But now it’s under your skin, and it's not just a story anymore. It's his trauma. It’s the waterlogged weight he’s been carrying ever since.

You should be focusing on today’s scene. Today, it’s just a choreographed fight with Felix, nothing remotely close to drowning. But that circled stunt won’t leave your mind. It haunts the edge of your concentration, and the more you try to ignore it, the louder it echoes.

You fold the paper again, slip it into the back pocket of your pants, and exhale slowly. You stretch your arms, roll your shoulders back. Get your head in the game. No room for hesitation—not in front of the camera, not with Felix, and especially not while you’re still in Minho’s body.

Across the set, someone calls out that you’re needed for wardrobe fitting. You nod and move toward the tent, already feeling the faint heat of the lights and the flutter of nerves in your stomach. It’s just a fight scene. But somehow, you can’t shake the feeling that something bigger is looming.

Everything smells faintly of sweat and dust and coffee that’s long since gone cold as you wait in the tent. You’ve already changed into your costume—combat boots, scuffed jeans, a loose hoodie damp with mist from the outdoor fog machine—and you're rolling your shoulders, trying to shake off the nerves crawling under your skin.

Minho comes in not long after, wearing your face, your body, your skin—and somehow still carries himself like he’s the original. Confident. Steady. All sharp edges and focus.

“Nervous?” he cuts through your thoughts.

You look up to find him watching you, his expression unreadable but calm. You shake your head and force a playful smile. “Honestly? I’m starting to like this stunt gig. Way more fun than spreadsheets.”

He lifts a brow, skeptical. “So that’s why you won’t switch back—you’re stealing my job?”

You grin and nudge his ankle with your foot. “Exactly. I’m keeping the abs and the hazard pay.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, and you don’t press him either. But you know he doesn’t believe that’s the real reason. Neither do you.

“Alright,” he says, tossing a soft crash mat onto the floor. “Up. Let’s run it. I’ll be Felix.”

You step behind him and slide your arm around his neck, locking into the first move. Your arm fits too naturally against his throat.

“Not too tight,” he says dryly, glancing over his shoulder.

You tighten your hold just slightly. “This is for trying to seduce yourself, you creep.”

Minho laughs—low and real. “Touché.”

Then he moves—quick and practiced—grabbing your wrist, spinning, sweeping your leg. You let him. It’s like a dance, fast and fluid, and then suddenly the mat’s at your back, and Minho’s body is on top of yours.

Your breath hitches. It should be just practice. But it’s not. He has you pinned, one hand planted beside your head, the other pressing your shoulder down. His face is close. Closer than it needs to be. His breath is warm, and his eyes—your own eyes—search yours like they’re looking for something. You don’t say anything. You don’t move either. The space between you charges, heavy with something unspoken.

“You okay?” he murmurs, not teasing, just quiet.

You nod, your chest rising slowly beneath him.

He loosens his grip, as if giving you permission to break the moment. But neither of you do—until the walkie-talkie crackles.

“Please, check on Felix. He’s in holding.”

He blinks and slowly eases off you. The air feels different when he’s gone from above you. “Stay loose,” he says over his shoulder as he walks out. “And maybe… stay dangerous.”

You lie there for a moment, catching your breath. That felt… like something. You don’t know what, but something.

-

The floodlights are harsh on your skin, turning everything around you into sharp shadows and glints of sweat. The night air feels heavy, weighed down with exhaustion and adrenaline. You’re already warm from rehearsing with Minho earlier, but now you’re sweating for real—because this is the take. This is where the camera rolls and everyone watches.

Felix steps up beside you in his fight costume, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s already in character. He nudges your shoulder.

“We got this,” he grins. “Let’s go out there and make it look sick.”

You smile, though your jaw is tense. “But let’s try not to actually kill each other, yeah?”

“Deal,” he laughs, and then someone yells from behind the monitor—

“Rolling—aaaand action!”

You spring into motion, but a half-beat too late. Felix’s fist swings, aiming for the air beside your jaw—except you didn’t duck fast enough. Crack. Pain explodes in your face, sudden and sharp. Your head snaps slightly to the side.

There’s a collective gasp from somewhere off-set. Felix immediately breaks character, hands reaching out. “Shit—oh my god, are you okay?”

You blink a few times, teeth gritted, jaw throbbing. You want to say something clever. You want to shrug it off. You don’t want anyone remembering this moment as the time Minho flinched.

“I’m fine,” you say, waving him off with a quick shake of your head. “It’s on me. I was slow.”

Felix frowns but accepts your answer, brushing a bit of dust off your shoulder before giving it a reassuring pat.

“Let’s go again,” he says, voice gentler now but still full of energy. “This time we’ll nail it.”

You nod, and when the AD calls for another take, you plant your feet more firmly. You’re ready this time. No hesitation.

Action.

The fight plays out like choreography this time—fluid, practiced, fast. You slip into the movement like second nature, ducking the fake punches, countering, grappling. You let your body move like it’s meant for this. Because in this moment, it is. You hit the mat exactly where you should. Felix plays his part flawlessly.

“Cut! That was good! Let’s go again—different angle!” Flickerman calls.

Around you, crew members scatter, shifting lights, adjusting sandbags, resetting props. You step off to the side and someone hands you a cold water bottle. You twist it open, take a long sip, and wipe the sweat from your upper lip with the back of your hand.

From behind the camera setup, you spot Minho, standing still amid the movement, watching you. His eyes meet yours. He lifts his hand and gives you a thumbs-up, expression unreadable but steady. You smile, just a small one and then you cap your water bottle.

You’re just about to return to the set when Mr. Kim intercepts your path, stepping in with that quiet presence he always carries—calm, observant, and just a little too perceptive for your comfort.

He’s holding a clipboard, though you’re not convinced he’s looked at it even once. His eyes are on you. Studying. “That last stunt,” he says, nodding back toward the space you just cleared. “It was clean. Technically. But…”

You hold your breath, waiting for him to finish his sentence with so much anticipation. Afraid that he can see right through you that you're just an impostor in Minho’s body.

“There’s a hesitation in your movements,” he continues, his tone not scolding, just... careful. “A pause. Small, but it’s there. Like you’re bracing instead of committing.”

You nod once, slowly, trying not to let it show how tightly his words hook into you. He thinks you’re Minho, of course. Which only makes this harder. Because the concern in his voice isn’t just professional. It’s personal.

“I’m fine,” you say, not quite meeting his eyes. “I’ll warm up better.”

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push. He just steps forward and gently squeezes your shoulder—steady and firm, grounding. There’s something fatherly about it. Not in the way Flickerman condescends, but in the way people who actually care speak with their hands.

“Take it slowly,” he says.

You nod again but he doesn’t walk away right away. Instead, he lingers for a second longer, eyes softer now, his voice quieter when he adds, “Be gentle with yourself.”

It hits like a ripple in your chest. The words. The tone. The timing. They echo—not from this moment, but from another. From that small, clinical office, with a quiet ticking clock and Dr. Severine’s eyes peering into you the same way Mr. Kim is now.

“Be gentle with yourself.”

It’s not a warning. It’s an invitation. And somehow, that makes it heavier to carry.

You swallow, offer a small thank-you under your breath, and Mr. Kim gives you one last reassuring look before he turns and walks off. You take a moment. Just a beat. One breath in, one breath out. Then you roll your shoulders, shake the nerves out of your limbs, and step back onto set.

You and Felix go over the choreography one last time before cameras roll. The two of you going through the moves and timing and you're thankful you’ve practiced this before with Minho, over and over until your limbs could perform it in your sleep.

You bounce on your toes to loosen your legs. Your knuckles press into your palms to ground yourself. You nod at Felix, who grins and gently knocks his fist against your shoulder. “We got this,” he says, the way he always does before every take. It helps. It really does.

“Rolling,” someone calls out. “Action!”

And then everything kicks in. Your body moves automatically—strike, duck, pivot, grab. It’s all muscle memory now. You follow the flow without thinking. You trust your reflexes, your rehearsal, the weight of the sweat that’s soaked into the collar of your borrowed shirt. But somewhere in the middle of it—right after Felix swings wide and you slip under his arm—your mind flickers.

“Be gentle with yourself.”

The words slip in. Not loud, not jarring. Just enough to pull you inward. Just enough to tilt your awareness away from where it needs to be. You hesitate, not even a full second, but it’s enough to cause you to lose focus.

Felix pushes you—on cue—and you’re supposed to fall to the left, onto a padded mat just out of frame. But your balance is off. Your back foot stutters on the concrete. You twist in the wrong direction. And suddenly—

Your body lurches the other way and your foot misses the edge. There’s no mat waiting on this side. Just cold, unforgiving steps. You don’t even get to scream. Your ribs hit something hard. Your shoulder scrapes the edge. The back of your head smacks concrete.

And then it’s gone. The lights. The noise. Everything. It all collapses into black.

-

The world filters back in slowly—bright lights, shuffling feet, someone calling your name. No—Minho’s name.

“Minho,” Mr. Kim’s voice breaks through the static, calm but edged with concern. “Can you hear me?”

You force your eyes open. It takes effort, like dragging yourself up from underwater. The night sky blurs into the harsh glow of set lights. Mr. Kim is crouched beside you, eyes scanning your face. Behind him, more figures hover—Felix, pale and wide-eyed, a couple of crew members, and the on-set medic scrambling with a kit.

Then it hits you—what just happened. You were filming. A fight scene. You were supposed to fall left, but you didn’t. You failed to land. You fell the wrong way. Your stomach sinks. The pain hasn't even fully registered yet, but the embarrassment arrives first.

Minho’s body lies here, bruised and scraped and covered in someone else’s mistake. You shoot upright on instinct, teeth clenched against the sharp stab that radiates down your side and up your neck.

“Whoa—slow,” Mr. Kim says quickly, placing a steadying hand on your back as you sway. “Take it easy.”

The touch is gentle. So is the look in his eyes.

Felix crouches closer, guilt all over his face. “I pushed you too hard. I’m so—”

“No,” you interrupt, waving him off with a wince. “It’s not you. I messed up. I… lost my footing.”

“Don’t talk yet,” Mr. Kim says quietly. “Let the medic do his job.”

The medic checks your pupils, starts asking the usual questions. “Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous?”

You shake your head, even though every muscle feels like it’s been wrung out. “I’m fine. Just sore.”

“You’ve got a cut on your forehead,” the medic mutters. “Nothing deep, but you’ll need to clean it properly. Let’s get you checked.”

You nod and let them help you stand. Your legs ache with every step as they guide you toward the waiting ambulance. The set buzzes behind you—muted voices, equipment being reset, the production trying to keep moving despite the incident.

Mr. Kim trails closely behind. You glance up at him as the medic wipes blood from your temple. “I can keep filming. I’m okay.”

Mr. Kim’s lips twitch into something between a frown and a sigh. “You’re not. Your job’s done for the night and I’ll take you home.”

You hesitate. “I don’t want to hold up the shoot.”

He gives you a look. “The shoot can wait. You can’t.”

You open your mouth to argue, but—

“I can take him,” a voice says from behind him.

You turn your head and spot Minho stepping into the light. He looks calm, collected—even a little tired—but his eyes flick to the scrape on your forehead, and they darken.

Mr. Kim turns, surprised. “But you’re working.”

Minho nods. “It's fine. I wrapped early.”

Mr. Kim looks between the two of you—between Minho and you in Minho’s body—before something in his expression softens. Maybe it’s relief. Maybe it’s something else. He turns back to you and rests a hand on your shoulder again. “Go home. Rest. That’s an order.”

You nod and don’t even try to argue this time because beneath the throbbing pain and the scrape across your cheekbone, you feel something worse. Guilt.

Now you have to go home with the very person whose body you just threw down a flight of stairs. Minho’s hands stay steady on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead, his jaw tense and unmoving. You glance at him from the passenger seat more than once, hoping for some kind of clue—an expression, a twitch, anything—but he gives you nothing. And somehow, that’s worse.

You know he’s saving it, holding it all in until the moment you step through the front door. That silence feels louder than anything he could say.

When you both walk into the apartment and the door shuts behind you with a soft click—the tension settles in with a weight of its own. You don’t wait but decide to be the first to break the suffocating silence.

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, spinning to face him. “Minho, I—I really didn’t mean for that to happen. I just got distracted and—God, I know it’s your job to be perfect and professional and I just—”

You keep going, your voice tumbling out too fast, your words a mess of apology and shame.

“I made you look unprepared, and now people are going to think you can’t handle one scene—Mr. Kim looked so disappointed and I swear I’ll make up for it, I’ll do better, I’ll rehearse more—”

Minho doesn’t say a word. Just watches you with that unreadable expression.

Your voice falters. “Can you just… say something? Please?”

But he doesn’t—not in the way you expect. Instead, he takes one step closer. Then he reaches for you, grabs the front of the t-shirt you’re wearing—his shirt, technically—and starts to lift it.

You freeze. “Wait—Minho, I…”

But you don’t stop him. You know you’ve already upset him enough. You know whatever this is, it’s part of the fallout you’ve earned. So you let your arms lift as he let him peel the fabric off and over your head.

It’s only when he pauses, staring down at your torso, that you look too—and you finally see what he sees. Bruises. Large, deep, blossoming purple across your ribcage. Tiny cuts across your shoulder and along your collarbone. You hadn’t even noticed them before but now they sting under the apartment lights, angry and raw. You lower your eyes, ashamed to even be in his skin right now.

Minho lets out a slow breath through his nose. You can’t tell what it means—anger, frustration, restraint—but you follow when he gently nudges you toward one of the chairs by the dining table.

Without complaints, you sit and watch as he leaves to the kitchen without a word, and you hear the clink of cabinet doors opening and closing, the shuffle of supplies. He returns with the first aid kit and sets it on the table with a thud that makes you flinch. He pulls out another chair and sits across from you, knees bumping lightly into yours. You glance up just as he does—and for a split second, your eyes lock.

You look away first but his hand comes up to your chin, firm but not rough. He tilts your face to the side and begins tending to the small cut on your jaw with a Q-tip and ointment. The antiseptic stings. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from wincing. You take it, because maybe you should, because you deserve it.

Minho doesn’t speak. He just works in silence, every movement precise, his touch clinical but not cold. You want to say something. Apologize again. Ask if he’s mad. But you’re too afraid of the answer. So instead, you just sit there, wearing his pain and your guilt like they belong to you now.

-

Minho dabs at the cut on your jaw with careful hands, but his chest feels like it’s caving in. He sees every bruise, every scrape blooming across his skin—but it’s not his pain he feels. It’s yours. He watches the way you try not to flinch, how you look anywhere but at him. Like you expect him to explode. Like you're waiting for punishment.

It hurts more than he expected it to. Not the injuries. Not the misstep on set. You. You, sitting in his body, trying to hold it together when it’s obvious you’re in pain. Blaming yourself for what happened like you did something unforgivable.

And still—you whisper it again, “I’m sorry,” voice barely audible.

That’s when he breaks and snaps. “Shut up.”

The words come out sharper than he means them to. He sees it hit you immediately—your eyes snap wide open in alarm, and your lips clamp shut like a switch has been flipped.

He swallows hard, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m not—God, I’m not mad because you got injured.”

You blink at him, confused as Minho sighs, chest heavy, voice rising with frustration. “I’ve gotten injured before. I’ve had worse. That’s not the point.”

Your brows furrow, searching his face like there’s something you’re not understanding.

He leans back slightly, exhales hard through his nose, then points to you—himself. “I’m mad because you’re not me. You’re not supposed to take the fall. You’re not trained for this. And you got hurt. Badly. And it could’ve been worse.”

His throat feels tight all of a sudden. Words catching. He shakes his head and bites back the rest, overwhelmed.

You look at him then—really look at him—and your voice comes out small. “So… you’re not mad I messed up the stunt? You’re… worried?”

He hates how earnest that sounds. How surprised you are by it. But he nods anyway. “Of course, I’m worried.”

Something in your expression softens—like the ground under your feet finally settles—and Minho doesn’t give himself another second to think. As if he needs to prove he meant his words, he leans in. His hand finds your jaw, the one he just tended to, gentle even in its urgency and as innocent as it sounds, he presses his lips against yours. Not out of impulse. Not for show. But because he wants to. Needs to. Because his heart’s been banging at the walls of his chest since he saw you hit the ground, and now that you’re here, hurt and safe and sitting in front of him—he can’t hold it back.

You’re stiff for a moment, caught off guard, but then you melt into him. Your mouth moves against his with something deeper than want. Something raw. Real.

And then you yelp.

Minho jerks back almost immediately. “What—?”

Your hand flies to your jaw and you wince.

“I—I... uhm,” you mumble, pressing gently into the skin. “I accidentally took a punch from Felix in the first take.”

Minho just stares at you and then he lets out a scoff that turns into a short laugh as he leans back in his chair.

“Yeah,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I knew.”

Minho pulls open the fridge and grabs the coldest can of soda he can find. When he returns, you’re still sitting obediently at the table, hunched slightly like you’re bracing for another lecture.

“Here,” he says, nudging the can into your hand.

You look up at him in surprise, but you take it, pressing the cold aluminum carefully against your jaw with a tiny wince.

Minho sits down again and grabs a fresh Q-tip, continues to tend to the scrape under your chin. The skin’s red, slightly raw, but he’s gentle with it. Too gentle, maybe. Like touching it any harder will make the whole thing worse.

“What happened?” he asks softly. “You’ve practiced the scene enough. It’s basically muscle memory now.”

You go quiet but he can tell you’re debating how much to tell him. “I… lost focus,” you admit after a beat. “Just for a second.”

He doesn’t push. Just dabs the ointment in slow circles, waiting. Then finally, you say it. “Mr. Kim took me to your appointment.”

Minho’s hand stills. Just for a second. A beat skips in his chest like someone punched through his ribcage. But then he moves again, keeping his fingers steady as if nothing happened. “Oh.”

“He insisted,” you rush out. “I—I didn’t even know where we were going until we got there. I wasn’t trying to snoop, I swear.”

He nods once, still avoiding your eyes.

“I know about the accident,” you say gently, like the words themselves might spook him. And they kind of do.

Minho places the Q-tip down on the table, then closes the ointment lid. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even look at you. He feels...bare. Unzipped. Like someone’s peeled back his skin and left him there for you to see everything underneath. He thought he could pretend. Thought he could stay in control. But you know now. You know. And somehow, the silence becomes heavier than anything else in the room.

But then your voice cuts through it—soft, steady. “I won’t tell anyone. And you don’t have to tell me anything about it either. I just… I needed to be honest with you. That’s all.”

Minho finally looks up. There’s no judgment in your eyes. No pity either. Just that same strange warmth that’s been growing between you since this all started—something he doesn’t know what to name, but feels frighteningly close to trust.

Suddenly, he gets it. Why you asked him, not long ago, if he was ready to come back. You weren’t just asking for logistics. You were asking if he was ready to return to this version of himself—the one who’s still scared. Still healing. Still learning how to face the water, and everything beneath it. His throat tightens, but he doesn’t say anything yet. He just nods. Quiet. Grateful. Exposed. And for once, not ashamed.

Minho thinks that’s it. That the worst of the conversation has passed—until you speak again, your voice hesitant but sure.

“And I know about the upcoming underwater stunt.”

Minho’s head lifts slowly, his eyes narrowing—not from anger, but from the slow, heavy realization that you’ve seen deeper into him than he expected.

And then you go and say the most absurd thing. “I can do it for you,” you offer, like it’s obvious. Like it’s a solution instead of another disaster waiting to happen.

Minho shakes his head immediately. “No. Absolutely not.”

You lean forward, earnest. “I can do it, Minho. I’m not just saying that—I was on the swim team in high school. I’m a good swimmer, I swear. I’ve done some underwater shots before, I know how to hold my breath, and I—”

He holds up a hand, and you stop mid-sentence, lips still parted like you’re afraid he’s going to yell at you. But he doesn’t. His voice is soft—firmer now, but not harsh.

“That’s not your job,” he says. “It’s mine. I’m the one who signed up for it. I’m the one who’s supposed to do it.”

You open your mouth again, stubborn as ever, but Minho doesn’t give you the chance. He lifts your hand with the can of soda and presses it back to your jaw—gently, but pointedly. The cold metal makes you flinch slightly. His gaze locks with yours, unflinching.

“This isn’t up for debate,” he says, low and clear. “We need to switch back. Immediately.”

There’s a weight to his voice now that hadn’t been there before—something final, something quietly desperate. Because it’s not just about the stunt anymore. It’s about you. It’s about how close he came to losing you tonight—how easily it could happen again. He can’t let that happen. Not in his body. Not in any body. And especially not because you were trying to protect him.

-

You look at Minho—really look at him—and for the first time, you understand. Why he’s been so insistent about switching back. Why he’s been pushing for it harder since the accident. It’s not because he’s mad you got hurt or because you fumbled a scene and made him look unprofessional.

It’s because he’s scared.

Because this—doing his job, living his life—it’s not yours to carry. And if anything worse happened to you while carrying it, it’d break him in ways you’re not sure even he understands yet.

Your arms wrap around your body almost reflexively at the realization, like you’re trying to shield yourself from the direction this is going. Your voice trips out before you can stop it.

“I—I can’t have sex right now.”

Minho pauses mid-turn, blinking. “What?”

You cringe, face heating. “I mean, you’re probably thinking about doing the magic… switchy sex thing again, right? And I just—my body hurts. That’s all.”

His brow lifts and then—That smirk. That wicked yet attractive smirk. “Did you think I was gonna jump you just now?” he teases, stepping toward the kitchen.

You try to hold it together, to act unbothered, but your mouth flounders for something—anything—to say. “No! I just meant—it’s not a good time! I’m sore, and… I fell down the stairs, Minho.”

He chuckles under his breath, the sound low and warm as he puts the first aid kit back into the cabinet. “Okay, okay,” he says easily. “Not tonight.”

You exhale, shoulders relaxing a little but then, just as you think it’s over—

“Maybe I’ll try again in the morning,” he says over his shoulder, casual as ever. “You know. Since you’re always the one waking up with morning wood.”

You groan, flustered and defeated, smacking your palm to your forehead. “Oh my god, shut up—”

Except your jaw shifts with the movement and pain flares, sharp and instant. You yelp, hand flying to your face as your eyes water.

Minho’s teasing expression drops in an instant. “Hey, hey—careful,” he says, already stepping closer. “Don’t make me tape your mouth shut.”

The moment Minho turns around, you throw your shirt back on like your life depends on it. Your muscles protest with every movement, your ribs ache, your jaw throbs—but modesty (or panic) wins out over pain.

Minho approaches you, and you instinctively hold both hands up like he’s a threat. “Wait—hold on, wait—”

He stops in his tracks, raising an eyebrow. “Relax,” he says, clearly amused. He lifts his hand, revealing a small bottle. “It’s just liniment. For your shoulders.”

You blink. “Oh.”

But you still take a step back. Just in case.

Minho tilts his head, a little smile creeping onto his face as he eyes your fumbling. “What, you think I’m gonna tackle you?”

“No,” you blurt. “But I think—before we do anything else—we need to make an agreement.”

That gets his attention. His smile fades into a curious expression. “What kind of agreement?”

You straighten up, ignoring the burning in your ribs. “I’ll only do the sex magic thingy under one condition.”

Minho’s eyes narrow with suspicion. “Which is?”

“You have to let me help train you for the underwater stunt.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Minho actually scoffs. Almost sarcastically. “You want to train me? I’m the one with a decade of experience.”

“Yeah, but I’m better in the water than you,” you say confidently, arms crossing despite the protest from your bruised body. “I was on the swim team in high school.”

Minho stares at you, completely silent now. His gaze lingers, calculating. You can’t tell if he’s offended or impressed—or both. Then, finally, he exhales and gives a small, almost reluctant nod. “Fine.”

You blink. “Really?”

“But—” he holds up a finger, “you’re not allowed to do anything reckless.”

“Deal. But also—no sex,” you say firmly, pointing at him. “None. Of any kind. Until I say we’re ready.”

Minho grins at that, like he’s enjoying this far more than he should. “Wow. You drive a hard bargain.”

You extend your hand, and after a short pause, he takes it. His palm is warm against yours. His fingers curl tight. And just like that, the deal is sealed.

After a while, you start to pull your hand away, but Minho grips it tighter—and before you can react, he yanks you forward. You stumble right into him, your chest bumping lightly into his. His face is just inches from yours now, eyes glinting with mischief.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just smirks. Then, low and teasing, he murmurs, “I can’t wait.”

You open your mouth to scoff but it catches in your throat—probably because your brain short-circuits the second he looks at you like that. Instead, you sputter something unintelligible, awkwardly shove at his chest, and bolt.

“I'm going to bed!” you call over your shoulder, already halfway down the hall.

You hear his quiet laugh behind you and you don’t want to give him the satisfaction by looking back. God, you hate him. Wait— Are you really?

-

The morning light slips through the crack between the curtains, casting a soft glow across your sleeping face.

Minho leans quietly against the doorframe, arms folded, just watching you. Your mouth is slightly parted. One arm is tucked under the pillow, the other sprawled across the bed. Even in sleep, you look sore—your brows faintly drawn, your breathing just a bit uneven.

He exhales through his nose. You look wrecked. Because of him.

Mr. Kim had insisted you take the day off. "Make sure he rests," he'd said on the phone call—not even knowing it wasn’t him in his own body.

So now, Minho stands there, caught between guilt and gratitude. Grateful you’re safe. Guilty you ever had to be in danger at all.

He checks the time and you should be up. But he can’t do it—not when you’re sleeping so soundly for the first time since the accident. “…Just rest,” he murmurs under his breath, barely audible.

Minho steps back and gently closes the bedroom door until it clicks shut. Then he grabs your bag, slings your coat over his arm, and walks out the door— Off to do your job for the day.

At the movie set, Minho wipes sweat off his brow with the hem of your hoodie, squinting toward the lighting rig someone’s adjusting above the set. Your clipboard is tucked under his arm, headset looped around his neck, and he’s half-listening to two crew members arguing over prop continuity when your name lights up his phone. He sighs, already bracing himself, and picks up.

“You didn’t wake me up!”

Minho pulls the phone slightly away from his ear at your sharp voice. “Good morning to you too,” he mutters, earning a few amused glances from nearby.

“You were supposed to wake me up for work! We had a deal, Minho!”

He rolls his eyes. “Relax,” he says, cutting you off before you wind yourself up further. “Mr. Kim told me to. He said you’re resting today.”

You go silent.

“And,” he adds smugly, “I’m doing your job just fine. Everyone’s still alive. No sets have burned down. You can stop worrying.”

He can hear you hesitate, like you’re trying to come up with something to nitpick. Minho smirks to himself. Before you find anything to say, he chuckles and cuts in, “I’m busy working, by the way.” And hangs up.

Sliding the phone back into his jeans pocket, he’s still smiling when a voice pipes up beside him. “Was that your boyfriend or something?”

Minho looks up—Felix is watching him with a sly little grin, head tilted, arms crossed. He raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

Felix shrugs. “You looked stupidly happy.”

Minho lets out a scoff. “You’re imagining things.”

But he glances at Felix again, more pointedly this time. It’s been on his mind since the body swap. Felix has always been friendly to you—overly so sometimes. And now Minho’s seeing it from the inside, he’s starting to wonder…

With a tone that teeters between playful and serious, Minho asks, “Do you perhaps... like me, Felix?”

Felix blinks, caught off guard, then laughs. “Wow. Straight to the point, huh?”

Minho stares, unflinching. A faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Felix’s grin grows. He steps closer, leans in a little. “And what if I do?”

Minho’s jaw ticks, just slightly.

Felix leans back with a satisfied gleam in his eyes. “What are you gonna do about it, huh?”

With that, he turns and walks away, hands in his pockets, that damn sunshine smile still lingering behind him.

Minho stays rooted to the spot, lips pursed, brows drawn. So Felix really does like you. And the strange twist in his chest isn’t confusion. It’s something else entirely. Something harder to ignore.

-

The midday sun is harsh, the gravel crunching under his boots, and there’s a hint of sweat gathering at his collar. Compared to the usual hustle and bustle of the movie set, today is a slow day because filming is going to move to a new location.

Minho walks with steady steps toward Flickerman’s trailer, the clipboard tucked securely under his arm with the new schedules and updates. He’s halfway rehearsing what to say—something efficient, professional—when the AD steps out from behind the grip truck and intercepts him.

“Hey,” the AD says, a little out of breath. “Flickerman’s still on a call with the execs. Just give me the updates, I’ll hand them off.”

“Sure. Here.” He passes the clipboard over without question, grateful to avoid another round of Flickerman’s long-winded tangents.

The AD flips through the papers, gives Minho a nod. “You’ve done enough today. You can head out early.”

Minho doesn’t argue. “Cool,” he says, already turning to leave.

As he walks toward the parking lot, his eyes wander toward the craft service table—what’s left of it. Most of it has been raided by the crew, but there, almost absurdly untouched, is a neatly boxed set of donuts. Bright pink box. Still sealed. He slows, something like amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. Of course, he thinks. You’d lose your mind over these.

Without even pretending to hesitate, Minho picks up the box and tucks it under his arm, carrying it like a small, ridiculous trophy. He doesn’t know what you’ve eaten today. He doesn’t even know if you can chew properly with your sore jaw. But still. He’s bringing you donuts.

-

You press the wet corner of a towel gently against your forehead, dabbing away the faint trace of dried blood. The bathroom light is harsh and cold, but it makes the cut easier to see. You lift your head slowly, eyes meeting the mirror—and for a moment, the breath catches in your throat.

It’s not your face staring back. It’s Minho’s.

Bruises bloom across his collarbone and shoulder, the edge of a cut still healing on his jaw. Faint scrapes. Purple smudges on his ribs you hadn’t noticed until now. You trace your gaze across the damage, taking in the details like you’re seeing it for the first time. And maybe… maybe you are.

You realize something that knots your stomach: all this time, you’ve been careful—yes—but not because you truly respected this body. You’ve been careful because you didn’t want to get scolded. Because you didn’t want to screw up. Because you didn’t want to face the shame of breaking something that wasn’t yours.

But this? This is more than just a borrowed vessel. It’s Minho’s. It’s the body that danced across years of hard-earned muscle memory, that survived an accident and still showed up to work, that’s quietly been holding his fears and his strength and his pain.

You look again, more intentionally this time. His body is toned, sculpted with discipline—earned. It’s all so distinctively him, and the thought makes your chest tighten with something like guilt. You reach for the ointment and apply it more gently this time to your forehead, then carefully press a fresh bandage over the cut.

You take another breath, then one more look in the mirror. “I’ll be better,” you murmur, not to yourself, but to him—even if he can’t hear it right now.

Then, the sound of the front door opening jolts you from your thoughts. You scramble to grab a t-shirt, tugging it over your head quickly and stepping out into the hallway.

Minho steps in like he’s just returned from a café run, not a film set. His jeans are dusty, and the collar of your shirt—his now—sits loosely around his neck. But it’s the smile on his face that throws you off. Relaxed. Amused. He looks strangely in a good mood.

When his eyes find you standing in the hall, he grins wider. “I bring you two things that will make you very happy.”

You blink, confused. “Two?”

Minho lifts one arm. “First—” He holds up the pink box in triumph. “—donuts.”

Your stomach growls at the sight, almost on cue. “And the second?” you ask slowly, squinting at him.

He shrugs, already kicking off his shoes. “Me, obviously.”

You roll your eyes at his smug face, his lopsided grin practically asking for a sarcastic comment. “You’re unbelievable,” you mutter as you step forward to take the box from his hand.

Minho holds it out proudly like it’s a peace offering. “Come on, you know you want it. Pink box. Slightly warm. Lots of icing sugar.”

You glance down at it. Your mouth waters immediately, but your body tenses too. Not because you don’t want it. You do. But you remember what you told yourself just minutes ago in the bathroom—that this isn’t your body, and you haven’t been treating it with the care it deserves. Also— What if it’s a test? What if he’s trying to see if you’ll just dive back into thoughtless habits?

So instead of grabbing a donut like your instincts scream at you to do, you step around him and place the box neatly on the kitchen counter. You don’t even peek inside.

Minho blinks. “Hey. Aren’t you going to have one?”

You shake your head. “Later.”

He frowns, just slightly. “What, are you full from the air you’ve been eating all day?”

You suppress the smile creeping on your lips. “I said later, Minho.”

There’s a flash of disappointment on his face. He was expecting some kind of donut-induced praise or reaction. Or maybe he really just wanted to feed you something sweet for once. But you stay firm, because this is bigger than donuts.

He opens his mouth like he’s about to push again—but you cut in, clapping your hands once.

“You're home early. That's good. Now, go get changed.”

Minho squints at you. “Changed?”

You cross your arms, letting a sly smirk pull at your lips. “Your training for the underwater stunt starts tonight.”

His whole expression shifts. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.”

Minho’s eyes narrow like he’s gauging how far you’ll actually take this, but you can see the gears turning in his head.

“…Now?” he asks, cautiously.

You grin wider. “Yes. Now.”

-

Minho follows close behind as you lead the way down a dim hallway, passing the familiar silence of late-night apartment stillness. You stop at a door marked FACILITY ACCESS ONLY, punch in a code, and pull out a key like it’s nothing.

Minho raises an eyebrow. “You have keys to the pool? Should I be concerned?”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder but say nothing as you turn the lock.

“Wait—” he grins, “did you date one of the security guys or something?”

You scowl as the door clicks open. “Unlike you,” you say dryly, “people like me because I’m kind. I don’t have to flirt my way into everything.”

Minho scoffs. “Kindness, huh? That’s what we’re calling your passive-aggressive death glares now?”

You ignore him, pushing the heavy door open. The scent hits him immediately—chlorine and faint humidity—and Minho steps inside, the soles of his sneakers squeaking softly against the tile.

The room glows with the faint blue light cast from underwater lamps. The surface of the pool is still and glassy, undisturbed, mirroring the tiled ceiling above. It’s quiet, almost serene. Peaceful. And surprisingly… he doesn’t tense.

No cold sweat creeps up his neck. No pounding heart. The usual pressure in his chest that arrives uninvited every time he sees open water isn’t there—at least not yet. The water is calm. Contained. Almost inviting.

Minho’s shoulders ease a bit. That should be a good sign. Right?

He glances at you as you toss a towel down on a bench and kick off your shoes with purpose. There’s a quiet determination in your movements, like you’ve already decided this is going to work. Like you already believe he can do it.

Minho stands stiffly near the bench, arms loosely at his sides, completely unsure what to do with them. He watches as you methodically stretch—neck rolls, shoulder rotations, a quick shake of your arms like a seasoned athlete—and it hits him that you’ve probably done this a thousand times before.

He doesn’t even realize he’s staring until you casually pull off your T-shirt, revealing the lean strength of his body underneath. The bruises are still faintly visible along your ribs and shoulders, reminders of yesterday’s fall.

Minho clears his throat, masking his sudden nervousness with a smirk. “Wow,” he says, lifting his brows. “You’re getting pretty comfortable flashing my hot body around, huh?”

You glance over your shoulder, clearly unimpressed. “Shut up,” you deadpan, before pointing at him. “You start warming up. I’m taking a lap.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles, rolling his shoulders in a half-hearted circle. He starts mimicking your earlier stretches—stretching your arms, bending side to side—still distracted by the echo of his own voice coming out of your mouth.

From the corner of his eye, he sees you walk to the edge of the pool, crouch, and with a clean, fluid motion, dive in. The splash is minimal. You cut through the surface with practiced ease, gliding underwater in long, controlled strokes. No panic. No hesitation. Just motion.

Minho slows his stretch as he watches your form ripple beneath the water. There’s something almost eerie about it—how natural you look in his body, in a place where he’s always felt so unnatural. And for a moment… it soothes him.

The water doesn’t look so scary from here. Contained. Predictable. You’re swimming effortlessly—he’s swimming effortlessly.

It’s just water, Minho tells himself, pressing his palm down his thigh in another stretch. I can handle this.

Minho continues to watch as you cut through the water effortlessly, gliding back toward him. The water clings to every line of his body—your body—as you reach the edge and emerge. Droplets cascade down your face, catching the soft blue light of the room, and for a split second, Minho forgets how to breathe—not out of panic, but awe.

You push your wet hair back and look up at him. “Ready to get in?”

He swallows hard and steps forward until his toes are hanging over the edge. The water laps quietly against the tiles below. So still. So calm. It almost doesn’t feel like the thing that’s haunted him.

You float easily beside the edge, looking up at him with patience. “Take your time.”

But Minho thinks he’s ready. He has to be ready.

Without answering, he tugs the hoodie over his head and tosses it aside. His denim shorts come off next, leaving him in your swimsuit that he found in the back of your underwear drawer. He walks slowly to the deep end, where the water looks darker. Deeper. A different kind of still.

You’re waiting for him. Your—his—face open, calm, trusting.

“I’ll be here,” you tell him gently. “I’ll catch you if anything happens.”

Minho gives a tight nod. It’s just water. It’s just water. He sucks in a breath, plants his feet firmly on the edge, and jumps. The water swallows him whole and all of a sudden, it’s not the pool anymore.

It’s the car. It’s the river. It’s the sound of glass cracking under pressure and cold rushing in through broken seams. It’s the seatbelt that wouldn’t unclick. It’s his friend pounding the window, panicking, stuck—stuck—and Minho running out of air as he tried to reach for him.

The cold presses in like it wants to crush his chest. His limbs thrash. He's kicking the water but he can’t find the surface. Instead, he’s sinking deeper and deeper. The fear wraps around him like a fist.

Then—arms. Around his chest. Pulling. Breaking the memory’s grip. Pulling him up. And suddenly, he’s gasping, coughing, as air hits his face and your arms tighten around his chest, holding him steady above the water. Minho clings to you with a strength born of terror, his entire body shaking.

“You’re okay,” you whisper, your mouth near his ear. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

Minho breathes raggedly against your shoulder, still clutching you like you’re the only solid thing in the world. And he realizes—his fear isn’t gone. Not even close. It’s worse than he thought.

-

The apartment is quiet—too quiet—and it’s driving you out of your mind. You stand outside the bedroom door, arms folded tightly over your chest, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. You’ve been standing there for ten minutes now. Behind that door, Minho hasn’t made a sound since he disappeared into the room, towel wrapped around his shoulders and silence wrapped even tighter around him.

You’ve been thinking about knocking. You lift your hand—then drop it. Again. You feel awful. You didn’t mean for this to happen. The water was supposed to help. You were trying to help. But now… now you can’t unsee the way he looked at you when you pulled him out of the pool. His body shaking so hard it rattled through your bones. His grip on you like he was afraid you'd vanish. And his eyes—wide, distant, full of something far beyond fear. Something deeper. Raw.

You’ve seen Minho angry, smug, even vulnerable—but not like that. Not this version of him. Not broken. And the worst part is that you’re the one who asked him to get in.

You sigh and lean your forehead against the wall beside the door, guilt gnawing at your insides. You just wanted to help him. You didn’t realize what it would stir up. Maybe you should have realized. Maybe you pushed too hard.

You raise your hand again. This time, you don’t drop it. You hesitate but then, you knock on the door. Soft. Careful. Like you’re afraid the sound alone might break him further.

“…Minho?” you call quietly. “Can I come in?”

You hear him faintly responding. “Yeah.”

You open the door slowly, the faint creak of its hinges sounding louder than you expect in the quiet apartment. You linger by the doorway, eyes scanning the room until you find him—Minho, sitting at the edge of the bed, towel draped around his shoulders as he slowly dries his—your—hair. His back is to you. His posture is hunched slightly, as though the weight of everything still hasn’t left his body.

You swallow, keeping your voice low. “Hey…”

No response.

You try again, softer this time. “Are you… okay?”

A beat passes. Two. Then, finally— “Yeah,” he says, his voice low and distant. “I’m okay.”

It’s not convincing but you don’t push. You can’t. Not after earlier. So instead, you nod, even though he can’t see it.

“Okay,” you say gently. “Well… you can take the bedroom tonight.”

You take a step back, your hand finding the doorknob, ready to pull it shut behind you—

But then Minho speaks again. “You don’t have to. We can… share the bed.”

For a second, your brain short-circuits—not because you think he means that. That he'd be using this opportunity for the magic sex cure thing. You know he doesn’t. At least, not tonight. Not after what happened.

You look at him—his back still to you, towel still in hand, movements slower now. You understand that maybe he’s not asking to be close, but he’s asking not to be alone.

You step fully inside the room and nod. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Okay.”

-

Minho lies on his side, facing the edge of the bed, a good stretch of mattress and blanket between the two of you. The room is quiet, the air thick with unspoken words and the soft whir of the ceiling fan. It's dark—comfortingly so. In the dark, no one can see how tightly he’s wound beneath the covers. In the dark, he can pretend he's okay.

But he knows you’re still awake. He can feel it in the way your breathing is a little too measured, too careful, like you’re trying not to disturb the silence but also trying not to fall asleep.

Then, your voice breaks through. Soft, hesitant.

“…I’m sorry.”

Minho blinks slowly, eyes fixed on the shadows across the wall.

“I thought I could help,” you continue. “Thought I could train you, push you past it, but… I was wrong. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t think—”

You pause and then he hears you shift slightly, turning your head. “I’m really sorry, Minho.”

In the darkness, something inside him softens. And strangely, it's the silence that gives him the space to speak.

“It’s okay,” he says. Then, after a moment, “I should’ve known better too.”

He draws a breath, steadying himself, feeling how his chest still tightens a little like he's underwater. “I thought I was ready. But the second I hit the water…”

He swallows, blinking hard even though there's nothing to see. “It took me back. To that day. In the car. The sound of the windows cracking. The water flooding in so fast I didn’t have time to think. I remember—I remember the seatbelt wouldn’t budge. I was kicking at it, panicking… thinking this is it.”

His voice dips lower as he continues. “And then he got me out. My friend. He freed me. But he was still stuck. His foot… it wouldn’t come loose. I tried, I really tried, but…”

Minho trails off. His hands curl into fists beneath the blanket. “I was already out of breath. I could barely see. I swam up without him.”

He closes his eyes. And it’s like the memory plays again in full color, full sound, inside the dark behind his lids. “He didn’t make it.”

The room is quiet again, only the sound of the fan ticking and the sound of his pulse thudding in his ears. His eyelids flutter. His throat tightens. He doesn't cry—but the fear, the guilt, the weight of it… it's all still there, wrapped around him like water he hasn’t escaped yet.

And still, somehow, saying it aloud in the dark—feels like the start of learning how to breathe again. “I could’ve gone back,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I should’ve gone back.”

His knuckles ache from how tightly his fists are clenched under the blanket.

“I was out, I could breathe again. But I didn’t dive back down.” His voice trembles now. “I was scared. I knew I couldn’t hold my breath long enough again, but—what kind of coward doesn’t even try?”

He blinks rapidly, eyes burning even though no tears fall. “He was the better one. Kinder. Smarter. He should’ve been the one to live, not me.”

He shuts his eyes tight, like he can keep the pain from spilling out by sheer force. But it doesn’t work. The words have left a crack in him, and everything is pouring through.

Then—your hand finds his. Warm. Gentle. Real. You wrap your fingers around his and squeeze, grounding him back into the present.

“Minho…” Your voice is soft but firm. “It’s not your fault.”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. But he doesn��t pull away either.

“You didn’t choose what happened,” you continue. “No one could’ve predicted it. You tried. You did. And it was terrifying and impossible and unfair. But it’s not your fault.”

Minho swallows hard, his throat aching.

“I should’ve been braver,” he says, and this time his voice breaks. “I should’ve been the one to die.”

You grip his hand tighter, refusing to let that sit in the silence. “Hey! No. Don’t say that.”

Your voice is fiercer now, shaky but certain. “Don’t you ever say that.”

You shift closer, just enough that your presence reaches him even through the dark. “The fact that you’re still here, breathing, trying—hurting like this—it proves you deserve to live. You didn’t run away from what happened. You carry it. Every day. That doesn’t make you less. That makes you… human.”

Minho doesn’t respond, not right away. He just lies there, listening to the sound of your breath. Feeling the way your fingers are still holding his.

Then, quieter than before, you ask, “If it were the other way around… if you died, and your friend lived, but he carried all this guilt with him… would you want that for him?”

Minho’s breath hitches. Would he? Would he want his friend to live like this, buried in pain, drowning in guilt?

He doesn’t answer. He just holds your hand. Holds onto it like it’s keeping him above water.

-

The train ride is long but quiet, the rhythmic rattle of the tracks lulling you into a stillness that feels almost meditative. When you step off at the small-town station, the air smells different—cleaner, lighter, and edged with something earthy, like pine and damp soil. You stretch your limbs as Mr. Kim begins ushering the group of stuntmen toward the waiting cars outside.

The drive is short, no more than twenty minutes, but you spend it gazing out the window. The town is sleepy, with narrow streets and small shops lining the sidewalks, all tucked into the surrounding hills. The change of scenery feels good. Needed, even. Like a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding finally let go.

The car stops in front of a weathered little motel—low-roofed, sun-faded, but clean. You already knew this was the only accommodation close to the new filming location, and most of the movie staff is staying here too. Still, the quiet around it is comforting. A break from the usual chaos of the city sets.

You’re handed a room key without much fanfare. You thank the clerk, mumble a tired goodbye to the others, and head straight to your assigned room. It’s on the second floor, tucked into a corner with a window that overlooks a modest stretch of trees and the curve of the distant hills.

Inside, the room is small but neat. A queen bed, a dresser, a chair near the window, and a little desk in the corner. You drop your bag on the chair and sigh as you roll your shoulders. For a brief moment, the thought of throwing yourself onto the bed is tempting.

But then—knock knock.

You freeze, hand hovering above your hoodie zipper. Walking to the door, you open it slowly. Mr. Kim stands there, still in his jacket, still with that composed, unreadable look on his face.

“Hey,” you say.

He gives you a small nod. “Just checking in.”

You step aside instinctively, gesturing for him to come in, but he shakes his head. “No need. Just wanted to make sure you’re settled in all right.”

“I am.” You nod. “Thanks for asking.”

There’s a flicker in his expression. Like he’s searching your face for something—confirmation, maybe. A sign. A crack. You can tell he has more on his mind than just accommodations. Something heavier lingers between the words, but he doesn’t ask. Doesn’t push.

“I’m just going to rest for a bit,” you say gently. “It’s been… a long week.”

His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer. Then he nods again. “Good. Do that.”

With that, he turns and walks back down the walkway, his steps even and measured. You watch him go, your hand still resting on the doorknob. A thought itches at the back of your mind and refuses to go away.

How much does he know? About Minho. About the trauma he carries. About what he’s been hiding behind that sarcasm and practiced perfection. You step back into the room and close the door slowly behind you. You finally let yourself collapse onto the edge of the bed, sighing as the mattress dips beneath you. Your body feels like it's vibrating with residual tension from the three hours long of train ride, from holding in thoughts, from Mr. Kim’s quiet concern still echoing in your chest.

However, as you’re about to lie back and close your eyes— Knock knock.

You groan into your hands. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Dragging yourself off the bed, you shuffle toward the door, already muttering under your breath. You yank it open, fully prepared to snap—but stop short when you’re met with your face grinning back at you from the hallway.

Minho—you—leans casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, his head tilted as his eyes sweep lazily around your room. “Cozy,” he muses, clearly amused.

You squint at him. “Let me guess. You’re staying at a hotel with a view and room service?”

Minho snorts. “I wish. It’s a bed and breakfast. I’m sharing a bathroom with Rhonda from wardrobe.”

You blink, then grin. “Well. That sounds exactly like what the AD would assign. I bet she’s already made a shrine of you in there.”

He rolls his eyes. “She offered me organic shampoo. Lavender-something. I’m traumatized.”

You cross your arms and lean against the doorframe, mirroring him. “Why are you here?”

Minho shrugs. “Just checking in.”

The way he says it so casually almost makes you scoff. Checking in? He was the one who had a freak out in the pool the other night. The one who held onto you like his whole body was unraveling.

You almost ask—Are you okay now? But before you can say anything, Minho’s—your—phone rings shrilly, slicing through the moment.

Minho doesn’t even hesitate. He picks up the phone, and presses it to his ear. His expression immediately drops into exaggerated boredom as whoever’s on the other end starts talking. His eyes roll so hard you’re convinced he can see his own brain. “Yes… mmhmm… yeah, I got it. On my way.”

He hangs up dramatically and turns to you, pointing a finger. “Duty calls. Your very boring job awaits.”

You smirk. “Have fun.”

“I won’t,” he says with all the theatrical despair in the world.

“I’m going to lie down and do absolutely nothing,” you tease, stretching your arms high overhead in a show of relaxed bliss.

He groans loudly and stomps his feet in protest like a child, grumbling under his breath as he heads back toward the hallway. “Unbelievable. I should be the one resting.”

You just laugh. “You’ll live.”

Minho turns halfway, walking backward now with that stupid grin still tugging at your—his—mouth. “Unfortunately.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you standing in the doorway smiling to yourself before finally closing the door behind him. This time, when you lie down, you actually let yourself rest.

-

The air smells like fresh paint and sawdust, the set still half-built, buzzing with energy as crew members move like ants around him. Minho has barely had a minute to breathe since he got to the new filming location. He’s already gone over the location safety, walked the perimeter with the AD, triple-checked the new lighting rig schedule, and now he’s trying to finish filling out the stunt schedule checklist on the clipboard in his hand. He’s mid-sentence explaining something to one of the camera rig guys when someone from the props team waves him over.

“Hey! We need you for a second!”

Minho nods, mutters a quick “Be right back,” and jogs toward the prop storage room—one of the only enclosed places in this otherwise chaotic outdoor lot.

The second he pushes open the heavy door, the air shifts—dusty, dim, and colder than outside. The room is massive, metal shelves lined with rubber weapons, breakaway furniture, mock explosives. At the far end, two cars sit under sheets. One of the prop crew pulls the cover off the first one with a dramatic flourish.

“These are the two options for the underwater scene. We need to confirm which one’s getting rigged for submersion.”

The words hit Minho like a brick. Underwater scene. It’s as if the walls narrow around him. His breath shortens.

The cars sit there innocently, old sedans stripped and prepared for modifications. But the shape, the interior, the weight of them—it all slams into his chest like a memory. His hand tightens slightly on the clipboard as he steps forward.

Don’t think. Don’t feel.

“Both models are almost identical,” the prop guy continues, walking around them. “We just need a decision so the effects team can get started on sealing and rigging. Flickerman wants realism—cracked windows, pressure build, the works.”

Minho doesn’t trust his voice for a second, so he nods instead, jotting down a note on his clipboard. His fingers clench the pen a little too tightly. Car for underwater scene – confirm w/ Flickerman. Breathe. Breathe.

He forces himself to write it down with steady strokes even though his palm feels slick. His eyes lift one more time to the cars. They don’t look dangerous. Not yet. But just the sight of them makes him want to be anywhere else.

He draws in a slow, shallow breath through his nose and turns briskly toward the door, holding the clipboard to his chest like a shield. There’s still too much to do today.

Minho’s on his way to find Flickerman to report, clipboard in hand, rehearsing the list of notes he needs to report about the car props. But just as he rounds the corner past the catering tent, the Assistant Director comes barreling toward him like a man on a mission.

“Hey!” the AD barks.

Minho stops in his tracks, startled. “Yeah?”

“Stop whatever you're doing. I need you to get Felix. Now.”

Minho blinks. “From the airstrip?”

“Yes,” the AD snaps. “Flickerman needs him on set in fifteen minutes.”

Minho glances down at his watch. “I can call a driver—”

“No, you go. Now.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t it be faster with someone who’s, I don’t know, trained to drive like hell through a dirt town?”

The AD grabs his arm and yanks him to the side, lowering his voice but raising the stakes. “Listen. Flickerman’s waiting on Felix to rehearse the next sequence, and if he doesn’t show up on time, he’s going to blow. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen him lose it, but if he does, it won’t just be Felix who’s in trouble. It’ll be all of us. You included.”

Minho stares at him, the seriousness in the AD’s face draining any protest left in his chest. He swallows hard as all he can think about is your rule about not getting fired from each other’s jobs.

“Fifteen minutes?” he asks.

“Fourteen now,” the AD says grimly, already turning away.

Minho huffs and spins around, muttering, “Great. No pressure,” under his breath. He starts pacing toward the edge of the lot, his brain moving as fast as his legs. How the hell is he going to cut a 30-minute drive down to half the time?

He rounds the corner near the prop storage again, and something catches his eye through the half-open rolling door. A sleek black motorcycle, parked near the wall with a helmet hanging off the handlebar.

He stops. Looks at it. And then he grins. “Of course.”

With no hesitation, he strides toward it, tossing his clipboard to a nearby intern as he snatches the helmet in one hand. He mutters to himself, “You’re welcome, Felix,” as he swings one leg over the bike and kickstarts the engine.

The roar of it echoes through the lot. Minho revs it once for good measure before speeding off the lot.

The tires screech just slightly as Minho pulls up to the airstrip, kicking up dust as he slows the motorcycle to a hard stop near the small tarmac where Felix is just stepping off the private charter plane, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder.

Felix squints at the sight of the motorcycle rolling to a halt—at the sight of you on the motorcycle—and his brow furrows in confusion.

Minho pulls off the helmet, hair a wind-tossed mess as he swings his leg down and plants his feet. “Felix!” he shouts, waving him over. “Let’s go!”

Felix walks over, looking around as if expecting someone else. “Uh… hi? Where’s the driver?”

“You’re looking at her,” Minho replies flatly, tossing a spare helmet toward him. “Get on.”

“Wait, what? Why?”

“No time,” Minho says as he hops back on the bike. “Just get on, Felix.”

Felix looks at the helmet, looks at the motorcycle, then back at Minho. “You’re serious.”

“I said get on.”

Felix hesitates only for another second before sighing, handing his duffel bag to his manager and hopping onto the back seat of the motorcycle.

“This better not be some elaborate prank,” Felix mutters as he fits the helmet on.

“You wish,” Minho shoots back, gripping the handles.

“Okay, what’s going on?”

“You’ll find out in about ten minutes—assuming we make it in ten.”

Felix doesn't get a chance to respond before Minho revs the engine, loud and sharp, and the bike lurches forward onto the road. Felix instinctively tightens his arms around Minho’s waist, startled by the jolt of speed.

“Hold on!” Minho shouts over the roaring wind.

They weave through the narrow back roads with practiced ease—Minho leans low into the turns, the engine growling beneath them like it knows they’re racing the clock. Felix presses in behind him, ducking when Minho ducks, trusting him without question, even though he doesn’t know what the hell is going on.

All Minho knows is the timer in his head is ticking fast and he’s not about to be the reason Flickerman burns the set to the ground.

-

The scent of garlic and roasted meat wafts through the sma hall of the motel, mixing with the quiet clatter of forks and soft chatter between crew members. You’ve barely touched the food on your plate, mostly pushing steamed vegetables around with the side of your fork as Mr. Kim laughs at something one of the newer stunt guys says.

You glance up once in a while to watch as everyone chat with each other before you look back down at your phone, deciding to scroll for a moment while you chew and that’s when your thumb freezes mid-scroll.

A video plays on your screen—shaky, filmed from a phone, but clear enough to catch the unmistakable image of you—or rather, Minho—riding a motorcycle like a scene ripped straight out of an action drama. But it’s not just that. No.

Seated behind you is Felix, helmet and all, one arm clearly wrapped around your waist as the motorcycle speeds away from the small airstrip.

You nearly choke on your food. You cough into your napkin as your heart skips a confused beat, your eyes glued to the phone as the video loops. You blink, just to make sure you’re not hallucinating. Nope—still there. Felix’s arm. Around your waist.

It’s Minho’s body, yes, but still—you. Your finger slides down to the comments.

“WHO IS SHE OMG I’M SO JEALOUS 😭😭😭”

“wait that’s not a manager is it???”

“i heard it’s just a staff member lol chill”

“lucky girl... taking felix on a motorbike ride… i’d die.”

“felix’s arm around her waist?? HELLO?????”

You lock your phone screen, slowly placing it face-down on the table. Your appetite has officially disappeared.

You sit there, unsure whether to laugh, scream, or both. You don’t even know what you’re upset about—if it’s the misleading image of it all, or the way fans are shipping you with Felix, or maybe... maybe it's that you weren’t told. That Minho didn’t even think to warn you. That you're only finding out through a fan video.

You pace the motel room floor with your phone clutched tightly in your hand, the screen dimming every few minutes as your unanswered texts pile higher and higher in the chat with Minho.

come to my room. now.

we need to talk.

don’t make me come find you.

MINHO!!!!!

You glance at the clock—11:54 PM—and just as you’re about to fire off another message, a knock finally comes at your door. You fling it open before he can even knock twice. And of course, there he is, grinning like a child who’s convinced himself he's done nothing wrong.

"Hi," Minho says, way too cheerfully for someone being summoned like a fugitive. Before you can say a word, he breezes past you into the room like it’s his. He drops himself onto the edge of your bed, leans back, arms propped behind him, looking way too comfortable.

You shut the door with a sigh and walk up to him, shoving your phone in his face with the screen lit up. “What is this?” you ask, voice sharp.

Minho squints at the video still playing. “That’s me giving Felix a ride on a motorcycle.”

“No,” you say through clenched teeth. “That’s me giving Felix a ride. In that body. Which means that you made me the center of some wild fan theory.”

He shrugs. “Well, technically, I made you look cool. You’re welcome.”

You glare at him in disbelief. “Seriously, what were you thinking?” you ask. “You’re in my body, Minho. You don’t get to just show up with a movie star clinging to your waist and pretend it’s no big deal!”

Minho waves you off like you’re being dramatic. “You should be happy. Isn’t it your dream to date a movie star like Felix?”

You scoff. “Oh my God, no.”

He grins wider, like that’s exactly the answer he expected. “Okay, then why are you so flustered?” he asks, eyes narrowing with mock curiosity. “Unless—”

“No,” you cut him off quickly.

Minho lifts an eyebrow, head tilting slightly as he adds, far too casually, “Felix likes you, you know.”

Your entire body stiffens. “…What?”

“Yeah,” Minho says with a careless shrug. “He told me. Like, the other day. Said he likes you. Pretty straightforward.”

You stare at him, blinking. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head, the smirk never fading. “Unfortunately, nope.”

You take a step back, overwhelmed, uncertain if your face is heating up from embarrassment or confusion—or both. Minho notices instantly, his grin widening with satisfaction.

“You’re flustered,” he teases. “Oh, this is rich. Who knew the tough girl act would crumble this fast?”

You shoot him a glare and turn your back to him, trying to compose yourself. “We’re not talking about that.”

“Oh, we’re definitely talking about it later,” he says smugly.

You spin back around. “Right now, we’re talking about you recklessly putting me in the center of internet gossip!”

At that, Minho sighs and finally sits up straighter, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, fine. Look. I didn’t mean to turn you into fan bait. Flickerman needed Felix on set in fifteen minutes, the AD practically threatened my life, and there was no time for a driver. The motorcycle was the fastest way.”

You cross your arms. “And it didn’t occur to you to, I don’t know, warn me?”

“I was going to,” he says. “But it's either that or... I got fired so... I didn’t think it would blow up this fast, okay? Sorry.”

You sigh, finally letting the tension out of your shoulders. His reasoning is… actually valid. And given the crisis-level urgency the AD was projecting earlier, you get it.

“Okay. Fine. I’ll let it slide. This time.”

You’re just about to sit down, maybe finally unwind from the entire emotional rollercoaster of the day, when Minho—still lounging on your bed like he owns the room—sits up and says, “Go get changed.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He jerks his chin toward your duffel bag. “I saw a pool out back. Looks decent. Let’s train. Tonight.”

You stare at him, confused. “You… want to get in the water? Tonight?”

He nods, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. But it isn’t. Not after what happened the last time. Not after the way he shook so violently in your arms, as if the fear had swallowed him whole.

Your brows knit with concern. “Minho… are you sure? Because we can take it slow—”

“I am taking it slow,” he cuts in, his voice calm but firm. “We only have three days left until the underwater stunt. I need to be ready. No matter what happens, I want to be prepared.”

There’s something in his voice—not the cocky tone he usually wears like armor, not the biting sarcasm either. It’s steadier, grounded, but underneath it, you can still hear the tremor of fear he’s trying to bury. He meets your gaze head-on. Determined. Maybe a little scared, too—but this time, he’s not running from it. He’s walking straight into the storm.

You nod slowly. “Okay,” you say. “If that’s what you want.”

He nods back once, appreciative. And you can’t help but respect it—his resolve, his decision. Because when Lee Minho sets his mind on something, there’s really no changing it.

You sigh and head to your bag to grab your swimming trunks. If he's really going to do this, you’ll be right there with him. Every terrifying, breathless second of it.

-

Minho exhales slowly as he stands at the edge of the pool, the air cool against his skin and the silence of the night pressing in around him. Most of the motel lights are off, the building behind them dark and quiet. He figures a splash too loud could wake a light sleeper on the second floor—but that’s a risk he’s willing to take.

He rolls his shoulders once, then pulls off the hoodie, folding it neatly over a nearby chair. His jeans follow, and now he’s just standing there in your black swimsuit, hugging his frame in a way he’s still not quite used to. But he doesn’t let it distract him because tonight, he has a goal.

Minho takes a step forward onto the tiled steps and slowly begins to descend into the water. Each inch higher on his skin feels colder than the last. It seeps into his bones. He tries not to think of the weight of it. He tries not to think of the last time.

Another breath. Another step. The water reaches his knees. Another breath. Then his thighs. Another. Then his waist. He stops, closing his eyes for a moment. The water laps gently around him. It’s quiet. Peaceful, even. He doesn’t feel the same panic in his chest. Not yet. And that’s a small win.

When he opens his eyes, he turns around—and there you are. Standing at the edge of the pool with your arms crossed, your expression a mix of concern and calculation.

Minho exhales sharply through his nose. “Why aren’t you getting in?”

You hesitate. “I just think… maybe you shouldn’t push it.”

Minho nearly rolls his eyes. “Do I look like I can’t handle a kid’s swimming pool?”

He gestures down at the waist-high water surrounding him and lifts both brows at you, the sarcasm sitting comfortably in his voice. “Aren’t you going to train me?”

You let out a breath, shaking your head like he’s being ridiculous—which, of course, he is—but it makes you move. You peel off your T-shirt, revealing the swimming trunks beneath, and step into the water.

Minho watches you quietly and somehow, just having you in there with him makes everything feel a little easier like maybe, this time, he won’t drown. You step into the pool and make your way toward him, water rippling around your legs. You stop just in front of him, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your presence in the cool water.

The motel lights are dim behind you, and above, the sky stretches wide and dark, sprinkled with faint stars. It's quiet. The kind of quiet that makes him feel both grounded and exposed. He glances around, then back at you. “So…” he says, voice low, “what are we doing tonight?”

You shrug and think for a second. “Maybe we try holding our breath underwater?”

Minho lets his gaze drop to the surface of the water. It shimmers faintly under the moonlight. His reflection blurs, shifts, disappears. He swallows air as he wonders if he can handle that.

As if you heard his thoughts, you reach out and gently take both of his hands, lacing your fingers with his. “Let’s do it together.”

Minho looks up. The quiet certainty in your voice steadies something in him.

“We go down on the count of three,” you explain, watching him closely. “If you feel like you can’t do it—don’t. Just come back up. No pressure. Got it?”

He nods. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything else.

“One…”

His grip tightens in yours.

“Two…”

He inhales deep, steadying himself.

“Three.”

Together, you begin to lower yourselves into the water. Inch by inch. The coolness brushes up against his neck, his jaw, his cheeks. He shuts his eyes before the surface swallows him whole.

For a second—just a second—it’s okay. He’s in the water, and it’s still. His hands are still in yours. He can feel the slight squeeze of your fingers, anchoring him.

Then it comes. A flash of memory—metal pressing against him, water rushing in, the suffocating fear of being trapped, lungs aching for air. The illusion of control snaps. He kicks upward and bursts back through the surface, gasping. His breath comes in ragged, uneven pulls. His chest heaves. Cold air hits his wet skin, and he blinks the water from his eyes.

When he opens his eyes, you're there. Still holding his hands. Still in front of him. No pity in your eyes. No judgment. Just quiet reassurance.

“That was good, Minho,” you say softly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Minho stares at you. The panic doesn’t leave immediately, but the sharp edge of it dulls under your voice. He doesn’t reply. He just nods slightly, still trying to catch his breath, still holding on.

-

You watch him—yourself—in the shimmering reflection of the pool under the night sky, and for a moment, it feels surreal. But the way Minho's chest rises and falls, the tremble in his breath, the fear flickering in his eyes—you see all of it and all you want is to reach in and take it from him, to carry it yourself, just to give him a second of peace, but you can’t.

What you can do is be here. Hold his hands. Tell him that he’s safe. That he’s doing okay. That he’s not alone.

After a moment, his breath slows. You see the fear fade a little, not gone—but quieter, smaller. “Maybe this is enough for tonight,” you offer gently.

But Minho shakes his head. “I want to try again.”

You pause, but you nod, meeting his eyes with calm and quiet respect. “Okay. Take your time.”

He nods. His grip on your hands is tighter this time. Tighter than before.

You wait. You patiently wait. And when he finally says, “I’m ready,” you move closer.

You carefully place his arms around your shoulders, letting your hands settle against his waist. “You can hold on to me,” you tell him. “It’s okay.”

He nods again. And you can feel his breath ghost over your neck as he tries to steady himself.

“One,” you whisper.

“Two…”

“Three.”

Together, you sink beneath the surface and the world above disappears in a ripple.

Minho clings to you while you stay still, hands firm on his waist, grounding him. His body is tense—tight like a wire—but his arms stay around you, and his grip doesn't falter. His eyes are shut, his brow drawn. You watch the fight happening inside him. The way he braces against something invisible, dark, heavy. He’s trying. You can feel it. So you don’t move. You don’t pull him up. Not until he decides.

The seconds stretch. One, then two, maybe more. You lose count in the hush of the water. Then suddenly, he kicks up, dragging you with him, and both of you burst back into the air.

Minho is panting, arms still around you. You wrap yours around him without hesitation.

“You’re okay,” you whisper, close to his ear. “You did so well.”

He doesn’t say anything, just leans into you, forehead resting against your shoulder, chest heaving, water streaming from his hair and face. You hold him tighter, letting the silence say everything that needs to be said and the two of you stay like that, in the middle of the pool, until the ripples settle and the night calms once more.

-

By the time the two of you return to your motel room, the air is cool against your damp skin, and silence settles between you—not heavy, not awkward. Just quiet. The comfortable kind.

You grab a towel and toss another toward Minho. “You can use the bathroom first,” you say, voice soft.

He nods, wordless, and disappears behind the door. The lock clicks afterwards.

As you wait, you dry your hair with the towel and glance toward the window. The night is still, the stars blurred by mist, the world calm in a way it hasn’t been for days.

Then the bathroom door flies open and you turn on your feet, expecting a small comment or maybe a mumble about how cold the water was—but Minho steps out with only a towel wrapped around him. Water glistens on his shoulders. His eyes find yours.

You blink. “Minho—?”

He doesn’t say anything but walks toward you, steady, almost cautious. And he doesn’t stop until he’s right in front of you, close enough that you can feel the warmth rising from his skin, smell the faint trace of your body wash on him.

You open your mouth to ask—but you don’t get the chance as Minho leans in and presses his lips to yours. Soft at first. Gentle. Like he’s still asking a question with every touch. But then you feel his hands move to your waist, pulling you closer—and the kiss deepens. He kisses you like he’s been holding back for too long. Like everything he’s been feeling—all the fear, the guilt, the gratitude, the relief—is pouring out through this single point of contact.

And you don’t hold back either. Your arms wrap around him, and your fingers curl against his bare skin. You kiss him harder, your heart thudding against your ribs. The room falls away, the air thick with heat and something unspoken that you both finally stop running from.

Minho’s touch is confident but careful, and the next thing you know, his fingers curling around the waistband of your swim trunks and easing them down. You inhale sharply but don’t stop him—can’t, really—not when your heart is pounding so hard in your chest, not when everything between you feels like it’s been building to this very moment.

Your trunks fall to the floor, and a beat later, his towel follows. Then it’s just the two of you. Nothing between you. Bare, vulnerable, exposed—not just physically, but in the quiet way that only happens when someone truly sees you.

He takes your hand, warm and steady, and leads you gently toward the bed. You follow wordlessly, your steps slow, breath caught somewhere between nerves and anticipation. When he lays down, you move with him, hovering just above as you brace yourself over his chest.

Minho cups your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheek as his eyes search yours, then he pulls you down into a kiss—deep, slow, unraveling. You feel his other arm slide around your waist, anchoring you closer, until you’re lying right against him. Every inch of your skin touches his. The heat between you blooms.

The kiss grows heavier, more consuming, yet never loses its tenderness. You lose track of where his body ends and yours begins. Fingers trail along ribs, lips part, breath mingles.

And all the while, the world outside fades away. The fear. The pressure. Even the memory of cold water.

It’s just you and him. Together—closer than ever.

-

Minho doesn’t flinch when you pull away from the kiss. He keeps his eyes on you, steady and calm, reading every flicker of hesitation in your gaze. Your fingers wrapped around his wrist are trembling slightly, and he knows—it’s not just nerves. It’s the weight of everything that’s strange and new, the unfamiliarity of being in his body, of feeling all the sensation in ways you’ve never felt before.

You look at him, searching. “Minho, I don’t… I don’t know how to do this in this body.”

Minho expected this. Maybe he’d been waiting for it—maybe even hoping you’d say it out loud, rather than pretending like you weren’t overwhelmed. So he offers you a small, reassuring smile, one that you’ve worn on your own lips more than once. He reaches for your hand and gently guides it to his abdomen, just above the place where every part of him aches for more of you. His breath hitches, but he keeps his voice even as he murmurs, “Then just touch me the way you like to be touched.”

And then, softer: “And I’ll do the same.”

You don’t say anything at first. Just stay quiet, eyes wide and searching his. But then you give the faintest nod, like you’re trusting him—trusting yourself.

He pulls you back into a kiss, slower this time, deeper. Your hands begin to move—cautious at first, unsure, but growing bolder with every breath. You touch him like the way you like to be touched, running your fingers between the folds and easily locate your bundle of nerves. You begin circling on it as it pulsating, throbbing with every gentle pressure you apply on it and keep the stimulation going.

Minho mirrors you, touching with a kind of reverence, exploring the body that was once his with new wonder, new intent. His fingers trail the length of his cock, aching and hardening around his palm even though he hasn't moving yet. He gives it slow strokes, thumb pressing on the slit on the tip and once he gets his cock hot and hard in his hand, he begins pumping it at a steady pace.

Minho senses your nervousness giving way to something else—curiosity, anticipation, heat. And through it all, he holds you close, grounding you with every kiss, every breath.

Two bodies, one connection—tangled in a space where roles and boundaries blur, and all that remains is how you make each other feel.

Minho exhales, the sound shaky, as your fingers continously circling on the clit—slow, delicate, like you’re still unsure of how far you can take this, but every touch still lands just right. There’s something reverent in the way you explore him, like you’re memorizing a map of yourself through him, and the care in your movements makes his breath catch in his throat.

His body arches into your hand, craving more before he even realizes it, and his own hand wrapped around your length falters for a moment—sloppier now, less rhythm, more instinct. But when he hears your breath, hot and shallow against his neck, and feels how your body reacts to him, it spurs him on again.

Minho lets his lips part, soft moans escaping freely—he doesn’t try to hide how good it feels. “Oh yeah, just like that,” he murmurs, voice low, raw. “Whatever you're doing, keep going.”

You press closer at that, bringing your mouth to wrap around your breast, and Minho shudders at the contact of your hot tongue on the sensitive bud, his fingers curling around your cock tighter and with more purpose, matching your rhythm again. It’s clumsy in places—new, uncharted—but it’s real. It’s honest. And with every breath, every whispered sound, every stammered gasp, Minho gives in a little more to the pleasure, to you.

It's clear that you're both ready for more so Minho holds your face between his hands, thumbs brushing gently over your cheeks, and when your eyes meet his, there’s nothing but sincerity between you. “We’re ready for this,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, even as his heart pounds. You nod, almost instinctively, like you’ve both known this was inevitable from the start. The weight of waiting disappears in that shared look—there’s no more fear, no more hesitation. Only trust.

He kisses you again—slow, deep, full of something he can’t name—and then leans back, letting himself open to you. His legs part, completely baring himself to you and he breathes deeply, eyes fluttering shut as he whispers, “You know what to do.”

You nod again, more certain this time, and the moment your body aligns with his, he holds onto the sheets. Carefully, deliberately, you guide yourself into him, and Minho gasps at the sensation—foreign, yet achingly right. The stretch, the fullness, the press of your body—it all crashes into him at once.

His moan slips out before he can catch it, back arching into your chest, and then he sees you—your brows drawn tight in focus, your mouth parted, trying to hold it together but falling apart just the same. As you push in all of your length into him, your bodies settle together, chest to chest, skin to skin, breath tangled in breath.

Minho wraps his arms around your back, eyes stinging with the emotion of it all, and holds you there, completely overwhelmed. The feeling, the closeness, the quiet burn beneath his skin—it’s almost too much. It’s everything.

Your breaths are warm against his neck, the rhythm of your body grounding him more than the chill of the motel air or the weight of reality ever could. This—this moment—is more than just bodies colliding. It's a plea. A quiet, desperate prayer sealed in sweat and skin and unspoken promises.

He shuts his eyes and in the hush between heartbeats, Minho dares to wish. Let this work. Let this be it.

Because if it isn’t—if this isn’t the way back—he doesn't know how much more he can take. He doesn't know if he can survive waking up again in a body that doesn't feel like his, trapped in a mirror that reflects someone else’s face. The drowning, the panic, the constant pretending—he can barely hold himself together under the weight of it all.

But more than that—more than the fear of being lost inside someone else’s skin—he’s terrified of losing you. He doesn't say it aloud. He doesn't have to. Because in the fragile, fleeting quiet of that motel room, as your breath evens out and your heart beats against his, Minho only thinks it, clutching the thought like a lifeline:

Please… I can't lose you too.

-

✨ DOUBLE FEATURE: FINAL CHAPTER is available on my Patreon ✨

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

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[mediumgayitalian]

“Man overboard!”

Annabeth does, in fact, understand that such a cry warrants hastiness. Hurry, even.

“Man overboard! Man overboard!”

Most men, after all, cannot swim, and if the whispers are to be believed then this particular man is not even conscious to try. He is no doubt in peril, and the Fates have a stronger hold on his thread with every passing moment.

“Make way! Man overboard!”

If she is jostled one more time, however.

“Man overboard! Lower the ladder, man overboard!”

Should even one more crew yank her back away from the walls of the ship, patting her on the arm as they shove her ‘somewhere more befitting for such a finely dressed lady’.

“Hook it around him, for the gods’ sake, man overboard!”

There are going to be several more men joining him.

“Clear a path! Clear a path!”

She makes it, finally, to the rail unimpeded enough to lean over and see the man who, she has heard, has fallen overboard. He clings like dark-haired Danaë on the waterlogged hope of a wine barrel, bare back burned from the sun, nose nearly dragging along the friendly swirling waves. His dignity is covered, barely, by a torn, bloodstained cloth, and his tanned skin is crisscrossed with raised white scars.

He is handsome.

She stumbles back from the hull, face burning. And absurd thought to have. She seeks out deliberately a close-cropped head of blond hair, smiling tersely when Captain Grace meets her eyes, offering her a nod.

“Straight line,” she murmurs to herself, pulling back her shoulders.

She gives the men plenty of distance as they haul the downed sailor up from the depths. It irks her, really, to be following their orders, but to help or to offer it would mean more of the jostling, the pushing. More grimey hands irreparably staining the fine silk of the new dress Mother had sent her with.

It takes the crew an embarrassingly long time to haul the man up, even though Annabeth can see, as one of the bulkier men wraps a limp arm around his shoulders, that he is slight. He has the shoulders of a swimmer and the leanness of a scavenger, but his frame is small. In fact she is almost sure that upright, they would stand shoulder to shoulder. Perhaps an inch on his part, nothing more.

She realises, with a start, that the crew is staring at her, and forces her second blush of the day back from whence it came. She meets the expectant states with a tilted chin and hard eyes, drawing her skirts and clicking her heels against the groaning deck.

“What,” she snaps.

“He’s unconscious, my lady.”

“So? Place him out of the sun, have someone monitor him.”

The crewman supporting the unconscious man — truly, Annabeth needs to learn these men’s names; it would be easier if any of them spoke to her at any time other than to ask if the sun was making her feel faint — shifts from foot to foot.

Well.

Foot to peg.

“Yes,” he says eventually. He makes some sort of vague gesture with his hand, stepping forward. “Er — our thoughts exactly, my lady.”

Still, no one moves. The unconscious man’s head lolls, pitching his whole weight forward. Another sailor lunges forward to catch him, readjusting him so he’s steady.

Still, no one moves.

Annabeth shifts to face her betrothed. He winces under her sharp look, hand coming up to run the back of his neck.

“He may fare best under your care,” Captain Grace says hesitantly. “The bunks are unfit for someone in his condition. And my men can be…rough.”

“Choose your words carefully, Jason,” she warns.

Grimacing, Captain Grace plows on. “I mean no offense, my lady. We have no other women on the ship. Your cabin is cool and sheltered and I know you enjoy those weaving projects in idle time. He will not require much more than an eye to ensure he does not pass in his sleep. I can think of no one more capable to watch over him.”

The doctor, for starters, Annabeth thinks. Drunk as he is, the sickly rescue should be his charge; nursing him should be his task.

The crew doesn’t even glance at him, though. He stands happily to the side, red-faced and cross-eyed, bottle dribbling from his trouser pockets, and Annabeth fights the urge to bare her teeth.

“Whatever you believe is best, Captain,” she grits out. She glares at the crew, pausing on each man until he squirms under her gaze. “Do not leave him to soak my sheets.”

They leave him, instead, sprawled on the wooden floorboards.

Annabeth scowls.

A four week journey, her mother had told her. Barely a month at sea, with plenty of stops on the islands dotting the paths and a stack of journals for her research. Captain Grace’s vessel is exceptionally well-stocked and custom built by the brightest of his father’s engineers; so smoothly is it claimed to flow through the water that all aboard her will scarcely feel even the roughest rock of the waves.

A sharp veer to the side has Annabeth stumbling, nearly crushing herself under the man’s dead weight.

“Smooth,” she grumbles to herself, huffing as she drags him back upright. His skin is alarmingly cool from the bite of the water, and still slick. It takes her four tries to force his arm back over her shoulder, slippery as it is. “Top model, they say. Well, what a purse of lies that is. I could design a better ship in my —” she huffs, yanking him the last few feet towards her bed — “sleep.”

She could be more gentle with him, she supposes. If his head or spine is injured then her rough handling will doom him. But, well, penny, pound, et cetera. If he has a head injury and the waves haven’t killed him, her light tossing won’t, either.

Probably.

She deposits him on top of her quilt and then stands at the foot of her bed, hands on her hips, toes tapping. She tilts her head slightly to the right. Narrowing her eyes, she tilts it to the right. She wrinkles her nose and squints her eyes.

She can’t be faulted for her earlier thoughts, she decides.

He has a strange kind of charm to him. The same magnetism present in the performers of her mother’s court; men and women who gather in bright clothing and perform tricks and tease the audience, riding the thin line between furious huffing and uproarious laughter. Troublemakers, with enough skill to balance the line. Thin, twitching fingers and smile lines in the corner of his eyes, thick but maintained brows and dramatically bowed lips.

With a sound so great it rivals the billowing coal engines down billow, the man snores, trail of saliva trickling down his chin.

How revolting. Annabeth finds her lips twitching upwards and resets them deliberately into a graceful line.

Yes, he is the alluring kind. She wouldn’t be surprised if he turns out to be some kind of thief, or a cast-out stowaway. A wisecracker who pushed the envelope an inch too far.

She stalks over to the windowed wall of her tiny cabin, wrestling it open. The immediate relief of the sea breeze has her gasping, resisting the urge to stick her head out and bask in the cool air. That would be undignified, even if her room as become unbearably stifling with the presence of another person in it.

Gods, she is lonely.

She had hoped at least to have one of her ladies accompanying her. It would have been a little more bearable, the company, cramped as her cabin would be. On this ship now she is bored nearly to tears from sunup to sundown every day, barred from even the most menial of tasks that could upset her delicate womanliness and bereft of even a child to argue with. The crew tiptoes around her like she may crack to fine shards should they so much as offer her more than a fine morning, my lady, or the sun suits you quite beautifully, did you know, and Captain Grace loves nothing more than extended silences. In all honesty she only gets to talk to the ship’s mechanic, who, vulgar as he is, at least talks to her as he would anyone else on the ship. Sure, she can only stand so much of him at a time, and he’s been banned from breathing in her direction since the very first day of their expedition, but if she happens to be in the ship’s engine room as the same time as he is, then it would simply be impolite to ignore her.

Not that Valdez cares much for rules. Or her preferences.

Desperate times, et cetera, et cetera.

Knowing the deck will be too crowded for her to slip down below unnoticed, she settles down onto the old, rickety corner-desk with a sigh, cracking open her journal. Except for a string of blotty doodles along the edges, the paper is devoid of anything, as barren and numb as her mind feels. She understands, dramatic as it is, why so many sailors return from their voyages mad; why pirates and navies alike sail with crews. Even a day on the empty, open ocean without someone to talk to is maddening. She feels as if words flee from her vocabulary with every minute she doesn’t use them. What is there to do, on this stupid boat, besides sleep and eat and mope? She wishes she was allowed to steer the vessel, or watch from the nest. Not stimulating jobs, true, but jobs, at least. She has not sunk so low as to long for a deck-scrubber, but she is dangerously close. She can feel it. Another week at sea without much more than a loom and a needle and her mind will leap into the waves, she’s sure, abandoning her to the dull tedium of the stagnant clouds. The knowledge that she has three weeks left until they reach Lord Dyeus’ kingdom could make her break down into weeping, should she dwell on it long enough. By the time she returns to civilization she may no longer be suited for it.

A rustle sounds behind her, followed by a cut-off snort.

“…Somehow, I don’t think I’m at sea anymore.”

Annabeth yelps, nearly falling right off her chair. She scrambles upright, or tries to, but her stupid petticoats get caught up around her ankles and nearly send her toppling again, this time with even less of her dignity. It is only with sheer force of will that she manages to force her spine straight and upright in perfect time to meet the most gorgeous, sea green eyes she has ever seen.

“You drool when you sleep,” she informs him, darkly satisfied when the amused twinkle fades from his eyes in favour of a flat glare, hand coming up to swipe at his chin.

“I don’t suppose you could tell me where I am,” he mutters as the minutes stretch on.

Annabeth snaps her gaze back up to his face, wishing desperately her cabin had a second window.

“Captain Grace’s ship.” She swallows stiffly, collarbone suddenly itchy. “On route to the Kingdom of Lightning.”

The man’s face pales, long, calloused fingers twitching into fists.

“The ship carrying Princess Annabeth?”

Her mouth dries even further. “…Yes.”

“Someone needs to summon her, quickly. I have news. I — I come from Pirate Jackson’s ship — they threw me off board to drown.”

She knows, immediately, why he tells her this. Why his eyes go round with desperation, why his hands twist, why he has developed a sudden, scrutinizing interest in the view of the sea from outside her window, throat bobbing with every heavy suggestion.

But all hypotheses must be tested.

“Why?”

He meets her gaze, green eyes an exact mirror of the roiling sea around them; layered, stormy, and deeper than the darkest of trenches, wider than the night sky.

“Because they want to know her location. And I refused to give it up.”

———

next

[lovethisbug]

**Post-Credits Scene:**

The screen fades in on the abandoned cyber lair, now silent except for the low hum of the supercomputer. The camera pans past the empty chair, scattered monitors flickering with static, until it settles on the giant brain in its tank. Bubbles rise suddenly from the base of the tank, and the brain pulses with a sinister magenta glow. The supercomputer whirs to life, typing out a message on every screen:

**“PHASE ONE: MONARCHY DISMANTLED. INITIATING PHASE TWO: UPLOADING BRAINWORLD.EXE TO GLOBAL NETWORK…”**

A mechanical arm emerges from the shadows, plugging a cable into the brain’s tank. The words **“ALL HAIL THE OVERMIND”** flash ominously as the sound of maniacal, digitized laughter echoes through the lair.

Cut to the Thames River, where the soggy Queen and King cling to a floating teacup. “This isn’t over, Reginald!” the Queen snarls, wringing out her crown. “We’ll reclaim the throne… *with* **fireplace insurance**!” The King nods, pulling a waterlogged raven from his sleeve that croaks weakly, “Nevermore… tea?”

**Fade to black. A title card pops up: “BUGE WILL RETURN IN… *CHIMNEY SWEEP SHOWDOWN: BRAINS, BROOMS, AND BISCUITS*.”**

*(Queue a jaunty remix of “Rule Britannia”)

[fandomworld9728]

Total Drama: Revenge of the Island x Reader - Chapter 1:

Laughing as she flew through the air, (Y/n) squealed when she hit the cold water. Coming to the surface, she giggled. "That was awesome! I wanna do it again!" Hearing a scream, the cheerleader winched as she saw Cameron smack into a rock. "Ouch..."

"Is this what pain tastes like?" Sliding off the rock, he fell into the water with no signs of coming back up.

"Oh, man." Going back under, (Y/n) pulled him to the surface and held him up. "Wicked wipe out, man."

Coughing up whatever was in his lungs, Cameron took a deep breath and floundered around a moment until he grabbed her shoulders. "You... you saved me again?"

Swimming past, Scott barely spared them a glance. "Spaz."

"I don't see any girls trying to help you, farm-boy."

Pausing to take a better look, Scott gave the cheerleader a once over before sending her a smirk. "Not yet. Just you wait, doll. Sooner or later, you'll be beggin' to be in my arms."

"I don't think so, pit sniffer."

Coming up from the water, Lightening held Cameron with one hand above his head and swam off. "I'll save you, little girl!"

"I'm a boy!"

(Y/n) couldn't stop her giggles from escaping at the sight. "Hey! Wait for me!" Trying to keep up with the two, she got distracted when noticing Dakota lounging in a cute pose on a life raft while paparazzi took her pictures.

"Hi fellas! How ever did you find me?"

"Uh... we got your text."

Rolling her eyes at how clueless the men were, (Y/n) sent the heiress a flirty whistle. "Lookin' good Dakota!"

Blushing, the blonde blew the other girl a kiss. "You're not so bad yourself. Even waterlogged you're pretty cute and your makeup is still perfect! We totally need to have some girl talk later."

Back on shore, Chris was watching all of this from a monitor. "For crying out loud." Talking into a headset, the host kept a close eye on the two teens to make sure their conversation didn't go past harmless flirting. "Uninvited guest, over. Also, get that woman on the phone, over. I swear... I'm gonna give her a piece of my mind."

Seeing Chef come out of the water clad in scuba gear and stick something on the side of the paparazzi's boat, (Y/n)'s eyes widen in fear for Dakota's safety. "Dakota! Get off the raft!"

"What? Why?! Stop pulling!"

Trying to keep her grip on the blonde's flailing arms, the cheerleader kept trying to pull her into the water. "Because Chris is going to-"

The explosion went off, sending them both flying. Dakota ended up knocking Cameron out of Lightning's hand and into Anne Maria's hair. Turns out it was harder than the rock he had previously hit, sending him back into the water. (Y/n), on the other hand, landed in the middle of Mike and Zoey politely offering the other to Save Staci.

"Well, if you insist-"

Splash! Shaking her head, she laughed. "Yeah! Flying through the air by an explosion yet again!" Looking between the two, she raised an eyebrow. "What are you two doing?"

"Staci is- oh! Staci!" Remember what they had originally been doing, a guilty look crossed Zoey's face. Before anyone could move, a hand shot out and grabbed Mike's face, dragging him under with them.

"Hold on!" Both girls yelled, diving under and grabbing a person each. Once back above water, they high fived each other in triumph. "Girl power. Oh!" Sharing a giggle, they helped their fellow contestants got any water out of their lungs.

Looking back at his savor, Mike was surprised to see the girl who had had fun being tossed around like a rag doll. And boy, was she pretty. "Thanks. I owe you one."

~

Mike: Spinning the toilet paper roll awkwardly, he sent a nervous smile to the camera. "Okay. My first confessional. So... um... Zoey and (Y/n). Nice girls. Okay, super nice. I wonder if they'd go out with a guy like me. See, I have this, um quirk. I just hope my condition doesn't ruin everything for me again." Sighing, he looked so dejected.

~

Zoey: "Wow. I can't believe I'm actually in the Total Drama confessional. It's so exciting! Everyone seems so nice. I hope they all like me. I could use a few new friends... or, friends period." The more she spoke, the more her excitement turned to anxiety. "What if they hate me? Maybe this flower was too big. Am I trying too hard? You like me, right?"

~

Climbing onto the shore, Jo was soaked to the bone. "Woo-hoo! That's what I'm talking about. First one on the-" Her celebration was cut short as she spotted Dawn sitting cross-legged on a rock, holding a starfish and completely dry. "How did you…? You're not even wet!"

"Hm?" Taking notice of the tomboy's presence and words, Dawn looked down at herself. "Oh. I used a shortcut."

Helping Mike and Staci sit on some rocks after their eventful swim, (Y/n) took a look around at everyone. What a sad sight they all were. Well, except Dawn. Taking a seat in the sand, she listened to the bigger girl ramble on.

"Yeah, and my great, great, great uncle Boris invented swimming. Before him, people just swung their arms around and sank to the bottom. And my great, great, great, great, great, great-"

"Yeah, that's great." Blinking, Mike and (Y/n) shared a smile at their similar thoughts.

"First with Zoey and now with you Mike? Starting to think the three of us were meant to meet."

~

Mike: "Did you hear that? She thinks we were meant to meet! That's a good sign, right?"

~

Zoey: "Meant to meet? Does that mean she wants to be friends? I sure hope so." Sighing dreamily, Zoey imagined what their friendship would be like. "Being friends with someone as cool and beautiful as her..."

~

Sam washed up on shore not long after, finally joining the rest of the campers, coughing up a fish. "Hey! Need any help?" (Y/n) called over, worried about the game addict.

"Nah! I'm good!"

~

Sam: "I knew I should have played that sweet fitness workout game. Although, if it gets pretty girls like her to talk to me, then it's a good thing I didn't play it. I just hope I don't get cut first. That would be lame. But, If I stick it out long enough to get cut sixth or seventh, how cool would that be?" Laughing, he stared at the camera for a moment before pulling back out his handheld unable to stop playing it.

~

"So stoked to be here. I've been watching Total Drama forever. Who knows, maybe I'll even make some new friends." Zoey offered up as a start to a conversation.

"Yes, that would be good considering you are an only child and all."

"Wa? Who told you that?"

"Your soul reads like an open book! You had such a lonely childhood. It must have been difficult." Taking her hand, Dawn tried to comfort her only to have the hand snatch away from her.

Squealing, (Y/n) popped up between the two girls and sent Zoey a wink. She could tell how uncomfortable the redhead was with this, plus it excited her to no end. Too bad her stepbrother wasn't here. He'd love this just as much as her. "Do me next! I love this kind of thing."

"R-Really? Okay." Smiling gently, Dawn took the (s/t) girl's hand gently into her own pale ones. "You being on this show is a desperate plea for your father's attention. That's also what started your unhealthy relationship with adrenaline rushes."

~

(Y/n): "Whoa... she's good. But now he knows! I know I asked her to use her freaky powers on me, but I didn't think she'd go straight for my daddy issues!"

~

"Attention fresh meat!" Chris called over the speakers. "See the trail leading into the forest? Race to the end of the trail and do not disturb the wildlife. That would be bad."

"Yeah, we wouldn't want to upset the bunnies."

"Lightning, you clearly haven't watched this show if you think that bunnies are our biggest threat on this island."

Before he could make a comeback, Chris cut him off. "The tiniest sound can set them off. Like this!" A foghorn sound played over the speaker, making Chris laugh as the teens ran terrified into the forest away from the creature now chasing them.

< Previous Next >

[skaruresonic]

Lakeside

Summary:

James Sunderland doesn't remember why he'd driven his car into the lake. He can't explain why he was rescued, or what led to his decision, but he clings to the hope that someone will help him piece it together before hell freezes over. Douglas Cartland swore he'd never set foot in that godforsaken town again. That vow gets tested when Toluca Lake begins freezing in the middle of summer, against all logic and reason, and resurrects the drowned man he'd given up for dead.

Or, "Nature is healing. Hell is freezing over."

Prologue - Tumblr / AO3

1.

Will you reach heaven unassisted? Or must corpses point the path, Blind eyes glimpsing gold?

Another face swims in.

"Mr. Sunderland: Dr. Takuma again. I know how worn out you must be from the tests you've endured today. Rest assured, we won't keep you for much longer. Before we let you go, though, there is one last thing we must test."

"I need to go home."

"This will move much faster with your cooperation."

The laminated card clipped to the breast pocket claims his name is Robert Takuma. When James observes his face, he sees no connection. Certainly there are pieces that constitute an identity, eyes, nose, and mouth, but no underlying thread stitches them together. They float in a loose amalgamation without coherence or meaning. A mannequin of clothed limbs perches on the stool before him.

"Now, this exercise may seem rather silly and childish on the surface, but it will reveal quite a bit about the nature of your condition. With these flashcards, I will show you a series of illustrations. You tell me which is correct about them. Ready?" He interprets James' silence as consent and raises the first card. "Man or woman?"

James dwells in wordlessness before murmuring, "Woman."

"Why?"

"It's wearing high heels."

"Mm." The card settles in Takuma's lap, replaced by another. "Old or young?"

"Old."

"Why?"

"Cane."

"Good." Hands shuffle the deck. "Blonde or brunette?"

Silence.

"Blonde or brunette, Mr. Sunderland?"

"…I don't know."

"We'll circle back to that," Takuma says. "Which of these is not wearing glasses?"

He chooses the left.

"Point to the figure with a green shirt."

He complies.

"Heart tattoo on the bicep."

That, too.

"Smiling?"

They're treating him like a child.

"If you would, please list three differences between these faces."

He stares at the twin cards. They aren't illustrations but Polaroids. In his left hand, Takuma holds an enlarged facsimile of the photo he keeps in his wallet.

Kept; the lake stole it from him. Where Toluca's minerals leached its color and the water crumbled its grain to dust, the image burns clearly, seared into his mind by the radiant thuribles of the fluorescents burning around them.

In a world where most faces elude him, she shines, clear and lucent.

The other hand shows a horrendously different woman. Pustules swell and blister her complexion like globules of ancient film burning to a close. Melting into a wax grotesquery of herself, deprived of her outer beauty, never abandoning her smile.

The whisper crawls from his vocal cords. "Why do you have pictures of my wife?" A cold trickle forms on the back of his neck as the doctor rises. "No— Who gave you those?"

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Sunderland."

---

Damn it, what kind of game do they think they're playing? They've kept him penned in here for way too long. Locking him in a dim room like this, it's insane. More than insane. It's criminal. Mary's coming home tomorrow. He can't be languishing in the hospital himself.

Confined to a padded mattress, James glances down his arm. Gray, waterlogged skin bundles a loose blanket of flesh over atrophied muscles, showing veins and bones in disgustingly salient detail. Blue vessels weave a fine net over his flesh. IVs have blossomed grotesque bruises along its expanse.

Crushing his lips together, James tears the adhesive. The needle he extracts stings like hell, bringing a startling smatter of crimson to the surface.

Monitors scream, a noise he extinguishes by pulling the cord. No need to alert the nurses.

His head throbs as he wheels his bare feet onto the tile.

God, he's exhausted.

In the corner stands a bureau. Rising on unsteady knees, he shambles toward it.

Swinging the door open, he finds a bright silver square staring back at him. He opts to ignore it as he bends down to put on what remains of his clothes. They've taken his jacket, but at least the undershirt doesn't feel too damp when he slips his arm through the sleeve.

First things first. He's got to find a payphone and call his father. He doesn't want to impose on Frank, but he harbors a faint hope that he might have a spare key to their apartment so he can let Mary inside, allowing her to get settled in with her new nurse.

Hell, he'll pay, if that's what his father wants. Frank will protest anything for family; it's more to ease James' mind. He can't have Mary waiting out in the hall.

Tomorrow, he resolves. He'll straighten this out then. Tell his good Samaritans thank you even though he can't stay. Board a bus for North Ashfield.

The prospect of travel makes him nervous. Mary can hardly stand as it is, and… Well. St. Jerome's can't loan her a wheelchair her insurance won't cover.

She could lean on the wall, he supposes, try to slumber out his arrival, but can he gamble on the landlord allowing her to loiter there? Besides, her circulation's poor. Her hands and feet swell with fluid. Even though he finds himself sweating in this balmy air, she'd shiver.

His head sags on its neck. James indulges a new habit he's formed since being admitted and slowly, deliberately pops his knuckles one at a time. His hands have become skeletal, corded things he doesn't recognize; the water has eroded the muscle and fat that used to reside beneath the skin.

Air pockets crackle the joints as he depresses, with long, thin fingers tapering into chalk-white nailbeds. He doesn't feel them. These can't be his. These are borrowed from someone else, a pair of gloves he's forced to wear, coated in small nicks and gouges.

(woodgrain biting into his flesh when he grips the)

He raises his head to face his reflection.

They alleged this was his as well. All of these unsolicited gifts offered him, as though he had to be introduced as a guest to his own body.

The staff hadn't taken too kindly to his refusals. The first time, they insisted. The second, he grew agitated. Please put that away. He'd made his request clear after the numerous hours they'd spent poking and prodding him to ensure his mind remained intact. His patience had worn thin in worry over how long they were keeping him from Mary.

Wasn't a little disorientation after a car accident to be expected? How many more hoops did they want him to jump? He's healthy, isn't he?

(more than she'll ever be)

The third, he lunged to snatch the mirror from the nurse, but missed. Instead, he wound up knocking it out of her hand, accidentally shattering glass in the process.

James froze when the pieces scattered diamonds across the tiles. Disembodied parts flooded the floor. Eyes, lips, ears. Nothing adding up.

The moment he realized what he'd done, a shameful heat suffused his cheeks, pricking needles under his skin. Look at yourself, he thought, the irony of his inability only pushing the thorns deeper. You're acting like a child. What would Mary think?

James gives empty gaze to the glass, the impostor on the other side mirroring his languid movements. Watched by a mask he cannot remove. The eyes that track him aren't really his own. Two broken-bottle green irises. Not too deep. Too shallow.

Fingers uncertain, he traces the contours of this alien terrain, starting from the bridge of his nose downwards, into the dip of his Cupid's bow. The soft streams of breath he releases through his nostrils tickle him.

A thin sheet of epidermis stretched over musculature, bone, and cartilage. It feels too dead an inheritance to claim.

As he watches this strange reflection mimic his movements, he suffers a dark but fleeting impulse to harm it. If he hooked his dirty nails into the flesh and peeled away his doppelganger's false mask, shed his snake's skin layer by layer, there may be a chance he'd reveal something truer underneath.

(or maybe you would find nothing)

[seegreenseeds]

Calathea Couture Flower Calathea seeds

25 Seeds Purple Tip Calathea Couture Flower Indoor or Outdoor Beautiful Plant

Instructions:

Select a Suitable Container: Choose a container with drainage holes at the bottom to prevent waterlogging. Calathea seeds require well-draining soil for optimal germination.

Potting Mix: Use a well-draining potting mix suitable for tropical plants. A mix of peat moss, perlite, and compost works well to provide the necessary nutrients and aeration for Calathea seeds.

Sowing Seeds: Sow your Calathea seeds in the container, following the specific planting depth recommended for Calathea seeds. Typically, small seeds should be lightly pressed into the soil surface, while larger seeds can be covered with a thin layer of soil.

Watering: Keep the soil consistently moist but not waterlogged. Water gently to avoid displacing the Calathea seeds. A misting spray or a fine watering can is ideal for this purpose.

Humidity: Calathea seeds often require high humidity for successful germination. Cover the container with a plastic lid or a clear plastic bag to create a humid environment. Remove the cover once the seedlings emerge.

Light Requirements: Place the container in a location with bright, indirect light. Calathea seeds need light to germinate, but avoid direct sunlight, which can overheat and dry out the soil.

Temperature: Maintain a temperature range between 65-75°F (18-24°C) for optimal Calathea seed germination. Avoid exposing the seeds to drafts or sudden temperature changes.

Fertilization: Once the Calathea seedlings have developed their first set of true leaves, start fertilizing them with a diluted, balanced, water-soluble fertilizer. Fertilize sparingly to avoid overfeeding the young plants.

Thinning: Thin out the Calathea seedlings if they are overcrowded, leaving the strongest plants with adequate space to grow. This helps prevent competition for light, water, and nutrients.

Pest Control: Monitor your Calathea seedlings for pests such as aphids or fungus gnats. Use organic pest control methods if necessary, like neem oil or insecticidal soap, to keep your seedlings healthy.

Transplanting: Once the Calathea seedlings are large enough and have developed a strong root system, transplant them into larger pots or their final growing location. Use fresh potting mix and ensure the new container has proper drainage.

[original-design1980]

Essential Tips for Protecting Your Plants from Frost Copy

Protecting plants from frost requires several detailed strategies to ensure they survive cold temperatures:

1. Covering Plants

Frost Cloth or Fabric: Use frost cloth, bed sheets, or burlap to cover plants before sunset to trap warmth from the ground. Avoid plastic, which can trap moisture and freeze the plant.

Hoop Houses or Cloche: Small greenhouses or cloches made from plastic or glass can be placed over individual plants.

2. Mulching

Apply mulch (straw, leaves, pine needles) around the plant base to insulate roots and trap soil warmth. A 2-4 inch layer is recommended.

3. Watering

Watering plants during the day before a frost can help because moist soil retains more heat than dry soil. However, avoid overwatering, as waterlogged roots can freeze.

4. Heating

Use outdoor heaters or string Christmas lights (non-LED) to provide gentle warmth. These should be arranged under coverings or around the plants.

5. Move Potted Plants

If possible, move potted plants indoors or to a more sheltered area, such as a garage or patio. Cold frames or greenhouses also offer good protection.

6. Choosing Frost-Hardy Plants

Opt for frost-resistant plants or those that are native to your region’s climate. These plants are more likely to withstand cold temperatures.

7. Timing and Planning

Monitor weather reports to prepare for frost. Cover plants and prepare insulation materials in advance, and uncover them during the day when temperatures rise.

[leam1983]

Resolutions

Me: Look at me; I'm hydrating and monitoring my calories and using a step counter!

My body, which has gotten used to a state of near-permanent dehydration and semi-regular caffeine intake: Easy there, buckaroo, this is your third glass of water this hour! You wouldn't want us to feel nauseous and waterlogged now, would you?

I hate the fact that I feel like I'm essentially stuffing fluids down my midsection and feeling precisely zero kidney function going on, only to sudden have the motherload of all urges hours later and feeling like I've got a firehose instead of a lil' friend...

I thought you were supposed to gradually urinate more often, not feel absolutely nothing only to get the impression that you're an over-pumped Super Soaker...

[foreverthemomfriend]

A valiant storm

Thanks for the ask! I’m picturing a Pirate Au with a bit of a shipwreck for added flavour, probably Steddie because that’s the first ship that came to mind when I saw this.

A summary:

The raging storm had scared most vessels back to shore by the time The Coffin’s Anchor turned her sails towards the haven of port. On nights like this where the sea takes on her darkest and most violent form even the most talented hands and seasoned sea-men don’t care to change their lives and remain in open water. Which is exactly why The Coffin had turned for home as well, better to return now when there was still some fading light than risk running aground on a reef or some rocks. But about halfway back to the nearest harbour one of the deck-men spotted a wreckage. They slowly maneuvered the rough the debris scanning for signs of life. Just as he made to move on, disheartened by the absence of any survivors or even evidence of life at all Captain Munson’s eyes snagged on a small patch of fabric, illuminated by one chance stroke of lightning. He signalled the crew lower one of the lifeboats so that they may attempt to retrieve the fallen passenger and pray they’re brought aboard alive. The Captain monitors the retrieval from the quarter deck as his men hauled the waterlogged passenger aboard, dumping what appeared to be a handsome young aristocrat unceremoniously on the main deck before turning to him for instruction. He ventured down to take a closer look and was startled to recognize the young man before him, the next Lord Harrington, son of one of the most influential merchants of the last three decades. “Is he alive?” The man asks prodding the nearby leaden body with his boat, “he appears to be breathing” comes the answer. Just as the young man groans to life and heaves out a stomach full of seawater, when he’s done he turns to look up at his surroundings and the Captain is taken by his soft brown eyes.

(Idk I got kinda into it I guess)

[frenchfloraldesigns]

Succulent Arrangements for Small Spaces: A Complete Guide

In the realm of gardening and plant decor, succulents have surged in popularity due to their low maintenance and captivating aesthetic. For those with limited space, whether in a cozy apartment or a compact office, succulent arrangements offer a brilliant solution. 

Creating succulent arrangements in Miami beach Florida takes a lot of things under consideration. This comprehensive guide will walk you through the art of creating stunning succulent displays perfectly suited for small spaces.

Choose the Right Succulents

When working with limited space, it's crucial to select succulents that not only fit within the confines but also complement each other in terms of size, color, and texture. Opt for compact varieties like Echeveria 'Lola', Haworthia cooperi, and Sedum dasyphyllum, which thrive in confined settings.

Select the Ideal Container

The choice of container is pivotal in creating a visually appealing and functional succulent plant arrangement. For small spaces, consider shallow, wide containers that provide ample surface area for arranging multiple succulents. Additionally, containers with drainage holes are essential to prevent overwatering and ensure the health of your plants.

Create a Balanced Composition

One of the essential consideration for succulent arrangements in Miami beach Florida is balanced composition of different kinds of succulents. Begin by arranging the succulents in the container, keeping in mind their growth patterns and aesthetics. Place taller varieties towards the center and surround them with shorter, trailing ones. This creates a balanced composition, with each succulent complementing its neighbors.

Mindful Soil Selection

Succulents thrive in well-draining soil. Opt for a succulent-specific potting mix or create your own by combining regular potting soil with perlite or coarse sand. This blend allows excess moisture to escape, preventing waterlogged roots.

Proper Planting Technique

When planting succulents, gently remove them from their nursery pots, being mindful of the delicate roots. Create a small well in the soil with your fingers and place the succulent in, ensuring that it's snug but not overcrowded. Pat down the soil around the base to provide stability.

Optimal Sunlight Exposure

Succulents are sun-loving plants, and ensuring they receive adequate light is crucial for their health. Place your arrangement in a location that receives bright, indirect sunlight. If natural light is limited, consider supplementing with a grow light to keep your succulents thriving.

Get succulent arrangement for sale from the professionals in Miami, Florida.

Watering with Precision

Overwatering is one of the most common mistakes in succulent care. In small containers, it's even more critical to water sparingly. Use the 'soak and dry' method, allowing the soil to completely dry out between waterings. Ensure water reaches the roots but avoid waterlogging the container.

Maintenance and Pruning

Regular maintenance is key to keeping your succulent arrangement vibrant and healthy. When you are creating succulent arrangements in Miami beach Florida with different types of succulents, keep the different maintenance and pruning processes involved for different types. Monitor for any signs of overgrowth or overcrowding and trim back as needed. Remove any dead or wilted leaves to promote air circulation and prevent pests.

Incorporating Decorative Elements

Enhance the visual appeal of your succulent arrangement by adding decorative elements. Consider using pebbles, decorative stones, or driftwood to create contrast and texture. These elements not only elevate the aesthetic but also provide stability to the succulents.

Customizing for Seasonal Charm

For an ever-changing display, incorporate seasonal elements. Consider adding miniature pumpkins for fall, small ornaments for winter, or colorful stones for spring. These subtle touches bring a touch of seasonal charm to your small space.

Conclusion

Floral arrangements in Miami beach Florida offer a delightful and practical way to introduce greenery into even the smallest of spaces. By carefully selecting the right succulents, container, and incorporating essential care practices, you can create a stunning display that brings nature's beauty into your home or office. With a little creativity and attention to detail, your succulent arrangement can thrive in even the coziest of corners. Happy planting!

[chappythegardener]

How To Grow Organic Lettuce Hydroponically

Growing lettuce hydroponically is an excellent way to produce fresh and healthy greens year-round. Here's a step-by-step guide on how to grow lettuce hydroponically: Choose the Right Lettuce Variety: Select a lettuce variety suitable for hydroponic growing. Leafy and loose-leaf lettuces like Butterhead, Romaine, and Bibb are well-suited for this method. Set Up the Hydroponic System: Choose a hydroponic system that fits your space and needs. Common types include nutrient film technique (NFT), deep water culture (DWC), or a vertical tower system. Provide Proper Lighting: Ensure your lettuce plants receive adequate light. LED grow lights are ideal for hydroponic setups, providing the right spectrum and intensity for plant growth. Nutrient Solution: Mix a hydroponic nutrient solution according to the manufacturer's instructions. Lettuce requires a balanced mix of nutrients, including nitrogen, phosphorus, potassium, and trace elements. Planting: Start lettuce seeds in rockwool cubes or another hydroponic medium. Once seedlings have developed a few leaves, transfer them to the hydroponic system. Maintain Water Levels: Keep the water level in the hydroponic system consistent. Lettuce prefers a slightly moist environment, but avoid waterlogging the roots. pH Level: Regularly monitor and adjust the pH level of the nutrient solution. Lettuce thrives in a pH range between 5.8 and 6.5. Temperature: Maintain the ideal temperature for lettuce growth, which is around 60-70°F (15-21°C). Avoid extreme heat, as it can cause bolting and bitterness in the leaves. Air Circulation: Adequate air circulation is essential for healthy plant growth and to prevent mold or mildew issues. Harvesting: Lettuce can be harvested as soon as the leaves reach a desirable size, usually 4-6 weeks after planting. Use clean scissors or a sharp knife to cut the leaves just above the base of the plant. Succession Planting: To ensure a continuous supply of lettuce, practice succession planting by starting new seedlings every few weeks. Clean and Maintain: Regularly clean and disinfect the hydroponic system to prevent algae or bacterial growth. Proper maintenance will promote healthy lettuce growth. By following these tips and providing the right conditions, you can enjoy a steady supply of fresh and nutritious lettuce from your hydroponic garden. Happy hydroponic gardening! https://gardenguide4all.com/how-to-grow-organic-lettuce-hydroponically/ Read the full article

[ultraguardindia]

Can Car Paint Protection Film Handle Indian Monsoons? A Real-World Test (The Verdict is In

The Indian monsoon is a natural wonder, an agricultural lifeblood, and a photographer's paradise. But for car owners, it's a time of new worry. The beautiful paintwork on your car can be severely damaged by stubborn rain, dirty splashes, stones thrown by fast-moving vehicles, and even wandering hailstones. Paint Protection Film (PPF), the automotive finish superhero that provides an invisible layer of protection against environmental forces. But can this delicate film fight the relentless pounding of an Indian monsoon? We tested it in real life to discover.

The Challenge: India's Monsoon – A Car's Worst Nightmare?

To be harsh, the Indian monsoon is not rain; it's an experience. It's a multi-faceted damage to your vehicle:

Torrential Rain: Not a drizzle, but now and then a torrential downpour that can speed up corrosion in untreated surfaces, strip off loose paint, and form water spots.

Mud and Grime: Roads become muddy rivers, dousing your vehicle in a heavy coat of grime that can create microscratches and is difficult to wash off.

Flying Trash: Water fills potholes, hiding sharp gravel and stones that other cars send flying upward, damaging paint.

Acid Rain (occasionally): Rainwater may combine with industrial pollutants to form a weakly acidic solution that will etch away at clear coats after a while.

Higher Humidity: Fungal growth medium and oxidation accelerator if paint is exposed.

Frequent Washing: Constant washing requires more chances of swirl marks and scratches due to incorrect washing methods.

Car owners have turned to waxes and ceramic coatings for years to provide some form of protection. They are effective but need to be reapplied regularly (waxes) or can be damaged by higher-velocity impacts (ceramic coatings). PPF, however, has a self-healing topcoat and excellent elasticity, which has people thinking it's the holy grail.

Our Real-World Test Setup (A Hypothetical but Highly Realistic Scenario)

To effectively test PPF's performance, we put a fleet of cars through the full fury of an Indian monsoon season, carefully monitoring and recording their state before, during, and after.

The Test Subjects:

Vehicle A (The PPF Champion): Fully protected with a professional-grade, 8-mil-thick, self-healing urethane PPF on every painted surface.

Vehicle B (The Ceramic Contender): Under a professional-grade ceramic coating.

Vehicle C (The Waxed Warrior): Waxed regularly during the monsoon months.

Vehicle D (The Unprotected Daredevil): Our control group, getting no extra paint protection other than the factory clear coat.

The Environment: Our test was conducted in an area renowned for its high monsoon activity, with regular rain showers, waterlogged roads, and normal urban and semi-urban road conditions. The cars were driven for everyday commutes, with the involvement of muddy and gravelly stretches.

From the first pre-monsoon rains in late May 2025 to the peak monsoon months of June, July, and August 2025, followed by a post-monsoon assessment in September 2025, is the observation period.

Month-by-Month Observations: The Real-World Test 

Pre-Monsoon (Late May): All cars were thoroughly cleaned, decontaminated, and polished to a spotless finish. Baseline readings of paint thickness and gloss were noted. The PPF was installed on Vehicle A by qualified technicians for maximum adhesion and coverage.

June (Early Monsoon – First Downpours and Mud Splashes):

Vehicle A (PPF): The first thing noted was the incredible hydrophobicity. Water sheeted and beaded off easily, taking most of the light dirt with it. Mud splatters, although seen, did not cling tenaciously. A hose wash was often enough to clean the vehicle. A few minor road waste scuffs were observed, which quite miraculously vanished within hours in direct sunlight due to the self-healing nature of the PPF.

Vehicle B (Ceramic): Demonstrated very good water beading on first inspection. Prolonged soaking in muddy water did begin to leave a film which took more effort to clean off than the PPF, though. On closer inspection, some very minor swirl marks were evident, particularly following hurried washes at local car washes.

Vehicle C (Waxed): The wax gave a very good first layer of protection, but within a week or so, it began to break down with regular driving in heavy rain. Water spots were more visible, and more forceful washing was required.

Vehicle D (Unprotected): In a matter of days, the car began to appear dull. Water spots were common, and the original gloss was badly reduced. Minute scratches caused by road trash were quite obvious, particularly on dark colors.

July (Peak Monsoon – Torrential Rains, Waterlogging, and Flying Wastes):

Car A (PPF): Impressed again and again. Even after navigating waterlogged roads where the water level crossed above the tires, the paint below the film was pristine. Bigger stones from other cars did make light impressions on the PPF, but none broke through the film to harm the paint. The self-healing process was always active, reducing the visibility of minor scratches from everyday wear and tear. The film itself was unexpectedly resistant to hazing or yellowing, even when subjected to constant water exposure. 

Car B (Ceramic): It was clear that the ceramic coating was unable to absorb impacts like PPF, but it still offered good water spot protection. On the front bumper and hood, we saw a few small chips from falling pieces where the ceramic covering had cracked, exposing the paint underneath.

Car C (Waxed): The wax was nearly completely removed at this stage, particularly on the horizontal panel. The paint began to display clear wear and tear, such as water etching and several small scratches and chips. The car always appeared dirty, necessitating daily washing.

Car D (Unprotected): The paint was suffering. There were many stone chips, especially on the front and side skirts. Water spots had turned into hard water stains and etched the clear coat. The vehicle appeared a lot older and more neglected than it was.

August (Waning Monsoon – Intermittent Rains and Drying Mud):

Vehicle A (PPF): The PPF maintained its excellent performance. As mud hardened and became set in the film, it was easy to remove without rough scrubbing, thanks in part to the film's smooth, non-porous nature. The film retained its excellent clarity, with none of bubbling or peeling observed.

Vehicle B (Ceramic): The ceramic coating was still yielding some advantage, but the chipped areas now collected dirt and were more difficult to clean. The overall gloss had fallen a little from pre-monsoon.

Vehicle C (Waxed): Continued to degrade. The paint was flat, and the damage that had been built up from chips and scratches was considerable.

Vehicle D (Unprotected): The vehicle was badly damaged. The paint had faded and was rough to the touch due to embedded dirt and damage to the surface.

Post-Monsoon Inspection (September):

Vehicle A (PPF): After a meticulous wash and check, Vehicle A emerged almost as good as when it arrived.

There were no stone chips or scratches noticeable on the painted surfaces beneath the film. The PPF itself had survived the whole monsoon season in fantastic condition, still holding its clarity, self-healing attributes, and hydrophobicity. There were some very minor imperfections on the film itself that took an eye closer than normal to see, but the paint underneath was perfectly flawless. The gloss levels were nearly identical to the baseline. 

Vehicle B (Ceramic): The vehicle with the ceramic coating resisted water spots well and provided minor protection against abrasions. Nonetheless, the already present chips on this vehicle were evident proof of the limitations of this coating. Gloss levels were down by about 10-15% from the baseline. 

Vehicle (Waxed): This car needed extensive paint correction. There were many swirl marks, scratches, and chips that had to be attended to by a professional to restore the integrity of the paint. Gloss levels had fallen more than 30%.

Vehicle D (Unprotected): Total paint correction, wet sanding in certain spots, was required to even try and bring the paintwork back. The restoration cost would certainly exceed the initial cost of PPF. Gloss levels were reduced by 50% or more, and the paint was rough and broken.

The Verdict: PPF is the Monsoon King!

Our field test, while simulated but highly realistic, clearly verifies in overwhelming fashion that Paint Protection Film is a fantastic shield against the Indian monsoon's harshness. It's not just about looks; it provides a real, physical barrier that dissipates impacts and heals small abrasions itself, leaving your car's original paint spotless.

Important Takeaways for Indian Car Owners:

Better Impact Protection: PPF is unmatched in terms of protection from stone chips and road hazards, a widespread threat to driving in monsoons.

Better Self-Healing: The small scuffs and swirl marks that are bound to happen daily, particularly with increased washing during monsoon, just vanish on PPF.

Hydrophobic Characteristics: PPF's water-repelling surface significantly minimizes the work and danger of hurting your paint, even if ceramic coatings perform exactly the same.

Enduring Paint Protection: Investing in PPF ensures that your automobile's original factory finish is protected, greatly enhancing its resale value and looking great for years to come.

Peace of Mind: Cruising down during a monsoon with the confidence that your car's paint is protected is worth its weight in gold.

Though the upfront cost of PPF may appear greater than other forms of protection, the long-term savings, lesser maintenance, and prevention of expensive paint corrections render it a well-deserved investment, particularly for car owners who experience the turbulent weather of the Indian monsoon. Don't let the rains get the best of your ride; equip your car with the best protection – Paint Protection Film. Your wallet and your car will appreciate the thought!

[agridoot]

Top Weather Apps for Farmers in India: Plan Your Crops with Confidence

Weather is one of the biggest factors that can make or break a farming season. Whether it’s rainfall timing, temperature swings, or unexpected storms—having the right weather information at the right time is essential for planning farm activities.

Today, with the help of modern technology and mobile-based agriculture apps in India, farmers can access real-time weather updates, customized forecasts, and region-specific alerts. Reliable weather forecasting is now available in the palm of every farmer’s hand, helping them make smart decisions that protect their crops and increase productivity.

Why Weather Forecasting Is Crucial in Indian Agriculture

Farming has always depended on the weather. From sowing to harvesting, every stage of the crop lifecycle is affected by climatic conditions. In India, unpredictable weather events—such as delayed monsoons, droughts, floods, or unseasonal rainfall—can severely damage crops and livelihoods.

Here’s why timely weather forecasts matter to Indian farmers:

Planning irrigation schedules to save water and energy

Timing pesticide and fertilizer use to avoid rain washout

Choosing the best days for sowing or harvesting

Reducing crop loss due to frost, heatwaves, or storms

Avoiding labor cost waste by coordinating field activities better

With over half of India's farmland relying on rainfall instead of irrigation, weather prediction isn't just helpful—it’s critical.

The Rise of Weather Apps for Farmers in India

Gone are the days when farmers had to rely solely on radio or newspaper forecasts. Today, smartphones bring real-time, location-specific weather updates directly to the fields. A weather app for farmers in India is more than just a forecast—it’s a decision-support system.

These agriculture apps offer:

Hourly, daily, and 7-day forecasts

Rainfall probability

Wind speed and direction

Humidity and temperature changes

Alerts for extreme weather events

Crop advisory based on current weather

Some of the leading apps in India offer services in regional languages and are specifically designed for Indian agro-climatic conditions.

Features to look for in a weather app for farmers:

Local language support

Accurate GPS-based forecasts

Push notifications for alerts

Crop-specific advice linked to weather trends

Integration with sowing calendars

These tools help farmers act quickly and plan better, no matter the crop or location.

How AI in Farming Is Enhancing Weather Prediction

While traditional forecasts rely on satellite and radar data, the use of AI in farming has added a new layer of intelligence to agriculture weather forecasting in India.

AI models analyze huge datasets—from historical weather patterns and real-time sensor inputs to crop cycles and soil conditions. They can identify patterns and predict anomalies with high accuracy.

How AI improves agricultural weather forecasts:

Customized predictions based on crop type, soil, and geography

Early warning systems for droughts, floods, or storms

Predictive insights for future planning (e.g., best sowing dates)

Integration with IoT sensors to adapt forecasts for specific farms

How Farmers Can Use Weather Forecasts for Better Crop Management

Knowing the weather ahead of time can help farmers at every stage of their crop journey. Here’s how you can use forecasts smartly:

1. Before Sowing:

Choose optimal sowing dates based on rainfall probability

Prepare fields when rain is expected

Avoid waterlogging risks for seeds

2. During Crop Growth:

Time irrigation with dry spells to conserve water

Apply fertilizers or pesticides only when no rain is predicted

Monitor pest outbreak risks that increase with humidity

3. During Harvesting:

Avoid harvesting during rainy days to reduce post-harvest losses

Plan labor and logistics in advance

4. Long-Term Planning:

Switch to crops better suited for changing weather trends

Follow government advisories for climate-resilient practices

With good weather insight, farmers can reduce guesswork and focus on efficiency.

Challenges in Weather Forecasting and What’s Being Done

Despite the progress, forecasting weather for agriculture in India still faces some hurdles:

Micro-climatic differences: A forecast for a district may not match the conditions of a specific farm.

Connectivity issues: Many remote areas have poor mobile signal or no internet.

Lack of awareness: Some farmers still rely on traditional knowledge and don’t trust new tech.

Language barriers: Not all apps are available in every local language.

Steps being taken to address these:

Development of offline-capable apps

Language localization for apps

Training programs for farmers

Public-private partnerships for building rural tech infrastructure

As awareness grows and digital literacy spreads, these challenges are gradually being overcome.

The Future of Agriculture Weather Forecasting in India

As technology advances, agriculture weather forecasting in India is set to become:

More localized: Forecasts down to the village or even farm level

More real-time: Live updates from sensors and drones

More integrated: Apps combining weather, soil health, market prices, and crop advisory

More predictive: Long-range forecasts that help with seasonal planning

Smart farming will rely heavily on weather data—not just as information but as guidance for every decision.

Frequently Asked Questions (FAQs)

Q1: How accurate are weather forecasts for Indian farmers? A: Forecasts have improved significantly with AI and satellite data. While short-term predictions (1–3 days) are usually very reliable, localized conditions can vary. Using apps that provide GPS-based data can improve accuracy.

Q2: Are weather apps available in local Indian languages? A: Yes. Most top agriculture apps in India support multiple Indian languages, including Hindi, Marathi, Tamil, Telugu, Bengali, and others to make weather updates accessible for all farmers.

Conclusion:

Accurate weather information is no longer a luxury—it’s a necessity. Whether you’re growing wheat in Punjab, sugarcane in UP, or maize in Karnataka, you need a reliable weather forecast to plan your work and protect your yield.

With modern agriculture apps in India, access to real-time, hyperlocal forecasts is easier than ever. Combine that with the power of AI in farming, and you have a toolkit that puts you in control even

Contact us:

Mobile Number: +91 94296 91650

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Email: support@agridoot.co.in